Chương 6
"I know."
There was no excuse.
No sentence that could repair what happened.
Stallone had spent enough years around people to know the difference between regret and accountability.
Regret was feeling bad about consequences.
Accountability was accepting responsibility before consequences forced you.
"Why tell me this now?"
Claire looked toward the window.
"Because I saw her drawing."
Stallone said nothing.
"She drew you coming back."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"She never drew me as someone who hurt her."
The admission seemed to hurt her more than any accusation.
"She still wanted me to be good."
Stallone looked down.
That was the part about children adults often forgot.
Children did not begin with hatred.
They began with trust.
Adults taught them reasons to lose it.
"I cannot decide what happens next," he said.
Claire nodded.
"I know."
"You will have to answer for what you did."
"I know."
"But Mia's future cannot be built around your guilt."
Claire closed her eyes.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then she stood.
At the door, she stopped.
"Does she hate me?"
Stallone thought about the little girl asleep upstairs.
The child who still remembered a song but not the words.
The child who still drew people who had failed her.
"No."
Claire looked back.
"She is afraid of you."
The honesty hurt.
But it was the first honest thing either of them had shared.
Claire left without another word.
That night, Stallone found Mia sitting on the floor beside her bed.
She was holding the drawing again.
"What are you doing awake?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"Why?"
She looked at the picture.
"Because tomorrow changes things."
Stallone sat beside her.
"Yes."
"Are you going away?"
"No."
"Is Claire?"
He paused.
"I don't know."
Mia nodded slowly.
She looked at the drawing.
Then she folded it carefully.
Not perfectly.
Children rarely folded things perfectly.
But carefully.
"Can we keep it?"
"Keep what?"
"The hair."
Stallone looked at her.
"The hair from before."
He understood.
Not the damaged hair.
The memory attached to it.
"We can."
Mia placed the small envelope beside her bed.
Inside were a few strands Rosa had saved after cleaning the terrace.
A tiny piece of a time Mia was trying to understand.
Stallone turned off the light.
At the doorway, he stopped.
The house was quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
There was a difference.
And for the first time in many years, he was grateful for it.
The next morning, Mia woke up before anyone else.
She sat on the edge of the bed with her feet barely touching the floor and looked at the envelope beside her pillow.
She did not open it.
She did not touch it.
She simply looked at it for a long time.
Some memories were strange that way.
People often imagined children forgot painful moments quickly because they were young.
But children did not always forget.
Sometimes they carried things without having the words to explain what they were carrying.
When Rosa came to check on her, Mia was still sitting there.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
Mia looked up.
"Is Grandpa awake?"
Rosa smiled.
"He usually is before the sun decides what it wants to do."
Mia considered this.
"Does he sleep?"
"Sometimes."
"Why only sometimes?"
Rosa adjusted the blanket near Mia's feet.
"Because some people spend many years learning how to stay alert."
Mia frowned.
"That's sad."
Rosa looked at her carefully.
Children noticed more than adults expected.
"Sometimes it is."
Mia picked up the envelope.
"Can we put this somewhere safe?"
Rosa nodded.
"Where do you think?"
Mia looked around the room.
After a moment, she pointed toward the small wooden drawer beside the bed.
"Here."
Rosa opened it.
Inside were crayons, a small stuffed animal, and a collection of things that only made sense to a three-year-old.
A broken hair clip.
A smooth stone from the garden.
A sticker from a grocery store.
A ribbon.
Rosa smiled.
"You have quite a collection."
Mia placed the envelope carefully beside everything else.
"They are important."
Rosa did not ask why.
She understood that some things were important before people knew how to explain them.
Downstairs, Stallone was already in a meeting.
It was not about business.
It was about the investigation.
His attorney, Mark, sat across from him with a folder open on the table.
"We received the preliminary report."
Stallone looked up.
"And?"
"Nothing final yet."
He nodded.
He expected that.
"However, there are concerns about Claire's credibility."
"Because of Evelyn's statement?"
"Partly."
Mark tapped the folder.
"Also because Claire's timeline changed."
Stallone leaned back.
"Explain."
"Originally, she said the haircut was a response to a behavioral problem that happened immediately before."
"And?"
"Records show no argument with Mia that morning."
Stallone was quiet.
"How did they find that?"
"Security footage."
The answer made him look up.
"The terrace camera?"
"Yes."
Stallone frowned.
"I thought it was broken."
"It was."
Mark paused.
"Part of it was."
That caught his attention.
"The footage was incomplete, but enough was recovered."
Stallone stared at the folder.
A small detail.
A damaged camera.
A missing piece.
Information that almost never appeared by accident.
"Who knew it was working?"
Mark shook his head.
"That is something we are looking into."
Stallone did not like that answer.
Not because Mark was wrong.
Because the question itself created a new problem.
Someone at the mansion had known something they were not supposed to know.
Before he could respond, Mia entered the room carrying her stuffed rabbit.
The conversation stopped.
She looked between them.
"Am I interrupting?"
Mark smiled slightly.
"Yes."
Mia looked concerned.
"Should I leave?"
Stallone noticed the fear behind the question.
Not panic.
Not sadness.
A habit.
The habit of checking whether her presence was a problem.
"No."
He closed the folder.
"You are not interrupting."
She walked closer.
"Who was in trouble?"
Mark glanced at Stallone.
Stallone answered honestly.
"We are trying to understand what happened."
Mia looked at the folder.
May you like
"Can paper know?"
Mark smiled.
