The Blonde Lock Beneath the Torn Floral Wallpaper

I kept my sister’s hand wrapped inside mine as I studied the passage beyond the room where Dad had brought us. The nearest way out meant crossing the main hallway, so I chose the narrower route through the back of the mansion instead. It curved behind the formal rooms and was supposed to reach the side entrance without taking us anywhere near our stepmother.

My sister stayed against my leg. Her light dress brushed my jeans with each step, and her fingers tightened whenever the old floor shifted beneath us. I moved slowly enough that she would not stumble but quickly enough that no one could step between us.

Dad watched from the doorway. He had been staring at us as if deciding whether we were safer with him or safer away from everyone in the house. When I led my sister into the passage, he finally moved. His shoes crossed the threshold behind us.

Our stepmother followed last.

I did not look back at her. I could tell where she was by the measured tap of her shoes and the longer silence that came whenever she stopped. She did not need to grab us to control where we went. The mansion gave her corners, heavy doors, and long stretches where no one outside could see us.

The back passage narrowed beside a row of covered windows. Thick curtains blocked the daylight, leaving the walls the color of ash. I tried the first door we reached. Its handle turned halfway and stopped. I pressed my shoulder against it, but the wood did not shift.

There was another route through the dining room. I kept my sister close and crossed beneath a chandelier that gave off no light. The table had been cleared, its polished surface reflecting four broken shapes as we passed: my dark hoodie, my sister’s pale dress, Dad behind us, and our stepmother farther back.

At the opposite end, tall double doors stood closed. I pulled one handle, then the other. Neither opened.

Dad came beside me. Until then, he had only followed. Now he placed himself between our stepmother and the two of us, then tested both handles himself. He leaned his weight into the doors. The frame gave a low creak, but the latch held.

My sister flinched. I drew her against my side.

Dad turned toward the service corridor. He pointed us ahead and took the lead. It was a small change, but I felt it immediately. He was no longer waiting for one of the adults to explain the house. He was moving us.

The corridor bent twice before opening onto a broad landing. I recognized the railing first. Beyond it stood the main staircase, and below us lay the same dim hallway we had tried to avoid.

The floral wallpaper ran along the wall beneath the stairs.

We had gone around the interior of the mansion only to come back above the place where the lock of blonde hair had appeared. The tear was harder to find now. From the landing it looked like a wrinkle in the faded flowers, an imperfection someone might pass without noticing.

My sister noticed.

She stopped so suddenly that her arm pulled tight between us. Her blue eyes fixed on the wall. She did not speak. She only lifted her free hand and pointed, the same small, steady gesture she had made before. Her face had gone still, but her fingers trembled.

Dad followed the line of her hand. Then he looked at me.

I nodded once.

We descended together. Dad went first, my sister and I stayed in the middle, and our stepmother came down behind us. At the bottom, I put myself between my sister and the wallpaper. Even partly concealed, the tear remained exactly where I remembered it. A faint edge lifted from the plaster, but I did not touch it. If someone had changed it, I did not want my hands giving them another explanation.

The front entrance waited at the far end of the hallway. Dad crossed to it and pulled the handle. The door held.

He worked the lock, then braced one foot against the floor and pulled again. Nothing moved. From where I stood, I could not tell whether the mechanism had jammed or whether something on the other side held it shut. The result was the same.

The side routes had failed. The front door would not open. We were back beside the wall, with our stepmother still in the mansion and no private argument capable of making us safe.

I slipped my hand into my jeans pocket and felt the hard outline of my phone.