Chapter 1: The Small Hand Beneath the Desk
The scream had stopped before I reached the bedroom, but the house still seemed to hold its shape around it. I crossed the hallway quickly, one hand against the wall to steady myself, and found Finn beneath the desk with his knees pulled tight to his chest. The desk lamp had fallen sideways, throwing a narrow bar of light across the carpet. One pajama sleeve covered half his hand. His bare feet were tucked behind a storage box, and his breathing came in short, careful pulls, as if even air might make too much noise.
I did not ask what happened. The question would have made him answer, and answering would have brought the sound back into the room.
My name is Harper, and I had been Finn’s caregiver at the Rossi mansion for fourteen months.
I lowered myself to the carpet several feet from the desk and kept my movements slow. The room smelled faintly of dust and the clean cotton of his blankets. Somewhere beyond the closed windows, Chicago continued in its ordinary way, but inside the bedroom every small sound had become dangerous: the settling floorboards, the soft scrape of my sleeve, the uneven click of the lamp chain against the shade.
I placed my hand palm-up on the carpet.
For several seconds, Finn did not move. His eyes stayed fixed on my fingers. Then his hand emerged from the dark beneath the desk, small and trembling. He touched the tip of one finger to mine, withdrew, and touched me again. When I kept my hand still, he wrapped his fingers around it.
His weight shifted forward all at once. His shoulder struck the edge of the desk, and he folded out from beneath it as though whatever had held him there had finally loosened. I caught him before his knees hit the carpet. His hair was damp against my neck when I pulled him against my chest.
I held him without rocking. Rocking would have made the chair beside us bump the desk, and I could not risk another sudden sound. His hands gripped the back of my blouse. His breath shook through the fabric.
“Don't leave me.”
The words were quiet, but they changed the room. I tightened my arms around him and kept my face against his hair. The nightmare, the scream, and whatever had driven him beneath the desk remained outside the reach of anything I could name. I could only keep my breathing even and let him borrow it.
After a while, I shifted him carefully onto my hip. The fallen lamp stayed where it was. I did not reach for it. I did not touch the toy box or the blanket spilling from the bed. The bedroom had become a map of things to avoid, and Finn watched every object as if it might suddenly betray him.
At the doorway, I paused. The hallway beyond was dim, leading toward the kitchen. No footsteps came from it. No one called Finn’s name. The silence should have reassured me, but it felt arranged, like a door held shut from the other side.
I carried him out.
The kitchen lights were brighter than the bedroom’s, reflecting off the marble island and the polished floor. A chipped coffee mug stood near the island’s edge, visible in the clean brightness, its broken rim turned toward me. I noticed it and moved no closer.
Victor Rossi stood beside the island. His charcoal jacket was rumpled, his white shirt open at the throat. His jaw was bruised darkly along one side, and his knuckles were bloodied. He looked up when I entered, gray eyes fixing first on Finn and then on me.
Finn pressed his face into my shoulder.
May you like
Victor’s gaze did not soften. “You think you're important?”
I stopped just inside the kitchen, still holding Finn. Behind me, the bedroom door remained open. Ahead of me, Victor blocked the quiet center of the house, and the next decision waited between us.
