Chapter 2: After the Song Stopped
The flour didn't move. Neither did anyone else.
He stepped into the kitchen fully and the light from the glass-front cabinets caught the edge of his black jacket. He didn't come to the island. He stopped about six feet away, near the end of the marble counter where the tray of croissants sat, and slid his hands into his pockets like he was trying to make himself smaller. I could see the 218 on his throat jump when he swallowed.
His eyes went to the girls first, then to me. My hands were still dusty with flour. I'd left them hovering over the glass bowl.
"Girls," he said. His voice was low and even. Too even. "You were singing just now."
None of them answered. The youngest had her white apron twisted in her fist. The oldest had moved half a step behind my hip, close enough that I felt the heat of her shoulder through my uniform dress. The middle one stared at the bowl on the island like if she looked hard enough she could disappear into it.
He took a breath through his nose and tried again. "That was beautiful. Can you do it again for Dad? Just the first part?"
The silence that followed was different from fourteen months of quiet. This was active. This was holding.
I felt the oldest girl's fingers find the back of my apron and clutch.
He looked at me then. Really looked at me. "Grace."
I nodded. My throat was dry.
"What did she say?" he asked. He kept his tone controlled, but his jaw was tight. "Right before I came in. One of them was talking."
This was the moment to decide. The words were still ringing in my ears, clear as anything. He's still here. And then the other part, the thing I'd said out loud because I didn't know what else to do with it — someone connected to their mother's disappearance may still be inside this house. If I repeated it exactly, word for word, in front of them, I knew what would happen. They would shut down completely. He might panic or get angry, and they would feel it.
I chose to blur it.
"She was whispering," I said quietly. I kept my voice soft, the way I did when they couldn't sleep. "I think... I think she was scared. She said she didn't like that someone might be here. That's all."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. It was a softened edge. I didn't say who he was. I didn't say the word disappearance again.
His eyes narrowed just slightly. He didn't believe me, or not fully. He glanced back at the girls, and I saw his hands flex inside his pockets.
"Which one said it?" he asked.
I didn't answer right away. The oldest pressed closer. I put my flour-dusted hand very lightly on her back, not pushing, just there.
"Grace," he said again, a little sharper this time.
"It was quiet," I said. "They were all close together. I didn't want to make a big deal and scare them. They just started singing and then they got nervous when you came in."
That landed. His shoulders dropped a fraction and then he caught himself and straightened again. He looked at the glass bowl, at the scattered flour, at the perfect little pastries we'd made that morning, like he was trying to anchor himself to something normal.
"Okay," he said. He crouched down slowly, keeping his distance, knees cracking faintly. He tried to smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Hey, monkeys. It's just Dad. No one's in trouble. You sounded so good. You don't have to sing again if you don't want to."
The youngest shook her head and buried her face against my leg. The other two stared at him without blinking.
He stayed crouched for a few seconds, then stood. The restrained look from the doorway was back, that stern, intense stillness. He looked at me over their heads.
"Put them down for nap," he said. It wasn't a question. "Normal routine. Then come to my office. We need to talk privately. Don't... don't bring them."
My stomach turned over.
"Yes, sir," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
He didn't move right away. He looked at the girls one more time, like he was memorizing them in case they changed again while he was gone. Then he turned and walked back toward the hallway, his shoes quiet on the kitchen floor. He didn't look back.
The second he was gone around the corner, the middle girl let out a breath she must have been holding the whole time. It shuddered.
I knelt down then, flour getting on the knees of my dress, and opened my arms just enough that they could come in if they wanted. They did, all three at once, crowding against my apron. Their pink floral dresses were dusty at the hems where they'd brushed the island. I could smell the butter from the croissants and the faint powder of the flour on their hands.
"It's okay," I whispered. "We're just going to have quiet time, like always. That's all."
None of them spoke. The singing was gone like it had never happened, tucked back behind whatever wall they'd built for fourteen months. The oldest looked up at me, her eyes wide and wet, and I understood she was telling me without words not to tell him the rest.
I nodded once, small enough that only she would see it.
May you like
"Come on," I said softly, and eased us up. I left the bowl and the tray exactly where they were. The kitchen was still bright, still luxurious and warm, but it didn't feel warm anymore.
I guided them toward the hallway, my hand light on each back as we passed the spot where he'd stood, and I could feel his expectation waiting for me down the hall in that office after nap time.
