Chương 7
“No.”
There it was.
Not murder.
Not an accident either.
Something uglier because it was ordinary.
Impatience.
Resentment.
A child’s caution treated as inconvenience.
Nathan asked, “Why?”
Victoria pressed her lips together.
“She had been questioning everything all morning.”
“That’s your answer?”
“She kept asking if I was sure. About the train time. About her backpack. About the cookie. About whether you were coming back from the restroom. She kept looking at me like I was lying.”
“Were you?”
“Not about those things.”
Nathan sat on the edge of Grace’s bed.
Victoria continued, “I was angry.”
“At her?”
“Yes.”
“For not trusting you?”
Victoria said nothing.
Nathan looked at the small red indentation on the carpet where Grace’s desk chair usually sat.
The chair was pushed near the window.
He had never noticed that before.
“Why did you kick the case?”
Victoria covered her mouth.
For several seconds she couldn’t answer.
When she finally spoke, the words came slowly.
“She reached for it before she was having trouble breathing.”
Nathan frowned.
“What?”
“She said her mouth felt weird. I told her she was fine. Then she reached for the case.”
“And?”
“I thought she was proving a point.”
Nathan stared.
“She had been saying all day that I didn’t listen.”
His voice went quiet.
“So you decided not to listen.”
Victoria sank onto the desk chair.
“I moved it.”
“You kicked it under a bench.”
“Yes.”
“And told her to earn the right to breathe.”
Victoria shut her eyes.
“I said something horrible.”
“You meant it.”
“No.”
“You said it while she was struggling.”
“I was angry.”
Nathan stood.
“That is not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He zipped the bag.
Victoria watched him.
“Nathan.”
He lifted the bag.
“I need the storage address.”
“I’ll text it.”
“Now.”
She did.
He checked the message.
A facility fifteen minutes away.
He walked toward the door.
Victoria said, “There’s something else.”
Nathan stopped.
She remained seated.
“The missing picture.”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t take it.”
He waited.
“Grace did.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in her backpack yesterday.”
Nathan frowned.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He left without answering.
At Sarah’s house, Grace was drawing at the dining table.
Nathan put the bag by the stairs.
“Hey.”
She looked up.
“Hey.”
“Can I check your backpack?”
Her expression changed instantly.
Fear.
Nathan hated how quickly it appeared.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Grace looked at Sarah.
Sarah continued cutting carrots at the counter and did not intervene.
Grace slowly handed over the backpack.
Nathan opened the front pocket.
Pencils.
A folded tissue.
Two plastic bracelets.
Nothing.
He opened the main compartment.
Books.
Lunch box.
Purple folder.
Then, inside the zippered tablet sleeve, he found the photograph.
Emily holding Grace as a baby.
Nathan remembered taking it.
A hospital room.
Emily exhausted.
Grace furious at being alive.
Nathan sat down.
“Why did you take this?”
Grace looked toward the window.
“Victoria said she was cleaning.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“You thought she would throw it away?”
Grace shrugged.
Nathan put the photograph on the table.
“She says she didn’t touch the other one.”
Grace looked at him.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I took it before she came in.”
Nathan stared at her.
“So you hid it because you thought she might.”
Grace nodded.
Sarah stopped cutting carrots.
Nathan asked, “Did Victoria ever throw away something of your mom’s?”
“No.”
“Did she threaten to?”
Grace hesitated.
“No.”
Nathan leaned back.
This mattered.
He could not turn Victoria into the explanation for every fear simply because he was furious.
“Okay.”
Grace watched him carefully.
“You’re not mad?”
“I don’t love that you hid it and didn’t tell me.”
Her shoulders fell.
“But I understand why you were scared.”
Grace nodded.
Nathan placed the photograph beside her drawing.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the phone yesterday?”
She looked down.
“Victoria said you’d be mad.”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I read it.”
Nathan waited.
Grace traced a crayon line with her finger.
“And because she said you didn’t like talking about Mom.”
That hurt because it was partly true.
Nathan had talked about Emily.
He had answered questions.
He had shown photographs.
But there were limits Grace had learned without him saying them.
Certain nights when he changed the subject.
Certain questions he answered too quickly.
Certain memories he cleaned up before handing them over.
“What do you think I don’t like talking about?”
Grace shrugged.
“How she died.”
Nathan looked at Sarah.
Sarah looked away.
He said, “That’s hard for me.”
Grace nodded as if confirming something she had known.
“But you can ask.”
“Anything?”
Nathan swallowed.
“Anything.”
Grace looked at the photograph.
“Did she know she was going to die?”
The question landed without warning.
Children did that.
Adults spent years building roads around pain.
Children walked straight through the field.
Nathan sat beside her.
“No.”
“Was she scared?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you there?”
“No.”
Grace’s face changed.
She had never asked that before.
Nathan continued.
“She was at work. She got sick very fast. The people with her called for help.”
“Did she say my name?”
Nathan’s throat closed.
He could have lied.
A kind lie.
A beautiful lie.
He had almost done it before.
“I don’t know.”
Grace stared at the photograph.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
That was all.
Nathan realized Victoria had been right about one thing.
Emily was still inside the marriage.
Not as competition.
As unfinished grief.
The difference mattered.
So did what Victoria had done with it.
That afternoon Nathan went to the storage facility with Sarah.
The unit was small and climate-controlled.
Victoria had texted the access code without argument.
Nathan unlocked it.
Inside were six boxes.
Not one.
He recognized only two.
Emily’s belongings filled one.
The others belonged to Nathan.
Old framed photographs.
Books.
A coffee mug from his first apartment.
A box of Christmas ornaments.
His college sweatshirt.
Sarah stared.
“What is all this?”
Nathan opened a box.
May you like
More things.
Objects that had disappeared so gradually he had never noticed their disappearance as a pattern.
