Chapter 9
Maisie refused the family lounge for twelve days.
She called it the hot room.
I did not correct her.
The fireplace remained cold.
The iron guard stayed in place.
Nobody lit it.
She still walked around the corridor to avoid the doorway.
Fine.
Then one afternoon she stopped outside.
June stood beside her.
I was farther back.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Fire asleep?”
“Yes.”
She looked inside.
“Celeste gone?”
“Yes.”
“Gavin?”
“Yes.”
“Grandpa man?”
She meant Silas.
“Yes.”
She thought.
Then:
“June come?”
June looked at me.
I looked at Maisie.
“Do you want her?”
“Yes.”
So they entered together.
Not with me.
That mattered.
Maisie chose June as the safe person.
I followed five minutes later only after she called.
She stood near the piano—no, wrong room. Near the ottoman by the fireplace, staring at the grate.
“Hand hurt here.”
“I know.”
“Celeste said Daddy did.”
My chest tightened.
“But I didn’t.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
Simple.
That sentence nearly dropped me.
She knew.
Despite the plan.
Despite the threat.
Despite Celeste telling her what story to repeat.
My daughter knew who touched her.
Who came.
Who lifted her away.
Who believed her.
I crouched.
“You never have to say something happened if it didn’t.”
She frowned.
“Even grown-up says?”
“Especially then.”
June smiled slightly.
Maisie looked at the fireplace one more time.
Then:
“Can blanket?”
She wanted one from the rack.
June handed it over.
Maisie climbed onto the ottoman, wrapped herself like a tiny burrito, and asked for crackers.
May you like
The hot room became a snack room for eight minutes.
Progress.
