Chapter 2
Vanessa was on her knees on the floor. Her left arm was wrapped tightly around Lily’s waist, dragging my six-year-old daughter backward across the wood.
Vanessa’s right hand was clamped firmly, violently, over Lily’s mouth.
Lily’s eyes were wide. They were completely devoid of the little girl I knew. It was sheer, animal panic. Her face was flushed dark red, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her tiny hands were clawing frantically at Vanessa’s wrist, trying to peel the woman’s fingers away from her mouth.
Lily was kicking her feet, trying to anchor her sneakers against the floor, fighting with every ounce of strength in her forty-pound body to pull herself toward that heavy oak wardrobe.
“Stop it, you’re being hysterical,” Vanessa was hissing. Her voice wasn't the sweet, melodic tone she used at dinner. It was a low, ugly, venomous sound.
I didn't even realize I was moving.
I crossed the twenty feet of the room in two strides. I reached down, grabbed Vanessa’s forearm, and tore it away from my daughter’s face.
I didn't do it gently.
Vanessa gasped, falling backward onto her hands.
I pulled Lily behind my legs. The moment I did, she wrapped both her arms around my right knee. She gripped the heavy denim of my jeans so hard I could feel her small knuckles digging painfully into my calf. She was shaking. Her whole body was vibrating against my leg like a terrified stray dog.
I stared down at Vanessa. She was sitting on the floor, rubbing her wrist where my fingers had just dug in.
For one split second, the mask slipped. The patient, loving teacher vanished. Her eyes darted toward the wardrobe, then back to me, filled with a frantic, desperate calculation.
“Daniel,” she said, her voice instantly rising two octaves, finding its sweet, breathless pitch again. “You scared me.”
“Don’t you ever touch her like that again,” I said. My voice was dangerously quiet. I couldn't yell. If I yelled, I would lose whatever thin thread of control I had left.
Vanessa stood up, smoothing the front of her linen shirt. Her hands were trembling.
“Daniel, please, you’re misunderstanding,” she said, forcing a shaky laugh. “She’s having a massive tantrum. She was trying to play back here and there are exposed nails. I was just trying to pull her out of the room. She was screaming so loud I didn't want the neighbors to call the police.”
She took a step toward us.
I put my hand up. “Stop right there.”
I looked down at my daughter. Lily wasn't looking at Vanessa. She wasn't looking at me.
She was staring dead ahead at the massive oak wardrobe.
Her chest was heaving, pulling in ragged, wet breaths. She slowly raised a trembling finger, pointing straight at the heavy piece of furniture.
“Dad,” Lily gasped. Her voice was barely a whisper. It was raw, like she had been screaming for a long time before I walked in.
“I’m here, baby,” I said, resting my hand on the top of her head. “What is it?”
“Open that wall.”
Vanessa physically stepped into my line of sight, blocking my view of the wardrobe. The forced smile on her face was starting to crack at the edges.
“Daniel, we need to leave this room,” Vanessa said. Her breathing was suddenly very shallow. “The dust in here is terrible for her asthma. Let’s just go downstairs. I’ll make some tea. We can talk about behavior and boundaries.”
I looked at the woman I was supposed to marry.
I looked at her perfectly styled hair, her neat clothes, the familiar shape of her face. But standing in this dusty room, listening to her lie, I realized I didn't know her at all.
I had spent two years building a life with a woman who was capable of looking into my daughter's terrified eyes and feeling absolutely nothing.
“Move,” I said.
Vanessa planted her feet. Her jaw tightened. “Daniel. I am telling you as an educator and as your partner. Do not reward this behavior. It’s just old plumbing pipes behind that piece of furniture. The knocking sound is scaring her, that's all.”
She had given herself away.
I hadn't said anything about a knocking sound.
I stepped around Vanessa. She tried to grab my arm, but I shrugged her off so hard she stumbled into the doorframe.
I walked up to the oak wardrobe. It was easily eight feet tall and solid wood. When it was delivered, it took three professional movers to get it up the stairs.
I placed both my hands flat against the side of it. I dug the rubber soles of my work boots into the dusty hardwood floor, dropped my shoulder, and pushed.
The wood groaned. It didn't want to move. I pushed harder, feeling the muscles in my back burn.
Slowly, agonizingly, the heavy piece of furniture scraped across the floorboards. Dust billowed up into the stale air, catching in my throat. I shoved it about three feet to the left, exposing the wall behind it.
I stepped back, coughing into my elbow.
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Behind the wardrobe, there was no exposed plumbing. There were no rusty nails.
It was a section of drywall that had been roughly cut away. In its place was a thick, sloppy layer of fresh grey plaster. It was applied unevenly, like someone had been in a frantic hurry.
