Chapter 10
The wood didn't move when Dad hit it again. I felt the vibration through the floor more than I heard it.
Teresa had her arm locked around my shoulders. Her breathing was shallow and fast against my ear. My sneakers were cold on the concrete. The fluorescent light buzzed over the green shelves and made everything look gray.
"Melanie, give me the key," Dad said. His voice was on the other side of the door. It was low and tight. I could hear his hand still flat against the brass plate.
Melanie didn't answer right away. I heard her shoes shift on the marble. When she did speak she sounded calm, like she was explaining something to a waiter.
"You're being dramatic, Deaken," she said. "It's a storage room. There are towels. It's not a dungeon."
Teresa squeezed my shoulder. She leaned down so her mouth was close to my hair.
"Don't cry loud," she whispered. Not mean. Just quick. "He needs to hear you clear."
I nodded. My throat hurt from holding it.
On the other side, Dad's voice got sharper. "You locked them in. They're locked in, Melanie. I don't have a key. Where is the key?"
"I put it somewhere safe," she said. "They needed to cool off. She was being impossible and Teresa undermined me. Like always. This is not dangerous. Look at the door. It's interior. There's air. There's light."
I stared at that light. It buzzed and flickered once. Teresa's uniform sleeve was dark against my beige sweater. I could smell laundry detergent from the white towels stacked next to us.
Dad knocked again, harder. Three times. "Open it now. This isn't discipline. This is locking a child in a basement."
"It's for ten minutes," Melanie said. "You're making it something it isn't. You always do this. You walk in after I'm the one who deals with her all day and you act like I'm cruel."
I couldn't wait ten minutes. The cold was coming up through my jeans where I sat against the wall. Teresa had pulled us down to the floor after Dad's last try, so our backs were against the shelves. She kept her hand on my head, stroking my hair the way she did when I had a fever.
Dad said, "I'm not asking again."
Melanie let out a short laugh. It didn't sound happy. "Or what?"
A pause. I heard Dad step back. His shoes scuffed the marble. Then his voice came louder, but not shouting yet. Controlled.
"Or I call the sheriff," he said. "I call county dispatch and they send someone. You want that? You want a deputy in our entry asking why my daughter is locked behind a brass door?"
My chest jumped. Sheriff. I knew that word from school when the deputy came for safety week. Teresa's hand tightened.
Melanie answered fast. "Go ahead. Call them. Tell them your eight-year-old is sitting in a clean storage room with a housekeeper and folded towels. See how seriously they take you. You'll embarrass yourself. And me."
"Melanie."
"Do it," she said. "Dare you. There's no harm done. No one is hurt. You're threatening police over towels and a timeout."
She said it like she believed it. Like if she said towels enough times it would make the door not locked.
Teresa looked down at me. Her eyes were wet but her mouth was a straight line. She tipped her chin toward the door.
"Now," she whispered. "Loud."
I took a breath. It shook. I pushed up onto my knees and put my hands toward the wood even though I couldn't reach the handle from down here.
"Dad!" I shouted. My voice cracked on the first try. I swallowed and shouted again, louder, until my throat burned. "Dad, we're in here! Dad, we're in here!"
On the other side, Dad made a noise like he'd been hit. I heard his palm slap the door.
"Claire? Claire, I'm here!" he called. "I'm right here, baby. I hear you."
Teresa called too, clear and steady. "Mr. Deaken, we're both here. Door is locked from outside. We cannot open it."
Melanie said something under her breath I didn't catch. Then, louder, "See? She's fine. She's yelling. She's not hurt."
"She's terrified!" Dad shouted. It was the first time he really shouted. The marble made it echo. "My daughter is on the floor of a basement yelling for me and you're telling me she's fine?"
I kept my hands on the door. The wood was cold and rough. I didn't stop talking.
"We're in here, Dad! Please! Don't leave!"
"I'm not leaving," he said right against the wood. I could hear his breathing now. "I'm not going anywhere, Claire. Hold on to Teresa."
I nodded even though he couldn't see. Teresa pulled me back against her.
Then I heard him move. Quick steps away from the door, across the marble. The sound of his duffel bag being dragged, zipper scraping.
Melanie's voice followed him. Sharp now, not calm. "Deaken, don't be ridiculous. You are not calling the sheriff on your wife."
"If you won't open it, I will call someone who will," he said. His voice was moving away, toward the entry. I heard the clack of a phone being picked up, the little tap of a screen. "What's the non-emergency? No. I'm calling dispatch."
"You're going to explain towels to a dispatcher?" Melanie said. But her voice had gone higher.
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I listened to Dad's breathing and the beep of numbers. Teresa held me tight and whispered, "Good girl. He heard you. He heard you."
The fluorescent light kept buzzing. The door stayed shut. But his footsteps didn't go toward the front doors. They came back. He was still there, on the other side, phone in his hand.
