Beckett’s POV
I stand outside the door. On the outside, my façade is the epitome of calm, the rigid control I learned from an early age, a neat cover for the turbulent storm of emotions rolling around inside of me.
I have a daughter, a six year old daughter!
I press my hand flat against the door frame, staring down at the tiny peephole built into the door in front of me. I can practically feel Elodie’s presence on the other side. I know she’s right there, inches away from me, hiding.
‘Elodie,’ I state loudly, my voice controlled. ‘Open the door please. I think we need to talk . . . about our daughter.’
Silence greets my words. I wait, letting the quiet stretch out, giving her time she needs to realise the truth: I’m not going anywhere and she can’t avoid me.
The minutes stretch on. I
