Chapter 1 - THE BRASS KEY AROUND CELESTE’S NECKMy fiancée dragged my seven-year-old daughter across the upstairs landing by the wrist and threw her stuffed rabbit down the marble staircase.
I saw the rabbit first.
It bounced off three steps before landing at my shoes.
Pink fabric.
One torn ear.
A faded blue ribbon my late wife had sewn around its neck six years earlier.
Then I heard Sophie crying.
“He chose me,” Celeste said from above. “You’re the baggage.”
I looked up.
Sophie was barefoot in her pale-pink dress, reaching desperately toward the stairs.
Celeste had one hand wrapped around her wrist.
Diamond earrings.
Emerald gown.
Perfect hair.
She looked less like someone losing her temper than someone enforcing a decision.
“Sophie?”
My daughter saw me.
Her entire face changed.
“Daddy!”
She stretched both arms toward me.
Then screamed the sentence that cracked my life open.
“Daddy… don’t let her lock me up again.”
Again.
I stopped halfway up the first step.
Not tonight.
Not one argument.
Again.
Celeste immediately pulled Sophie closer.
“She lies whenever she wants attention.”
My daughter physically shrank from her face.
I had seen Sophie do that before.
At dinner.
In the car.
Whenever Celeste corrected her.
I had called it embarrassment.
Suddenly I wasn't sure.
I ran upstairs.
Celeste scooped Sophie into her arms and backed along the railing.
Not comforting her.
Keeping her from me.
“Put her down.”
“Grant, stop being dramatic.”
“Put my daughter down.”
Sophie twisted toward me.
That was when her eyes moved past Celeste.
Toward a narrow bedroom door behind them.
Heavy brass padlock.
Then I noticed the necklace hanging against Celeste’s throat.
Not jewelry.
A brass key.
Same finish.
Same old-fashioned cut.
I had seen that key around her neck for months.
She told me it belonged to an antique jewelry chest.
I had never asked.
Why would I?
I took Sophie from her.
Celeste resisted for half a second.
Then released.
My daughter wrapped herself around me so tightly I could feel her heartbeat against my ribs.
I reached for Celeste’s necklace.
She grabbed the key.
“No.”
One word.
Too fast.
Too frightened.
“What is behind that door?”
“Storage.”
“Then why can't I open it?”
“Grant.”
I pulled the key from her hand.
She lunged.
I blocked her with my forearm.
Not a strike.
Just enough to keep her away.
The key fit.
The padlock opened.
Celeste stopped breathing.
I kicked the door inward.
The room was dark.
I reached for the switch.
Three large suitcases sat against the wall.
Sophie's suitcases.
Her name tags already attached.
Beside them were cardboard boxes.
Her books.
Her winter clothes.
Photographs.
A framed picture of Sophie with her mother.
The music box Mara had given her before she died.
And on top of one suitcase was a thick white folder.
LAKEHURST RESIDENTIAL ACADEMY.
Admission planning.
Behavioral intake.
Tentative arrival:
Monday.
Three days away.
I stared at Celeste.
Sophie buried her face against my chest.
Then whispered:
“She said you wanted me gone before the wedding.”
I closed my eyes.
I had never said that.
Not once.
Celeste backed toward the stairs.
“Grant, I can explain.”
I picked up Sophie’s rabbit from where I had tucked it under my arm.
Then looked at the suitcases again.
Everything was packed except my daughter.
I turned toward Celeste.
“You packed the wrong person.”
Her face went white.
And I still did not know the worst thing inside that room.
Because behind the suitcases was a small wooden box containing thirty-one letters in my handwriting.
Every one addressed to Sophie.
May you like
Every one unopened.
Letters I had been told she no longer wanted.
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