Chapter 1: Sunshine on the Marble Island
The flour was everywhere and that was the point. I had let them make a mess.
Late morning light came through the glass-front cabinets and hit the marble island so it looked almost white. The glass bowl was half empty, a fine dusting over the counter, over my hands, over their little white aprons. The tray of croissants sat at the far end, untouched and cooling. Three girls in pink floral dresses stood shoulder to shoulder at the island, their light hair pulled back, their hands deep in flour. For fourteen months I had watched them not speak, and that morning they were clapping on beat.
I had started singing under my breath without thinking about it, just to fill the quiet the way I always did. My hair was coming loose from my messy bun, my gray dress with the white collar was powdered at the front, and I didn't fix any of it. The kitchen was warm and bright and for a few seconds it felt like a normal house. He was not supposed to be home before noon and the kitchen was ours.
That morning I was the housekeeper who had stayed.
I sang it first, soft, and they joined me. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine." Their voices were small and uneven and perfectly in tune with each other. The middle one giggled when her hands puffed flour into the air. The oldest clapped and looked at me to make sure I was still singing. I was. I could feel my own throat tighten because I knew exactly how long it had been since I'd heard any of them make a sound on purpose.
I kept my hands in the bowl and watched their mouths form the words. Moment by moment. The youngest reached for my flour-covered fingers and pressed hers against mine. The flour was cold between our palms. Their aprons were dusted white. The sun caught the edge of the glass bowl. I didn't hear the hallway at first because their singing was louder than anything else in that house had been in over a year.
He appeared in the hallway behind us.
I saw him in the reflection of the glass cabinet before I saw him directly, a black shape moving toward the kitchen. Short spiked dark hair, stubble, black suit jacket over a black shirt. His neck tattoo was visible even at a distance, the numbers 218 dark against his throat. He stopped in the doorway and didn't come any further. His face did something I had never seen before. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly and he just breathed.
"They they're talking? 14 months. Why now?" His voice was low and restrained, like he was trying not to scare them.
The song stopped. The girls' hands stilled in the flour. I felt the shift before I saw it, the way their little shoulders tensed and their smiles dropped at the same time. The warm light was still there but the air in the kitchen had gone thin. I turned my body a few inches so I was between him and the island without looking like I was moving at all. My hands were still white with flour.
The oldest girl leaned into my side. Her apron brushed my dress. She tipped her head up and whispered it right against my sleeve, so quiet I felt her breath more than I heard her. "Grace, he's still here."
I must have gone pale because I felt the blood leave my face. I looked down at her and then at him, and I knew he had not heard her. He was staring at the three of them like he was afraid blinking would make them go mute again.
"What did you say?" he asked, and he was looking at me now. His stern expression was still there but it was cracked, his gaze locked on mine.
May you like
I had a choice in that half second whether to pretend I hadn't heard, to lie and say she said nothing, to buy time. I didn't. My voice came out quiet and even, repeating exactly what she had given me because it was the only thing I could do to keep her words from disappearing. "She said someone connected to their mother's disappearance may still be inside this house."
The flour settled on the marble. No one moved. His eyes stayed on mine and I held his stare, my flour-dusted hands hovering just behind the girls' backs, my protective stance fixed while the doorway behind him stayed open and empty.
