Chapter 4
I heard the duffel bag hit the marble before I heard my dad's voice.
It was a dull thump, heavy, the kind of sound a bag makes when it's been packed too tight and carried too far. I knew that sound. He'd left on Tuesday morning with that same bag. He'd zipped it in the entryway while I ate cereal at the counter, and Melanie had stood by the double doors smiling, her hand on his arm, saying have a good trip, we'll be fine. He hadn't looked at me long enough to see I wasn't fine.
Now his voice came through the wood. "Claire."
Teresa's arm tightened around me. The basement air smelled like damp concrete and laundry detergent, and the fluorescent light buzzed over the green shelves. I had my face pressed to the scratchy white cotton of her apron and I could feel her breathing, quick at first, then trying to slow down for me.
"Dad, Dad, we're in here," I yelled, and my voice cracked on the second Dad. My throat hurt from crying.
On the other side of the door, his palm hit the brass plate. I heard him try the handle, the metal rattling hard, then his fist pounding. "Claire? Teresa?"
Melanie answered him. Her voice was close to the door, steady, almost calm. "Deaken, don't. You'll scare her more."
I flinched. Teresa didn't let go.
From inside the room I could hear everything in the entry. The marble made every sound loud. His shoes scuffed as he stepped back. The bag was still on the floor where he'd dropped it. I pictured it — dark canvas, the zipper pull he'd fixed with a black paperclip, the gray airline tag still hanging off the handle because he never cut them off.
He'd been gone three days. That was his pattern. Foundation meetings in the city, then the charity gala prep, then he'd come home late and tired and believe whatever Melanie told him first. Two weeks ago I'd tried to tell him about the closet. Melanie had locked me in the upstairs linen closet for an hour because I spilled juice on her skirt. I'd waited until he got home and said, "She locked me in," and Melanie had laughed lightly and said, "She's being dramatic, honey, I asked her to wait in there while I cleaned the spill." He'd looked at me, then at her, then patted my head and said, "Let's not make a big thing out of nothing, okay, sweetheart?" I remembered exactly how his eyes slid away.
I remembered that now, with my cheek against Teresa's shoulder, and my chest got tight again.
"Teresa, is that you in there?" my dad called, his hand still on the door. "What happened? Why is this locked?"
"We're locked in, Mr. Deaken," Teresa said loudly, her voice shaking but clear. "Mrs. Melanie shut the door from outside."
A pause. The handle rattled again.
"Melanie, where's the key?" he said. His voice had changed. Lower. Harder.
"I don't have a key," she said. "This door doesn't lock. It must be stuck. The wood swells."
That was a lie. I knew it was a lie because I'd heard the click. I'd heard the brass hardware turn and catch. Teresa knew it too — her hand moved to the back of my head and held me closer, like she could block me from hearing it.
"It does lock," my dad said. "I heard it. Claire, are you hurt?"
"No," I tried to say, but it came out small. Teresa answered for me. "She's scared, but she's okay. We're both okay. Please, just open it."
He pounded again, three heavy thumps that vibrated through the wood and into my back where I leaned against the shelves. The white towels shook a little. I could see his shadow under the door, his shoes moving.
He didn't stop to go look for a key. He just kept trying the handle, putting his shoulder near the wood like he might push it. I could hear him breathing hard.
Melanie spoke again, closer now. "Deaken, stop. You're going to break the hardware. Let me check the kitchen. Maybe there's a spare in the utility drawer."
He didn't answer her right away. The pounding paused. I heard his palm flat against the door, not hitting, just pressing. Like he was trying to be close to us through it.
"I'm here, Claire," he said, quieter. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."
I believed him for a second. Then I heard Melanie's heels click on the marble, just one step back, watching.
"Dad, don't go," I whispered, but Teresa heard me. She leaned down.
"He has to get the key, honey," she whispered into my hair. "That's the only way."
On the other side, his hand slid off the door. His footsteps moved away from the wood, toward the entry. I heard the duffel bag get nudged, the zipper scraping marble as he pushed it aside with his foot to get past.
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"Stay by the door," he called. "I'm going to find something to open this. I'm getting you out."
Melanie didn't follow him right away. I heard her stay there in the hallway, her breathing quiet, her shadow still under the door, watching it, making sure we stayed behind it while he went to search.
