Chapter 6
I couldn't see upstairs but I could hear it.
The basement made everything louder. The fluorescent light buzzed and Teresa's hand stayed on my shoulder and my knees hurt from the cold concrete. Footsteps moved above us. Not fast. Dad's. I knew his walk from the hallway at night, that heavy scuff when he came home late with his bag.
First he went to the kitchen. I heard a drawer slide open. The junk drawer, the one Teresa kept rubber bands and spare keys in. It stuck every time unless you lifted it. He lifted it. I heard it scrape, then rattle. Teresa tipped her head toward the ceiling and listened with me.
"Come on," his voice was muffled through the wood and the brass plate. "Come on."
Another drawer. Then another. The sound of metal on wood, like he dumped everything out on the counter. A pause. Then his footsteps again, faster now across that marble entry toward the office.
I pressed my cheek against Teresa's apron. It smelled like laundry soap. My breathing was still fast and I tried to make it slower.
Melanie hadn't moved. I could hear her heels on the wood upstairs, not following him. Just standing there near the top of the stairs, near the door.
"There's nothing in there," she said. Her voice came through clear, calm. Like she wasn't mad anymore. "I told you."
Dad didn't answer right away. I heard the office door open. Papers shifting. A desk drawer. He was looking for the spare. Teresa had told me once there used to be a hook in the laundry room where the old spare lived, before the locks got changed.
I remembered the sound of that hook. It was gone now.
Teresa whispered against my hair, "He's looking."
The office drawer slammed. Not loud, but hard. Then Dad's voice, closer to the basement door now, like he'd come back to the hallway.
"Where's the key, Melanie?"
Melanie said, "I have it."
A small silence. The kind that happens before someone answers a question they already know is bad.
Dad said, "The spare. Where's the spare to this door?"
"There is no spare," she said. "There's only one. I keep it."
I felt Teresa's fingers tighten on my shoulder. She didn't say anything. She just breathed.
Upstairs, Dad tried the hardware again. I heard his hand on the brass plate, that dull rattle when you twist and it doesn't catch. He jiggled it. Once, twice. The door didn't move. The lock was on her side.
"Melanie, give it to me," he said. His voice was lower now. Not yelling. Trying to be even. "Hand me the key and we'll talk about this after. Just open the door."
Melanie didn't answer right away. I heard her bag on the entry table, that soft leather thump. Then a zipper.
"Check if you want," she said. "My purse is right here. Go ahead."
More rustling. He was checking it. I heard the clink of her keys, then nothing that sounded like the right one. That big old brass key was different from the others, heavier, with the flat teeth. I remembered seeing it on her ring when she locked the pantry once because I took a cookie without asking.
"No," Dad said. "It's not here."
"No," Melanie said. "Because it's in my pocket. And it's staying there."
Another rattle at the door. Harder this time. Dad wasn't jiggling anymore. He was pulling.
Teresa shifted against the wall and pulled me closer. The concrete was colder on my legs. I could hear Dad breathing through the crack under the door.
"This is my house, Melanie," he said. His voice shook a little. "You don't get to decide who gets locked where. You don't get to control the rooms."
Melanie laughed. Not a real laugh. "Your house? I manage this house. I keep the keys. I keep the schedule. I keep your daughter from running wild while you're gone with that duffel bag. You didn't care until now."
"I care now," he said. "Open it."
"I will," she said. "When I'm ready. When she learns. When your housekeeper learns. You want access? You ask me."
The hallway went quiet except for Dad's hand still on the brass. I heard his palm slide off the plate. He didn't try the handle again. He just stood there. I could picture him the way he looked when he came in the front doors, calling my name, then realizing no one was coming.
Teresa leaned down and whispered, "He knows now." She wasn't talking about the key.
Upstairs, Dad's footsteps didn't go toward the kitchen or the office anymore. They stayed by the door. He wasn't searching. He was stuck.
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"Melanie," he said, one more time, quieter. "You have to give me that key."
And she said, "No. You'll have to go through me."
