close I could hear his shallow breathing.
His eyes were locked onto the glowing glass.
On the screen, my father, Richard, was pacing the length of a massive Persian rug. He was holding a crystal tumbler of scotch.
My mother, Diane, was sitting on the edge of a custom leather sofa, her face buried in her hands.
And sitting directly across from her was Harper, my golden-child sister, still wearing the expensive silk dress she had worn to the family dinner three days ago, her makeup smeared across her cheeks.
