Chapter 6
The house went quiet after the front door clicked shut. I didn't hear his truck start. I didn't hear her say goodnight. I just heard the rug hush under my bare feet and the soft tick of the heater kicking on.
She'd left me on the gray sofa with the TV off and the curtains still open to the parking lot lights. I kept my knees pulled to my chest the way she'd left me, my pink pajamas bunched around my ankles. My breathing was the only thing I could control, so I counted it. In for four, out for four, trying to make it sound even.
I wasn't asleep. I was pretending to be.
The living room had gone blue at the edges. The daylight that had made everything look clean that afternoon was gone, replaced by the yellow from the kitchen doorway and the white glow from the smoke detector on the ceiling. From where I lay, I could see it without lifting my head. It was still crooked. Just a little. The way he'd left it when his gloved hand had covered it.
Footsteps came from the hallway. Soft, not trying to hide. Her slippers on the dark wood.
I closed my eyes three-quarters and let my mouth fall open a little. I made my shoulders drop. I tried to breathe like I did when I really slept, that slower catch at the end of the exhale. I could feel my heart beating in my ears and I tried to keep it out of my chest.
She stopped beside the sofa. I felt her there before I saw her, the way the air shifted when she stood over me.
"Still awake?" she said, quiet.
I didn't answer. I kept my breathing steady. In for four, out for four.
A pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric. She'd brought the throw blanket from the armchair, the heavy knit one that smelled like her perfume. She shook it out once. The air moved against my face.
She laid it over me carefully. Her hand smoothed it over my legs, then up over my shoulders. Her nails caught the light from the kitchen. That bright red, still perfect. Close enough I could see a tiny chip on her thumb.
I felt her fingers brush my hair back from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear the way a mom would. Her hand lingered. Her palm was warm against my temple, then her thumb traced the edge of my jaw where she'd grabbed me that afternoon.
"You were so brave today," she whispered. Not kind. Assessing. Like she was checking a seam. "You didn't make a sound. That's good. That's what keeps us safe."
I kept my eyes closed. My throat moved when I swallowed and I hoped she didn't see it.
She adjusted the blanket again, tucking it tight around my feet so I couldn't kick it off without making noise. Then she stood there a second longer. I could hear her breathing, slow and controlled, matching mine on purpose or not I couldn't tell.
Her eyes went up. I felt it more than saw it, that tilt of her attention. Toward the ceiling. Toward the white circle with its little green light.
I wanted to look too. I wanted to see if she noticed the tilt. But I kept staring at the seam of the sofa cushion, at the gray fabric right by my nose.
After a moment she sighed through her nose, just once, and her slippers turned. She walked to the kitchen doorway and I heard her hand hit the light switch. The yellow went out. Now the room was only parking lot light through the curtains and the faint green from the detector.
"I'll be in my room if you need me," she said from the dark hallway. "Don't get up wandering. You know how the floor creaks."
The rug would tell her. The sofa would tell her. Everything in that room was made to tell her if I moved.
I listened until I heard her bedroom door close, not latched, just closed. Then I waited five more breaths.
When I was sure she wasn't coming back, I opened my eyes fully and looked up again at that white housing on the ceiling. The green light blinked once, steady and stupid, like nothing was wrong.
My first idea that afternoon had been to climb up and fix it, to straighten it so it didn't look touched, or to pull it down and hide it. But now, lying under the blanket she'd tucked so tight, I understood something different.
If I touched it, I'd be the one who broke it. She'd know I'd been up. She'd know I'd seen what he did. And whoever was supposed to watch that camera, if anyone ever was, wouldn't see anything but a dark screen because his hand had covered it.
Better to leave it exactly crooked. Better to leave the rug exactly with his boot print still pressed into the beige near the door where he'd walked in. Better to leave the blanket exactly where she put it.
I wasn't going to fight her tonight. I wasn't going to yell or run to the door. I was going to protect what was left the way you protect a bruise before someone sees it — don't touch it, don't let anyone else touch it, keep it there until the right person asks to see it.
May you like
I tucked my hand under my cheek and made my breathing slow again, this time for real. I kept my eyes on the little green light until it blurred.
I wouldn't move the rug. I wouldn't straighten the camera. I'd keep it all intact until help came from outside.
