Mila’s body wouldn’t move. She stood at the threshold like a prisoner bound by invisible chains, her father’s frail voice echoing in her chest.

My daughter.

Two words she had once ached for, cried for, begged to hear. But now, when they finally came, they cut into her like knives. Her breath stuttered, her hands shook violently at her sides. She wanted to run, but some cruel force drew her deeper into the room.

The air smelled of whiskey soaked into the carpet, mingled with the sour sting ...