Rick Hunt checked the rearview mirror one last time before turning onto Maple Drive.
His six-year-old daughter, Emma, sat in her booster seat behind him with her legs swinging above the floor mat. Her fingers were wrapped around Mr. Whiskers, the gray stuffed rabbit she had owned since she was three.
She was humming along to a song that existed only in her head.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Bug?”
“Do you think Grandpa Roger will make pancakes?”
Rick glanced at her reflection.
“Probably. He usually does on Saturdays.”
“Chocolate-chip ones?”
“If you ask nicely.”
Emma smiled and pressed her cheek against the window.
Rick wished he could share her excitement.
He hated these drop-offs.
He had hated them for nearly two years.
Ever since the divorce, every interaction with Marsha’s family felt like entering a room where everyone had already decided what kind of man he was.
Marsha had moved back into her father’s sprawling home after their separation. Rick had agreed to the arrangement because keeping Emma’s life stable seemed more important than winning another argument.
Everything had been for Emma.
At least that was what he told himself.
The custody fight had been brutal.
Marsha wanted primary custody and initially pushed hard to limit Rick’s time with their daughter. Her argument was simple: Rick’s career made him unreliable.
For eleven years, he had worked as a crime and investigative reporter in Chicago. His phone rang at every hour. Breaking stories ruined dinner plans. Court hearings collided with birthdays. Nights that were supposed to belong to his family disappeared into police briefings, hospital corridors, neighborhood interviews, or rushed deadlines.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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