Page 67 of Torin

Istare at him.

The worst part is how badly I want to give it to him.

Before I can figure out what to do with it, my phone vibrates again.

Then again.

I glance down.

Three more messages.

A news alert.

An email.

“I should get my laptop...” I thumb toward the door.

“Of course.” Torin nods.

My heart is hammering as I hurry back inside and flip open the lid. I enter my password and connect to the network. Torin moves around the kitchen behind me. A cupboard opens, mugs clink against the counter, and a moment later the gas burner catches.

I start with the news.

Every local station has picked it up. A couple of national websites have, too.

Sheriff Appeals for Help Finding Missing Daughter.

Concern Grows for Missing Woman.

Family Begs Public to Come Forward.

Different headlines, same story. A vulnerable young woman. A worried father. A desperate search.

I click the first one. Dad’s face fills the screen. I close it before the video starts and open another.

His face again.

They’re all pulling from the same interview.

I keep going, looking for something else. A contradiction. A skeptical reporter. Someone asking why a twenty-four-year-old woman might be hiding from her own father.

Not one person questions his version of events.

I open the comments.

Big mistake.

Praying she gets home safe.

That poor father.

Mental illness is heartbreaking.

I slam the laptop shut.

I sit there staring at the lid. He got there first. Of course he did.

A few seconds later, I open it again.