Chapter 4 - The Mask SlipsThe garage door was closed. The only light came from a single fluorescent tube overhead, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the concrete floor.
Richard turned around, dusting off his hands with a light chuckle. "Alright, Harrison, where's this box you—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
I had stepped between him and the inner door, my back blocking his only exit. My arms were crossed, my face completely devoid of any warmth or son-like deference.
"There is no box, Dad," I said, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space.
Richard’s smile faltered, though he kept his posture upright, projecting an aura of aggrieved authority. "What is this nonsense, Harrison? Your mother is inside cutting cake. Cut the dramatics."
"Take off your jacket."
"Excuse me?"
"I said, take off your jacket." I took two deliberate steps forward, invading his personal space. "Now."
"Have you lost your mind?" Richard scoffed, puffing out his chest. "I raised you better than to speak to your father with this kind of disrespectful tone. What has gotten into you?"
"Chloe talked to me today."
The air in the garage instantly froze.
The color drained from Richard’s face so fast it looked like someone had pulled a bedsheet over him. The confident, booming posture collapsed inward. His eyes darted toward the interior door, then back to me, panic flickering behind his pupils.
"She... she told you about the piano lessons?" he stammered, his voice losing its thunderous baseline. "Harrison, listen to me, children have wild imaginations. They mix up dreams and reality. You know how impressionable—"
"Shut your mouth!" I roared, lunging forward and grabbing him by the lapels of his expensive blazer, slamming him back against the heavy wooden workbench. Tools rattled and crashed onto the concrete floor.
Richard gasped, his hands flying up to grab my wrists. For a man in his seventies, he still had surprising leverage, but my fury was atomic.
"She showed me the marks on her back, you sick, disgusting monster!" I yelled into his face, spittle flying. "Handprints! Bruises! Since February! You laid your hands on my little girl!"
"Harrison, keep your voice down! Your wife will hear!" he hissed, his eyes wide with stark terror—not remorse, but fear of being caught.
"Let her hear! Let the whole world hear!" I shook him violently against the bench. "How many times? How many other kids over the last thirty years while you were principal? Did you think you could just hide behind your community status forever?"
"It wasn't like that!" Richard snarled back, a sudden flash of ugly defiance twisting his features. "She was acting out! I was just disciplining her when she wouldn't listen! It got out of hand, that's all! It was a mistake!"
Click.
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The voice recorder in my pocket captured every single syllable.
"A mistake," I whispered, the rage inside me crystallizing into something cold and lethal. "No, Dad. This isn't a mistake. This is the end of your life."
