Part 1
The scream cut through the growl of my lawn mower so sharply that, for one stupid second, I thought the blade had struck an animal.
Then I recognized my daughter’s voice.
I released the handle. The engine died in the middle of the front lawn, leaving a ringing silence behind it. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked. A sprinkler clicked across a neighbor’s grass.
Then Lily screamed again.
“Dad!”
I ran.
The front door was open because I had been going in and out for water. I took the porch steps in one jump, nearly slipping on the grass stuck to my work boots.
“Lily?”
Cartoons played to an empty living room. A bowl of cereal sat on the coffee table, the milk turning gray around the floating loops. One of Lily’s pink socks lay near the stairs.
I heard a muffled sob from the hallway.
Her bedroom door was half closed.
I shoved it open.
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My mother-in-law, Marlene Whitaker, was kneeling on the floor with one hand pressed over Lily’s mouth. Her other hand gripped my nine-year-old daughter’s shoulder so hard that the skin around her fingers had gone white.
Lily was pinned beneath her, kicking uselessly against the rug.
Marlene’s carefully styled silver hair had fallen across her forehead. Her face looked nothing like the composed woman who corrected my table manners and complained about dust on my baseboards.
It was wild.
Desperate.
“If you tell Daddy,” she hissed, leaning close to Lily’s face, “your mother won’t wake up next time.”
I crossed the room before I even realized I had moved.
I grabbed Marlene beneath the arms and pulled her away. She weighed almost nothing, but she fought me for half a second, twisting toward Lily as if she still needed to finish whatever she had started.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Her expression changed instantly.
The fury disappeared. Her shoulders relaxed. Her mouth tightened into offended dignity.
“Ethan, let go of me.”
I released her, but I stayed between her and Lily.
Behind me, my daughter scrambled backward until she hit the wall. She pulled her knees to her chest. Her purple unicorn shirt was stretched at the collar, and angry red marks were already rising on her shoulder.
Marlene smoothed her blouse.
“You’re overreacting,” she said. “Lily threw a tantrum. I was trying to calm her.”
“You had your hand over her mouth.”
“She was screaming.”
“She was screaming because you were on top of her.”
Marlene gave a brittle laugh.
“You know how dramatic children can be.”
Lily made a sound behind me, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
I turned slightly. “Sweetheart, what happened?”
Marlene answered before she could.
“Nothing happened.”
“I asked Lily.”
“She misunderstood a private conversation.”
My daughter’s face was so pale that the freckles across her nose stood out like brown paint.
“Dad,” she whispered.
“I’m right here.”
“Check her purse.”
The room went still.
Marlene’s right hand moved toward the cream-colored handbag hanging from her shoulder.
It was a small movement, almost nothing.
But I saw fear flash across her face.
Not annoyance. Not insult.
Fear.
“My purse has nothing to do with this,” she said.
“Give it to me.”
“Absolutely not.”
I held out my hand.
“Give me the bag, Marlene.”
“You have no right to search my personal belongings.”
“I just found you pinning my daughter to the floor.”
“She was lying.”
“What did she lie about?”
Marlene opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
The cartoon characters in the living room burst into canned laughter. The sound drifted down the hallway, bright and stupid and completely wrong.
I pulled out my phone.
“I can call the police,” I said. “They can search it.”
Marlene stared at me.
Then her fingers loosened.
She shoved the purse into my chest.
“Fine. Humiliate yourself.”
The bag was heavier than I expected.
I placed it on Lily’s desk and opened it.
Inside were Marlene’s wallet, keys, tissues, a silver compact, and three small bottles.
Two carried the name of her husband, Walter Whitaker.
Walter had been dead for eight months.
The third label had been scraped until only a few letters remained.
I lifted it toward the window.
May you like
Marlene stopped breathing.
And behind me, Lily whispered, “That’s the bottle she used in Mom’s coffee.”
