The Family Shed a Dark Secret—And My Daughter Was at the Center of It (2 of 4)

Marjorie Keats answered the door. Not a hair out of place, her cream dress immaculate.

“Daniel,” she said coolly, her smile tight. “What an unexpected visit.”

“I came to see Emily,” he said, steady. “Surprise visit.”

Her eyes flickered, then hardened. “She’s… out back. Working on her projects.”

Daniel stepped past her before she could object. The house gleamed with polished surfaces and cold air conditioning. Wedding photos once showing Emily with him were gone—replaced by carefully curated portraits of her husband and his parents.

“She’s in the garden shed,” Marjorie added with a faint smirk.

Daniel froze. Then he walked. Through the glossy kitchen, past the glittering pool, across the lawn—toward a small wooden shed baking in the sun. His chest tightened.

He opened the door.

“Dad?” Emily’s voice cracked.

She stood inside, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her forehead. A single cot was shoved against the wall, a plastic bin held her clothes, and a small fan struggled against the suffocating heat. The thermometer nailed to the wood read 104 degrees.

Daniel’s heart nearly stopped.