Chapter 1 - The Bedroom Door“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
The question came out smaller than Nia intended.
She stood in the doorway of what had been her bedroom that morning, still wearing her black school backpack, one hand curled around the strap as if she could hold herself upright with it.
A full-length mirror leaned against the wall where her desk had been.
New white shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crowded with handbags, folded sweaters, and rows of shoes arranged by color.
Her bed was gone.
Not covered.
Not moved.
Gone.
In its place sat a padded cream bench beneath the window.
Nia stared at it.
Then she looked at Celeste.
Celeste emerged from behind the open closet door holding a pair of black heels with red soles.
“The couch is more than enough for you,” she said.
Nia blinked. “The couch?”
“You're fifteen, Nia. You don't need an entire bedroom.”
“This is my bedroom.”
Celeste glanced around as though hearing the word for the first time.
“It was.”
The silence after that was worse than shouting.
Nia stepped farther into the room.
A faint perfume hung in the air. Sweet. Expensive. Completely unfamiliar.
Her old corkboard had been stripped from the wall. The watercolor she'd made in seventh grade was gone. Even the tiny paper stars she'd taped above her bed had disappeared.
She reached for one of the shelves.
“Don't touch those.”
Nia froze.
Celeste set the heels carefully on the bench.
“These are delicate,” she said. “And I don't want fingerprints.”
“My books were here.”
“I packed them.”
“My clothes were in that closet.”
“I packed those too.”
“My bed was here.”
Celeste sighed. “You keep repeating yourself.”
Nia's throat tightened.
A few hours earlier, she'd been thinking about a math test and whether Dad would remember to pick up the strawberry cupcakes he'd promised for Friday.
Now her belongings were stuffed into large plastic bags in the hallway.
She backed away from the room.
That was when she noticed the photograph.
It was inside a cardboard box beside her bags.
The frame was scratched at one corner.
Nia crouched and pulled it out.
Her mother smiled from behind the glass.
Young.
Warm.
Alive.
Nia had spent years afraid that one day she might forget the exact shape of that smile.
She held the photograph against her cream-colored T-shirt.
“This is the only picture I have of Mom.”
Celeste's expression didn't change.
“Then keep it out of my house.”
Nia stared at her.
“My house?” she whispered.
Celeste crossed her arms.
“You heard me.”
The front door opened.
Cold evening air pushed through the hallway.
Marcus stepped inside with a suitcase in one hand, his tie loosened and his travel coat folded over the other arm.
He had been supposed to return tomorrow.
Nia looked up.
For one second, relief hit her so hard it almost hurt.
“Dad.”
Marcus stopped.
His eyes moved over the bags.
Then the cardboard box.
Then his daughter.
Then the bedroom behind her.
“Why are Nia's things out here?”
Celeste changed instantly.
The hard line of her mouth softened.
Her shoulders dropped.
“She wanted to sleep downstairs.”
Marcus frowned.
He looked at Nia.
“Did you ask for this?”
Nia shook her head.
“She locks the bedroom doors when you leave.”
“She’s being dramatic,” Celeste said.
From the other end of the hallway came a quiet voice.
“She locks the kitchen too.”
Caleb stood there in his black hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower.
Marcus turned.
“Why do you have those?”
Caleb looked at the keys in his hand.
“She gave them to me.”
Celeste snapped, “Caleb.”
He lowered his eyes for half a second, then looked directly at Marcus.
“She said Nia wasn't allowed upstairs after nine.”
Marcus's face tightened.
Celeste laughed softly, almost affectionately.
“Honestly, Marcus, teenagers exaggerate everything.”
Nia said nothing.
Marcus set down his suitcase.
He walked toward her slowly.
“How long has this been happening?”
Celeste answered for her.
“Not long.”
Marcus didn't look at Celeste.
“Nia.”
She swallowed.
“Since you started traveling more.”
“How often?”
She stared at the floor.
“I don't know.”
“Nia.”
Her fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Every time.”
Marcus went still.
Caleb shifted his weight.
Celeste's voice sharpened.
“This is ridiculous.”
Marcus looked at her.
“What exactly is ridiculous?”
“The fact that we're having this conversation because she doesn't like being told no.”
