“Your father was murdered in that house, Mr. Evans.” Sandra said this with cutthroat honesty, her expression sympathetic but cold, like a surgeon declaring their patient hadn’t made it. Detached. God, how I wished I could be detached. “My father…what?” Black spots swam across my vision and I shook my head, trying to clear it as my temples began to throb and the white walls surrounding me began to close in tight. “He was…” “Murdered, yes,” Sandra clarified. “In the kitchen.”
