“What night?”
“The gala.”
I knew immediately.
“What about it?”
“When I ran from Camille.”
She leaned against the door frame.
“Did you know something was wrong?”
I thought carefully before answering.
“I felt that something was wrong.”
“But you didn't know?”
“No.”
“Or you didn't want to?”
The question landed harder.
I looked at my daughter.
At twelve, she deserved more than a comfortable answer.
“I wanted the easier explanation.”
She watched me.
“What was the easier explanation?”
“That you were tired.”
I smiled sadly.
“That you were two.”
“That Camille was stressed.”
“That everyone was trying their best.”
“And the hard explanation?”
“That if you were actually afraid, then I had to admit I didn't know what was happening inside my own house.”
Lily nodded.
“And then you'd have to change everything.”
“Yes.”
“My marriage.”
“My work.”
“My assumptions about people.”
“My assumptions about myself.”
She was quiet.
“Do you wish you'd known sooner?”
“Every day.”
“Do you blame yourself?”
I thought about Grace's letter.
About Nora.
About Mrs. Alden.
About Hannah.
About all the moments adults had seen pieces of the truth and convinced themselves someone else understood the whole picture.
“Sometimes.”
Lily looked annoyed.
“Dr. Shaw says that's not useful.”
I laughed.
“She said something similar to me years ago.”
“She's usually right.”
“Unfortunately.”
Lily entered the old nursery.
A small girl belonging to one of our employees sat at a table drawing.
“What are you making?” Lily asked.
“A horse.”
Lily examined the picture.
“It looks like a potato.”
The little girl frowned.
Lily immediately added, “A very good potato.”
I laughed.
The child laughed too.
A few minutes later, her mother called.
She ran into the hallway.
Lily remained inside.
She looked toward the little reading alcove.
The former closet.
“You know what's weird?”
“What?”
“I remember being scared.”
I waited.
“But I don't remember all of it.”
“That's probably good.”
“I remember Nora.”
She smiled.
“I remember your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“The one you were wearing when I ran to you.”
My throat tightened.
“You remember that?”
“Maybe.”
She shrugged.
“Sometimes I don't know if I remember things or if I've heard the story enough that it feels like a memory.”
“That happens.”
She walked into the alcove.
The lamp glowed beside rows of books.
“No dark anymore.”
I smiled.