Chapter 2 - The Flashbulb and the Flash Drive
"Just a minute, Brooke!" I called out, my voice cutting through the door with an edge I didn't bother to disguise.
"Oh, take your time, Mom!" Brooke’s response was immediate, but I heard the shift in her footsteps—she didn't walk away. She lingered right outside the drywall, her shadow stretching under the crack of the door like a dark tongue.
I looked down at Maisie. The little girl pressed herself flat against the side of the porcelain tub, clutching the memory card in her fist so hard her knuckles were white.
"Keep that," I whispered, sliding my own hand over hers and tucking the memory card deep into the secret inner pocket of my cardigan. "Hold onto my thumb instead. Whatever happens out there, you do not let go of my hand."
She nodded frantically, her tears finally spilling over.
I stood up, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.
Brooke was standing right there, her hand still raised as if she had been about to knock again. Her smile was firmly pinned in place, but her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were scanning the room, darting past me to check the window, the trash can, the counter.
"Everything okay in here?" Brooke asked, her voice dropping an octave, losing its public music. "You look a little pale, Helen."
"I'm fine, Brooke. Just a touch of the heat," I said, stepping past her into the hallway. I kept my body positioned between her and the open bathroom door, shielding Maisie from view. "Where’s Adam?"
"At the grill. Doing his job," Brooke snapped softly, stepping closer so her floral perfume overpowered the lemon cleaner. "You know how he gets when people critique his timing. Why did you lock the door?"
"I didn't lock it. It clicked," I lied smoothly, staring right into her face. For months, everyone had whispered about Brooke’s controlling streaks, how she had isolated Adam from his old friends, how she managed every penny, every text, every weekend visit. But what was sitting on that memory card in my pocket wasn't just marital control. It was something darker. Something hidden in a basement.
"Well," Brooke said, her smile returning like a snap-on plastic piece. "Get Maisie out here. The backyard is waiting. The photographer is charging us by the hour, and Adam will lose his mind if we miss the golden hour light."
She turned on her heel, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
Out in the backyard, the music swelled. A country song about old trucks and simple summers bounced off the neighbor's brick wall.
When Maisie and I stepped out onto the patio, the heat hit us like a physical blow. Adam was standing by the smoking grill, tongs in hand, laughing loudly at a joke from his brother-in-law.
"There’s the birthday girl!" Adam called out, finally looking over. His eyes landed on Maisie, still in her cotton dress, still clutching my thumb. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just a micro-expression of guilt before he smoothed it over with smoke and bluster. "What’s the deal, sweet pea? No swim yet? Uncle Dave brought the giant water slide."
"She said her stomach hurts, Adam," I said loudly, letting my voice carry across the patio.
The laughter around the cooler died down just a notch. My sister-in-law stopped mid-sentence with a paper plate of potato salad in her hand.
Brooke’s head whipped around, her eyes flashing a silent, deadly warning. Don't.
"She’s fine," Adam barked, slamming the metal spatula down on the side tray. "She’s just being dramatic. Brooke, take her inside and change her. Now."
"No," I said.
The word dropped onto the patio like a lead weight.
The music seemed to lower itself. Adam stared at me, the grill smoke swirling around his face, blurring his features into something unrecognizable.
May you like
"What did you say, Mom?" Adam asked, his voice low, dangerously quiet.
"I said no," I repeated, stepping forward onto the wet concrete. "She isn't swimming today. And before anyone takes another picture, we need to talk about what’s down in your basement."