“I asked you a question.”
Celeste opened her mouth.
Marcus raised a hand.
“No. Let her answer.”
Nia looked at him.
The man standing in front of her was her father.
The same man who used to carry her upstairs when she fell asleep in the car.
The same man who knew she hated thunder.
The same man who had once told her, every birthday, that this house would always be hers.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I waited for you.”
Marcus's expression changed.
“What?”
“I waited for you to come home.”
Celeste rolled her eyes.
“You see? This is exactly what I mean.”
But Nia was no longer looking at her.
She dropped her backpack onto the floor.
Marcus crouched beside it.
“Show me.”
Nia hesitated.
“Show you what?”
“Anything you're keeping because you think I need to know.”
She unzipped the backpack.
At first there was only the ordinary mess of school.
Notebooks.
Pens.
A half-finished science worksheet.
Two granola bars.
Then she pulled out a folded calendar.
Marcus opened it.
The dates were covered in black marks.
At first he didn't understand.
Then he saw the pattern.
Every mark was on a day he'd been away for work.
He turned the page.
More marks.
Another week.
Another.
Another.
Tomorrow had been circled.
Marcus looked at her.
“You counted every night I was gone?”
Nia nodded.
“You said you'd be home tomorrow.”
“I was.”
“I know.”
He stared at the calendar again.
At the bottom of the page, in tiny handwriting, she'd written:
Dad comes home.
Marcus swallowed.
“You thought I wouldn't?”
“I thought maybe you'd forget again.”
His jaw tightened.
“I never meant to make you feel that way.”
Nia looked at the floor.
“You kept saying it was only for a few days.”
Marcus reached out, then stopped before touching her shoulder.
“How many nights did you sleep alone?”
Celeste interrupted.
“Marcus, you're turning this into something it isn't.”
He looked up.
“What am I turning it into?”
“A family argument.”
“This isn't a family argument.”
Marcus stood.
His voice was quieter now.
“It's my daughter telling me she's afraid in her own home.”
Celeste scoffed.
“She is not afraid.”
Nia finally looked at her.
“Yes, I am.”
The hallway fell silent.
Celeste's face hardened.
Marcus noticed.
He noticed the way Celeste's hand curled around the edge of the bench.
He noticed Caleb watching both of them.
He noticed the key ring.
And then he noticed something else.
A small scratch ran across the floor near the staircase.
Fresh.
Deep.
Like something heavy had been dragged.
Marcus looked toward the stairs.
“What happened there?”
Celeste's answer came too quickly.
“Nothing.”
Marcus walked over.
“Nia, stay here.”
He followed the scratch upward.
Halfway to the second floor, he stopped.
There was another mark.
Then another.
Something had been moved from upstairs to downstairs.
Something heavy.
Something large.
He looked back toward the hallway.
Celeste stood perfectly still.
Caleb was pale.
Marcus pointed toward the top of the stairs.
“What did you move?”
Celeste said nothing.
“Nobody moved anything,” she said finally.
Marcus walked upstairs anyway.
The hallway was darker than he remembered.
His old office door was locked.
He tried the handle.
It wouldn't open.
Marcus turned.
“Why is my office locked?”
Celeste appeared behind him.
“You've been gone for three weeks, Marcus. I had to organize your things.”
“My office.”
“I'll open it.”
“No.”
Marcus looked at her.
“I'll open it.”
He took the key from her hand.
It fit.
The door swung inward.
The room smelled like cardboard and dust.
Boxes covered the floor.
Marcus stepped inside.
Then he stopped.
On the desk sat a manila envelope.
His name was written across the front in handwriting he recognized instantly.
His wife's.
He reached for it.
Behind him, Celeste whispered, “Marcus, don't.”
He turned.
For the first time that night, she looked frightened.
Marcus opened the envelope.
A single photograph slid onto the desk.
It showed his house.
Taken from across the street.
On the back, someone had written four words.
Ask Nia about Tuesday night.
Marcus looked toward the hallway.
Nia was still standing there, clutching her mother's photograph.
“Who took this?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
May you like
Then Caleb stepped into the doorway, looked at Marcus, and said quietly:
“Dad… Tuesday night was the first night she started locking Nia out.”
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