Chapter 6
We took Maisie to the hospital.
Vivian came with us.
Still in her wedding dress.
The nurses stared, but no one asked foolish questions.
Maisie’s cheek was bruised.
Her wrist had older marks.
Not from the slap.
From gripping.
Pulling.
Control.
The doctor asked gently, “Has anyone hurt you before?”
Maisie looked at Vivian.
Then at me.
“Do I have to go back if I tell?”
Vivian covered her mouth.
I knelt beside the bed.
“No.”
Maisie whispered, “Miss Portia locks me in the linen room when I ask about Mama.”
Vivian turned away and sobbed.
I stayed still.
Because Maisie needed stillness more than my rage.
Detective Harris recorded everything with a child advocate present.
Maisie told them about Portia.
About the locked room.
About being told she was lucky to sleep near “real family.”
Then she said something that made the detective pause.
“Grandma Rose used to sing through the wall.”
Cedric’s mother.
Vivian’s grandmother.
The woman who wrote the letter.
“She sang to you?” I asked.
Maisie nodded.
“She said if the vase ever broke, I should run to the man with the black ring.”
I looked at my hand.
My father’s black onyx ring.
I had worn it since his funeral.
Maisie touched it with one finger.
“She said he would know my face.”
I did.
May you like
Not because I remembered her.
Because blood and grief have their own terrible memory.
