The sound of someone banging their fist against the front door echoed through the house.
Grace froze solid. “Dad… that’s him.”
“Dad… that’s him.”
I walked to the door and opened it.
There he was: Chase, the biological father. Everything about him was a performance: designer leather jacket, perfect hair, and, I kid you not, sunglasses at night.
“Move,” he commanded, stepping toward me like he owned the place.
I didn’t budge. “You’re not coming inside.”
“You’re not coming inside.”
He smirked. “Oh, still playing daddy, huh? That’s cute.”
Grace whimpered behind my back.
