“Who sent this?” Emily whispered.
“I don’t know.”
The message had no text. Only the photograph.
Emily looked at the number. Unknown. Blocked.
The casserole dish sat on the porch step between them, silver foil stretched tight over the top. It looked absurdly ordinary. Something a neighbor might bring after a baby was born or a family had suffered a loss. But Linda had left it like a warning.
Ask your father what he knows about Fort Sheridan.
Emily turned to him. “What happened there?”
Her father’s shoulders rose with a long breath.
“Not on the porch,” he said. “And not with that dish sitting there.”
This time Emily let him guide her inside.
He locked the door, then drew the curtains halfway closed—not in panic, but with the quiet precision of a man returning to old habits. He placed the casserole dish in a cardboard box without touching it directly, set it near the back door, and washed his hands twice.
