When I pulled into the driveway after a long, exhausting marketing summit in Dallas, the first thing I noticed was the oppressive silence that seemed to radiate from within the walls of our brick colonial house. My name is Julian Hayes, and for years I had navigated the complexities of being a single father to my seven-year-old daughter, Piper, until I met Sylvia, a woman who appeared to be the answer to every prayer I had ever whispered into the dark. As I stepped through the front door, the heavy air smelled faintly of lemon wax and something sharp, like medicinal chemicals, which immediately set my nerves on edge because the house usually hummed with the sound of cartoons or Piper’s piano practice. I dropped my leather briefcase in the foyer and found Piper lying unresponsive on the hardwood floor near the staircase, her small frame curled into a position that suggested she had simply collapsed where she stood. When I knelt beside her, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, I saw a faint, blooming discoloration on her temple that stole the breath right out of my lungs.
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