Chapter 2
The lock clicked.
It wasn't loud. Just a small electronic chirp followed by the deadbolt pulling back, and then the dark wood door shivered inward a half inch. My daughter's hands were still on the handle, her white shoes planted on the marble, her whole body leaning back with effort she didn't have.
On the sofa, his hand was still on my face. His fingers pressed into my cheek and jaw, his watch cold against my skin. I could feel his thumb near the corner of my mouth, holding me still. He'd been speaking low, controlled, inches from me. Then he heard the click too.
He didn't let go right away. That was the worst part. He looked toward the door first, then down at me, and decided how this should look.
My dad pushed the door the rest of the way with his shoulder. The warm light from the hall cut across the marble floor and across the patterned rug. He was breathing hard, his dark overcoat open, his tie crooked. His eyes went straight to me on the sofa, then to my daughter at the door.
"Get your hands off her," he said.
It wasn't shouting. It was the flat, hard voice he used when he was trying not to scare us more. He stepped inside, one hand still on the door, the other up, palm out toward my husband.
My husband finally released me. He lifted both hands a little, like he was proving he wasn't doing anything. He shifted back on the sofa and smoothed his black turtleneck with his left hand. His watch caught the recessed ceiling light.
"We're fine," he said. His voice went even, calm, reasonable. "She's upset. It's been a long day. We're just talking."
I sat up. My cheek throbbed where he'd gripped me. I kept one hand on my belly without thinking. Seven and a half months and the baby was moving, a tight roll under my cream dress. I swallowed and tasted copper.
My dad didn't look at him. He looked at me. "Maggie?"
My daughter turned from the door and ran to me, but I caught her gently and guided her behind my dad's legs. She clutched his trousers, her yellow dress wrinkled, her curly hair stuck to her damp forehead. Her white socks had picked up dust from the marble.
"Stay by Grandpa, sweetie," I whispered. My voice cracked. "Just for a second. Stay right there."
I could feel my husband watching that choice. His jaw tightened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to pull the room back under his control with words alone.
"See? This is what she does," he said to my dad, quiet and tired, like he was the one who needed help. "She gets overwhelmed and calls you. She left her phone on the floor. She wouldn't let me help her up. You know how she gets when she's tired."
He gestured toward the marble floor near the glass windows. My phone was there, face-up, screen dark, where it had slid when I'd tried to get away from him earlier. It had been there through all of it.
My dad moved half a step so he was fully between my daughter and my husband, still facing him. "You need to step back from that couch," he told him.
My husband stood slowly. Controlled, slow movement. He raised his hands again and took two steps toward the round coffee table, away from me, giving himself room. He wasn't leaving. He was showing compliance that wasn't compliance at all.
That was my window.
I pushed off the curved sofa, one hand on the armrest, the other still cradling my belly. My white flats slipped a little on the rug and then found the marble. My legs felt shaky. I didn't look at my husband as I crossed the three steps to where the phone lay.
The marble was cold through my shoes. I bent carefully, knees out, and picked it up. The case was cool. The screen lit when I touched it — 4:42 p.m., three missed calls from my dad, a crack in the corner I hadn't noticed before. I held it tight with both hands.
Behind me, my husband said, "Maggie, don't do this. Don't make a scene in front of our daughter. Put the phone down and let's talk like adults."
He said it softly, like he was being patient with me. Like I was the one making a scene.
My dad kept his eyes on him. "Maggie, you got it?" he asked without turning.
"I've got it," I said. I stepped back toward him, the phone pressed to my chest, and put my free hand on my daughter's shoulder where she was tucked behind him.
My husband stayed by the coffee table, hands in his pockets now, watching us. The door was still open behind my dad, letting in the hall air. He was contained for the moment, but he hadn't left the penthouse, and he hadn't raised his voice again. He didn't need to.
May you like
My dad didn't move from the threshold. He put one arm slightly back, not quite touching me, making a wall. "We're going to take a minute," he said to my husband. "You're going to stay over there."
I held the phone tighter. The lock on the dark wood door blinked green, still unlocked. My cheek was starting to swell, and my daughter's fingers were twisted in my dress.
