Chapter 9: The Papers and the Hallway
That morning the house didn't look angry anymore. It looked busy. I remember that because I was sitting on the bottom step with my socks half off, watching my dad turn our kitchen into something that felt like an office.
He had cleared the dark wooden table. The dog bowl was back on it, but not like before. He'd put the dark mat under it exactly straight, and he was standing over it with his phone, taking pictures. He didn't do it fast. He took one from directly above, then stepped back and took another, then crouched down to get the side. The steel caught the chandelier light and threw it back up at his face.
He'd already done the same thing on the marble floor in the hallway where Emma's video had been recorded. He'd put the bowl and mat down where I'd been sitting in that video and photographed that, too. I didn't understand why he needed pictures of something that was still right there, but he moved like it mattered to get it right.
I heard him on the phone with Emma after. He didn't put it on speaker. He said, "Send me the original file, not a screen recording," and then, "Yes, with the time stamp on it." He was writing on a yellow legal pad while he talked. He wrote the date and the time and then underneath it, "Video - Emma - purple case - red record button." He saved the file on his laptop right in front of me and I saw the little progress bar fill up. He checked it twice. He plugged in a small black hard drive and dropped a copy there, too. He labeled a folder with my name and the date. He didn't say anything to me about what it was for, just kept his hand on my shoulder while he clicked.
Bianca came out of the main bedroom a little after nine. She wasn't in the pink robe anymore. She was wearing jeans and a light sweater and sneakers, and her hair was pulled back. She had a suitcase open on the bed behind her. My dad didn't raise his voice.
He met her in the hallway, by the white trim where the marble met the carpet. He said, "You need to gather your things from this room. You'll use the guest suite downstairs until we sort the next steps." He said it flat, like reading instructions. She nodded and didn't answer at first, then went back in and started pulling clothes from the closet in armfuls. Not throwing them. Folding them too neatly and laying them in the suitcase.
I watched from the doorway. She kept looking at me and then away. She asked my dad if she could take the jewelry box. He said, "Take what's yours." When she reached for the choker that had been on her neck the day before, she stopped and left it on the dresser. I remember that because it sat there shining under the lamp and nobody touched it.
She changed completely out of the robe. She put the robe itself over the back of a chair and left it there, like she didn't want to pack it. She was in day clothes now, but she looked smaller without the satin. She kept her mouth pressed tight and kept folding.
Around lunch Marcus came to the front door. I heard his knock. My dad didn't open it all the way. He stepped out into the entry and pulled the door almost closed behind him so I could only hear through the crack.
Marcus started to say something about wanting to explain. My dad cut him off. He didn't yell. He said, "You watched it happen and you did nothing. Don't come back here." Marcus said, "Vittorio, come on," quiet. My dad said, "You're not welcome in this house, and you're not to contact Lucy. If you try, I'll document it." Then the door clicked shut. I heard Marcus's shoes on the marble outside, then nothing. My dad stood there a second with his hand still on the knob, breathing slow, before he came back to me.
Later he was at the dark wooden table again, on a video call. I could see a man's face on his laptop screen, a small office with bookshelves behind him. My dad said, "I want a paper trail. Counseling referral, incident report, and a custody protection letter on file." He pushed his yellow pad toward the camera so the man could see the photos he'd taken of the bowl and mat and the screen showing Emma's video file with the date. He said, "I'm not asking for a filing today. I'm asking that everything is preserved correctly." The man nodded and said he'd send documents to sign by email.
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After that call, my dad printed two copies of everything. The printer hummed in the little office off the kitchen. He put one set in a manila folder and one in the hard drive case. He put the bowl itself in a clear plastic bag, not to throw away, but to put on a high shelf in the laundry room where I couldn't reach it. The mat went with it.
By evening Bianca had moved her suitcase and two bags down the hall to the guest room. The main bedroom door was open and empty except for that pink robe still over the chair and the choker on the dresser. My dad walked me past it to my own room and didn't let me stop. He said, "You sleep here. She sleeps down there now." It wasn't mean. It was just where things were now. The hallway between us felt longer than it was, and I could hear every footstep on the marble.
