Abigail
"Hi, sweetheart," I called, glancing up at her. She stepped away from the door and retreated back into the room but left the door open.
I pushed the door open gently. Angel sat on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were red and glistening with unshed tears. She had clearly been crying for a while.
The room was another story entirely. Angel had always been neat, almost obsessively so, like her dad.
Her books were usually lined up perfectly on the shelf by genre and color, but tonight several books were scattered across the floor.
There was a worn notebook with doodles of spaceships and dragons on the cover, and a half-finished sketchbook open to a drawing of a girl with wings flying away from a castle.
Her suitcase was open, with clothes spilling out of it. Was she trying to pack? It looked like she had torn the room apart.
