Chapter 7 - The Duffel Bag Drops
I heard his boots before I saw any light under the door. The basement hallway had that old carpet that swallowed sound, but Dad never walked quiet. Grandma had her hand over mine and we both went still when the steps got closer. A second set followed, quicker, sharper. Melanie's heels.
I held my breath. The fluorescent tube above us buzzed and flickered, making the shelves jump. The plastic bins looked blue-white. The red crate by the door looked almost black.
"Dad?" I whispered, but Grandma squeezed my fingers. Wait, she mouthed.
Outside, his voice came low. "Claire?"
I couldn't stop myself. I pulled away and pressed my palms flat to the cold door. "Dad, we're in here."
There was a pause. Then a thud, soft and heavy, like something set down hard on carpet. I pictured his tan canvas duffel bag in his right hand, the way the strap cut into his shoulder after a trip. He always carried it himself, wouldn't let anyone help. I heard the zipper tags clink when it hit the floor.
"Claire? You in there?" His voice was closer now, right on the other side of the wood.
"Yes," I said. My throat hurt. "Me and Grandma."
Grandma leaned in beside me. "We're here," she called out, steady but thin. "We're all right for now."
A hand tried the knob. The whole door shook in its frame. It rattled once, then again, harder. The lock caught. I felt it in my teeth.
The knob stopped. Nobody talked for a second. I could hear Dad breathing through the door.
"Melanie, don't do this." Grandma's voice cracked on the last word. She wasn't looking at me, she was looking at the door like she could see through it.
From the hallway, Melanie answered, too close. "You want to protect her? Fine. Stay with her."
I flinched. Grandma put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me back half a step from the door.
Dad said, "Is this locked?"
"It's handled," Melanie said. "She was acting like a problem. I told her to get out of my sight and come down here till she could behave. Your mother decided to go with her."
I stared at Grandma. That wasn't true. Melanie had pushed me by the back of my sweater through the storage doorway. She had blocked Grandma when Grandma tried to follow me out. I wanted to yell that, but my mouth wouldn't open right.
The knob rattled again. Dad tried it slower this time, turning it all the way and pushing with his shoulder. The door didn't move. The hinges creaked.
"Give me the key," he said.
There was a silence with just the buzz of the light. I pressed my ear to the door. The carpet outside shifted.
"I don't have it on me," Melanie said.
"Then where is it?"
"If they need a few minutes to calm down, that's not abuse. Maybe now you'll both learn your place."
Her words were clear through the wood. My stomach dropped because she said it the same way she'd said it before, stern and flat, like she was reading a rule.
Dad didn't answer right away. I heard his hand slide off the knob. Then his knuckles tapped twice, gentle, like he didn't want to scare me.
"Claire-bug, back up from the door for me, okay?" he said. "Stand by Grandma."
I did. Grandma kept her arm tight around me. The light made her short gray hair look silver. Her apron front was wrinkled where I'd grabbed it.
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"Okay," I said, loud enough for him to hear.
"Good girl," he said. Then, to her, his voice changed, lower and harder but still controlled. "I'm not asking again. You locked my daughter and my mother in a storage room. You tell me right now where that key is."
