Chapter 2 - THE CAMERA ABOVE THE LAUNDRY DOOR
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
My father’s birthday cake sat untouched on the patio table.
Sixty candles had already burned halfway down, sending thin lines of wax over the white frosting.
Someone had left music playing through the outdoor speakers.
Frank Sinatra.
Dad’s favorite.
It sounded obscene now.
I held Lily against my chest and looked at my father.
“What did she ruin?”
He didn’t answer.
Rebecca did.
“She’s three, Daniel.”
“Three-year-olds know when somebody hits them.”
“I didn’t hit her.”
Lily buried her face against me.
Rebecca’s voice sharpened.
“She threw a tantrum.”
“What tantrum?”
“She wanted your phone.”
“My phone was in my pocket.”
Rebecca froze.
Small mistake.
My mother stepped in.
“Enough. Lily has always been sensitive.”
I looked at her.
My mother, Patricia Monroe, had spent thirty-five years teaching elementary school.
She had once told me children often reveal truth before they understand how adults manipulate it.
Now she was calling my daughter dramatic.
“Mom.”
“Daniel, your father’s guests are watching.”
That was her concern.
Not Lily.
The guests.
I looked around.
Neighbors.
Business partners.
Cousins.
People holding wineglasses and pretending not to listen.
My father, Harold Monroe, owned Monroe Development Group, one of the largest commercial construction firms in northern Virginia.
Our family was respected.
That word always appears right before people explain why a scandal must remain quiet.
Lily whispered:
“Daddy, go home.”
I kissed her hair.
“We are.”
Dad stood.
“No.”
I turned.
He looked toward me with the same expression he used when I worked for him years earlier.
The one that meant discussion was over.
“You’re not leaving until we settle this.”
I almost laughed.
“My daughter is hurt.”
“And if you walk out now, you make this look worse.”
There.
Again.
Appearance.
I shifted Lily higher.
“I don’t care how it looks.”
He stepped closer.
“You should.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because Lily was where she wasn’t supposed to be.”
I stared.
“The laundry room?”
“No.”
Rebecca suddenly said:
“Dad.”
Too late.
“What room?”
Nobody answered.
I looked at Lily.
“Sweetheart, where were you before the laundry room?”
Her fingers tightened around my shirt.
“Aunt Rebecca took me downstairs.”
My mother went pale.
Dad closed his eyes.
There it was.
Basement.
My childhood home had a finished basement.
Game room.
Storage.
Wine cellar.
And one locked office Dad had always called the records room.
Even as children, Rebecca and I were forbidden to enter.
“Why did she take you downstairs?”
Lily whispered:
“I followed Bunny.”
Bunny was Rebecca’s dog.
“Then?”
“Aunt Rebecca got mad.”
“What happened?”
“I opened Grandpa’s door.”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“She didn’t open anything.”
Lily flinched.
I raised my hand.
“Stay away from her.”
Rebecca stopped.
I had never spoken to my sister like that.
Good.
Lily continued.
“There was a box.”
“What box?”
“Pictures.”
Dad said:
“Daniel, stop questioning a three-year-old.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re confusing her.”
“No.”
I shifted my gaze around the patio.
“I think all of you are scared she remembers.”
My father’s face hardened.
Then my cousin Melissa, standing near the kitchen doors, quietly said:
“There’s a camera.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
She pointed toward the back hallway.
“Patricia installed security cameras after the jewelry theft last year.”
Mom stared at her.
Melissa looked uncomfortable.
“There’s one above the laundry door.”
My mother recovered quickly.
“That camera doesn’t record inside rooms.”
“I don’t need inside.”
I looked at Rebecca.
“I need to see who carried Lily there.”
Rebecca grabbed her phone again.
I noticed.
“Who are you calling?”
“No one.”
“Give me the phone.”
She laughed nervously.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
Dad stepped between us.
“Daniel.”
“Move.”
“You are not going to search your sister’s phone in my house.”
“Fine.”
I took my own phone out.
Dad watched.
“Who are you calling?”
“Police.”
My mother gasped.
Rebecca said:
“Oh my God.”
My father’s face changed completely.
Not anger now.
Calculation.
“Daniel.”
I stopped dialing.
For one second.
He lowered his voice.
“There are things in this house you do not understand.”
“Then explain them.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because they involve your late wife.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Lily moved against my shoulder.
My wife, Claire, had died eighteen months earlier in what police ruled a single-car accident on Route 7.
Wet road.
Guardrail.
Tree.
Dead before paramedics arrived.
I had spent a year learning how to wake up without her.
Now my father was standing in front of me connecting Claire to a locked basement room.
“What about Claire?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Dad, don’t.”
I turned toward her.
“What about my wife?”
Dad said:
“She found something before she died.”
I could barely hear myself.
“What?”
He looked at Lily.
“Apparently, your daughter just found it too.”
The patio went silent again.
I stared.
“Found what?”
My father gave the smallest shake of his head.
Then the outdoor security lights clicked off.
Every light.
At once.
Someone had cut power to the back of the house.
Guests screamed.
Glass broke.
In the darkness, Rebecca ran.
I heard the patio door slam.
I held Lily tighter.
Then Melissa shouted:
May you like
“She’s going downstairs!”
I ran after her.
