Chapter 1
I did not pull the speaker cord from the wall because I wanted to ruin my father’s party.
I did it because nobody would listen.
Not my father.
Not my aunt.
Not the neighbors smiling with champagne glasses in their hands.
Not the women telling me I was getting too old for tantrums.
And definitely not Drea.
My stepmother.
The woman who had spent eighteen months telling everyone my mother had walked out on us.
That night, my father’s house was full of people.
It was his housewarming party.
A fresh start, Drea called it.
She said it loudly near the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around my father’s arm, her wedding ring flashing under the lights.
“A new home,” she said. “A new life.”
Everyone smiled.
I wanted to scream.
Because I had heard the knocking again.
Three nights in a row.
Soft.
Far away.
Coming from the pool house behind the garden.
Knock.
Knock.
Always two knocks.
Every time I told Drea, her face changed.
Not scared.
Angry.
“Stop making up stories,” she snapped. “Your mother is gone, Calla. She left. You need to accept it.”
But I never accepted it.
I could not.
My mother would never leave without saying goodbye.
She would never leave her blue scarf behind.
She would never miss my birthday.
She would never stop calling me “moonbug” when I cried.
So when the music got loud and everyone started laughing, I ran to the speaker by the wall.
I grabbed the black cord.
And I pulled.
The music died with a sharp crackle.
Every head turned.
Drea’s smile vanished.
“Calla,” my father said. “What are you doing?”
I stood there shaking.
My cheeks were burning.
My heart was beating so hard I could hear it.
“Listen!” I shouted. “Just listen!”
Someone laughed awkwardly.
Drea crossed the room fast.
“Sweetheart, you’re overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed!”
My voice broke.
“I heard it again.”
Dad stepped toward me.
“Heard what?”
Before I could answer, the room went still.
Because this time, everyone heard it.
Knock.
Knock.
It came from outside.
From the direction of the pool house.
Soft.
But clear.
My father turned toward the glass doors.
Drea stopped moving.
Her face went white.
I pointed.
“There.”
Nobody laughed now.
Dad opened the sliding door and stepped onto the patio.
I followed him.
Drea grabbed my arm.
I yanked free.
“Don’t touch me.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Calla, go upstairs.”
“No.”
Dad turned.
“Drea, let her come.”
“She’s making this worse,” Drea said quickly. “It’s probably pipes.”
The knocking came again.
Knock.
Knock.
Not pipes.
Not wind.
Not my imagination.
My father walked across the patio, past the glowing pool, toward the small white pool house at the edge of the yard.
Guests gathered behind us.
Their whispers followed like insects.
My bare feet slapped against the stone.
When we reached the door, Dad tried the handle.
Locked.
He frowned.
“Why is this locked?”
Drea said, “Because there are cleaning supplies inside.”
I knocked.
Once.
Twice.
My knuckles barely touched the wood.
For one horrible second, nothing happened.
Then two knocks came back.
From inside.
I stopped breathing.
Dad stared at the door.
Drea stepped in front of him.
“Ethan, don’t.”
My father looked at her.
“What did you say?”
“I mean don’t scare Calla more. This is clearly some kind of trick.”
I pressed both palms to the door.
“Someone is in there.”
Drea grabbed my shoulder.
“Move.”
I planted my feet.
“No.”
Dad’s voice changed.
Low.
Hard.
“Open the door.”
Drea blinked.
“I don’t have the key.”
“You designed this entire house renovation.”
“I said I don’t have it.”
Dad turned toward the security guard near the patio.
“Break it.”
Drea lunged forward.
“Ethan!”
The guard kicked the lock.
Once.
Twice.
The door burst open.
The smell hit first.
Damp wood.
Dust.
Fear.
Then I saw her.
My mother was sitting on the floor against the far wall.
Her wrists were wrapped in cloth.
Her hair was tangled around her face.
Her cheeks were hollow.
But her eyes were open.
Alive.
Terrified.
Looking straight at me.
“Calla,” she whispered.
The world disappeared.
I ran.
“Mom!”
I fell into her arms, and she held me like she had been holding on to that one moment for eighteen months.
She was shaking.
I was crying so hard I could not speak.
Her hand touched my hair.
“My moonbug,” she whispered.
Behind me, people gasped.
Someone screamed.
Someone said, “Oh my God.”
But my father did not cry.
Not yet.
He stood in the doorway, frozen.
Staring at Drea.
Because Drea had told him my mother left us.
Drea had told the police my mother was unstable.
Drea had helped my father pack away every picture.
Drea had moved into my mother’s bedroom.
And now my mother was alive in the locked pool house.
My father’s voice came out broken.
“Drea.”
Drea took one step back.
“I can explain.”
But nobody believed her anymore.
Not after the knocks.
Not after the locked door.
May you like
Not after my mother lifted her trembling hand, pointed at Drea, and whispered,
“She put me here.”
