Chapter 2
The sound from upstairs broke the party open.
Glasses slipped from hands.
Someone screamed.
The string quartet stopped mid-note.
Ryan turned toward the staircase like the voice had reached through time and grabbed him by the throat.
“Dad?” he whispered.
Diane shoved past him.
“No one moves.”
Her voice was no longer elegant.
No longer grieving.
No longer the polished hostess with diamonds at her throat.
It was sharp.
Raw.
Terrified.
I held Lily against me and stepped away from her.
The gold watch was still clutched in Lily’s fist.
Diane’s eyes never left it.
“Emily,” she said quietly. “Give me the watch.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I understand my daughter is bleeding because she hugged a man you told us was dead.”
Ryan looked at me.
Then at Lily.
For once, shame crossed his face.
“Lily,” he said, voice shaking. “Did you see Grandpa?”
Lily nodded.
“He was in the blue room.”
Diane snapped, “Stop questioning her.”
Ryan flinched like a child.
That told me more than any confession.
For our whole marriage, I thought Ryan was simply too loyal to his mother.
Now I saw something worse.
He was afraid of her.
The older man who had called police stepped forward.
His name was Harold, one of Frank’s retired business partners.
“I’m going upstairs.”
Diane blocked the staircase.
“This is my home.”
Harold looked at her with disgust.
“It was Frank’s home first.”
The weak knock came again.
Three slow taps.
Lily whimpered.
“Grandpa scared.”
That moved Ryan.
Finally.
He walked toward the stairs.
Diane grabbed his sleeve.
“If you open that door, you destroy this family.”
Ryan looked down at her hand.
Then slowly pulled free.
“No,” he said. “If Dad is in there, you already did.”
Diane slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Ryan froze.
Everyone froze.
I had seen Diane humiliate him.
Correct him.
Control him.
But I had never seen her hit him.
His cheek reddened.
He stared at her like something inside him had broken loose.
Then he climbed the stairs.
I followed with Lily.
Harold and two other men followed behind us.
Diane screamed from below.
“Ryan, stop!”
He did not.
At the top of the stairs, the blue sitting room waited at the end of the hall.
The door was locked.
Painted a soft blue that looked almost sweet.
A brass keyhole shone under the wall light.
Ryan reached into his pocket.
His hand shook.
“You have a key?” I asked.
He did not look at me.
“Mom gave it to me after the funeral.”
My stomach turned.
“And you never used it?”
“She said it was for emergencies only.”
I stared at him.
“Your father’s voice behind the door feels like an emergency.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
He put the key into the lock.
From downstairs, Diane shrieked, “Ryan!”
He turned it.
The lock clicked.
The smell hit first.
Stale air.
Medicine.
Sweat.
Old wood.
Ryan pushed the door open.
The room was dim.
Curtains nailed shut.
Furniture covered in sheets.
A hospital bed stood where Diane’s velvet sofa used to be.
And in that bed lay Frank Whitmore.
Alive.
Thin as paper.
Gray-haired.
Bearded.
His eyes sunken but open.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Ryan made a sound I will never forget.
Not a word.
Not a cry.
Something from a son who had buried his father and found him breathing.
“Dad.”
Frank turned his head.
His lips trembled.
“Ryan.”
Ryan stumbled forward and fell to his knees beside the bed.
He grabbed his father’s hand.
It looked like bones wrapped in skin.
“I thought you were dead.”
Frank’s eyes filled.
“She told you?”
Ryan shook his head like he could not understand the question.
“We had a funeral.”
Frank closed his eyes.
A tear rolled down his temple.
Lily lifted her head from my shoulder.
“Grandpa.”
Frank looked at her.
His whole face softened.
“My little angel.”
Ryan turned to me.
“You brought her up here?”
I looked at Lily.
She whispered, “I followed the music.”
“What music?”
“The little box.”
Frank’s eyes moved toward the nightstand.
A tiny music box sat there.
Its lid was open.
Diane must have forgotten it.
Or maybe Frank had managed to wind it.
Maybe that soft song had called my daughter to the only locked door in the house.
Harold stepped into the room and cursed under his breath.
“Frank, my God.”
Frank tried to speak.
His voice came out rough.
“Police.”
“They’re coming,” I said.
Diane appeared behind us, breathless.
Her face was wild now.
“Everyone out.”
Ryan stood slowly.
“Mom.”
“Out.”
“You told me he died.”
“He was dead to the world.”
Harold turned on her.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Diane pointed at Frank.
“He was going to ruin us.”
Frank’s fingers tightened around Ryan’s hand.
“She drugged me.”
The room went still.
Diane laughed.
“He is confused. He has dementia.”
Frank whispered, “No.”
Ryan’s face crumpled.
“Dad?”
Frank looked at him.
“She faked papers. Said I signed. Said I needed private care. Then she told everyone I died.”
Diane screamed, “Liar!”
Lily began crying again.
I backed into the hallway with her.
The police sirens wailed outside.
Diane heard them.
Her eyes darted to the staircase.
Then to the watch in Lily’s hand.
Then to Frank.
She moved fast.
Too fast.
She lunged toward the nightstand and grabbed a small bottle.
Harold shouted.
Ryan reached for her.
Diane twisted away and held the bottle over Frank’s IV line.
“Don’t come closer.”
My blood froze.
Ryan stopped.
“Mom, put it down.”
Her voice shook with rage.
“You think he’s innocent? You think this saint in the bed didn’t betray me?”
Frank closed his eyes.
Diane’s hand trembled over the line.
“He wanted to leave me with nothing.”
Police footsteps thundered downstairs.
I held Lily tight.
Ryan took one slow step.
“Mom. Please.”
Diane looked at him.
For a second, I saw something like grief.
Then it vanished.
“I did all of this for you.”
Ryan’s voice broke.
“No. You did it for yourself.”
May you like
Her face twisted.
And the bottle slipped from her hand.
