Five-year-old Lily Mercer had stopped calling for her father twenty-three minutes before her mother came home.
By then, her throat hurt too much.
She stood barefoot on the hardwood floor inside the small upstairs linen room, both hands wrapped around the black metal handle while tears ran down her face. The room was barely large enough for the narrow shelving unit, two laundry baskets, and the little girl pressed against the door.
There was no window.
Only a thin line of light beneath the door and the soft hum of the air-conditioning vent above her.
Lily twisted the handle again.
Nothing.
She pulled harder.
“Daddy?”
No answer.
She pressed one cheek against the wooden door.
“Daddy, I’m ready.”
Silence.
Her voice cracked.
“I’m sorry.”
Still nothing.
Lily wiped her nose on the sleeve of her pale pink T-shirt.
She had been crying long enough that she could no longer remember exactly what she was apologizing for.
The cereal bowl?
Maybe.
She had knocked one over that morning.
But Daddy had cleaned it up.
The crayons?
She had left them on the dining table after he told her twice to put them away.
Or maybe it was because she asked for Mommy too many times.
Daddy did not like that when Mommy was at work.
“You’re with me,” he had said.
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like something is wrong.”
She had not meant to act like something was wrong.
She simply wanted her mother.
Lily tried the handle again.
“Please.”
Her little hands slipped.
She hit the wood with both palms.
“Please let me out.”
Nothing.
Downstairs, a television played.
She could hear voices through the floor sometimes.
A man laughing.
Then music.
Then nothing again.
Lily sat on the floor.
Her knees pulled against her chest.
She tried counting.
Mommy had taught her to count when she felt scared.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
At seventeen, she forgot whether eighteen came before nineteen.
She started over.
The front door opened downstairs.
Lily froze.
For one second she thought it was her imagination.
Then she heard shoes.
Fast.
A woman’s voice.
“Lily?”
The little girl jumped to her feet so quickly that one shoulder hit the shelves.
“Mommy!”
The footsteps stopped.
Then came faster.
“Lily?”
“Mommy!”
Claire Mercer dropped her handbag halfway down the upstairs hall.
She had arrived home almost four hours earlier than expected.
A burst pipe on the third floor of her company’s building had shut down half the office shortly after lunch, and her manager told everyone to finish the day remotely. Claire considered stopping for groceries.
Then decided she wanted one unexpected afternoon with her daughter.
She had even bought Lily a strawberry cupcake from the bakery beside her office.
The cupcake was still inside the white paper bag in Claire’s abandoned handbag.
Now none of that existed in her mind.
Only the screaming.
“Mommy!”
Claire ran toward the sound.
The upstairs hallway contained four doors.
Primary bedroom.
Lily’s bedroom.
Bathroom.
Then the small linen room near the stairs.
Claire stopped in front of the last one.
“Lily?”
Small fists hit the other side.
“Mommy!”
Claire grabbed the handle.
It did not move.
For one confused second, she assumed something had jammed.
Then she saw the black sliding bolt mounted above the knob.