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... he kitchen—bright, warm, and layered with voices that didn’t belong to just his wife and daughter.

Not just Elena’s delighted giggle or Eileen’s low, melodic chuckle.

There were two others.

He checked the clock: 6:03 AM.

Of course.

Still in pajamas, in search of caffeine and quiet, he made his way downstairs. The kitchen was already alive. Eileen stood at the stove making pancakes while Elena held court at the table, animatedly recounting yesterday’s shopp ...

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