Chapter 2: The Door Dad Refuses To Leave Open
Dad came through the passage at a run, one hand catching the doorframe to stop himself. His shoes struck the floor hard enough to make the old boards shudder. Stepmother still had my arm, her fingers tight around the sleeve of my hoodie, while my sister stood behind me with her small hand raised toward the torn wallpaper.
“Nobody touches my child.”
Dad’s voice cut across the hallway. Stepmother released me at once, but she did not step back. She turned toward him with her shoulders squared and her dark hair pulled neatly away from her face, as if the hallway were a room where she still held authority. My arm throbbed where she had grabbed it. I moved in front of my sister again and drew her against my side.
The lock of blonde hair remained caught in the jagged tear.
It was only a few inches from us, pale against the faded flowers. The hallway light reached it differently whenever someone moved, making it seem to vanish and return. I watched Stepmother's eyes go to it. Her face did not change much, but her hand lifted toward the wallpaper.
I shifted sideways, blocking her view as much as I could without turning my back on Dad.
The old door beside us stood open by a narrow gap. Beyond it was a dark passage leading deeper into the mansion. I kept my sister away from that opening. The air near it felt colder, and the hinges gave a soft creak whenever the floor moved.
Dad came closer. He looked at my sister first, then at my arm, then at the wall. His expression tightened when he saw the hair. He did not reach for it. He did not touch the wallpaper. Instead, he put himself between Stepmother and the children, though he left enough space to keep looking past his shoulder.
Stepmother raised one hand toward the torn section again.
Dad caught her wrist before she reached it.
For a second, nobody moved. My sister pressed her face against the front of my hoodie. I could feel her breathing through the fabric, quick and shallow. The wallpaper smelled dusty, with a damp, papery odor underneath. Somewhere beyond the wall, a pipe clicked once and went quiet.
Stepmother pulled her wrist free. She pointed toward the open passage, then toward my sister, making the direction clear without saying anything. She wanted us out of the hallway. Maybe she wanted the door closed behind us. Her eyes kept returning to the exposed lock.
Dad looked at the passage and then back at the wall.
He crouched beside my sister, but she did not leave my side. When he held out his hand, she gripped the back of my hoodie instead. I placed my palm over hers. Dad's face softened, but uncertainty remained in his eyes. He was protecting us from Stepmother. He was not yet protecting the evidence from everyone.
I took one step backward, keeping the tear visible over my shoulder.
Dad rose slowly. He moved toward the wallpaper, stopping just short of it. His gaze followed the lock from its pale tip to the darkness inside the tear. He leaned in, then stopped before his face came close enough to touch.
Stepmother crossed to the passage door.
Her fingers closed around its edge. She began pulling it inward, not fast, but with steady pressure. The gap narrowed. The darker corridor disappeared behind the moving wood.
I tightened my hold on my sister and stepped between her and the doorway.
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Dad turned toward us. Stepmother kept pulling.
The lock of hair was still visible, but only barely now, and the door was almost closed.
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