1 | Chapter 1: “DADA I”M HURT”
The first thing Ethan Mercer noticed when he stepped through the side gate was how quiet the backyard had become. On most afternoons, Maisie filled the space with a running commentary about everything she could see, from the squirrels along the cedar fence to the uneven paving stones she insisted were islands surrounded by invisible lava. That day, the only sound came from the soft ticking of the sprinkler at the far end of the lawn and the faint scrape of training wheels passing over the stone path. Ethan slowed without meaning to, one hand still holding the phone he had been speaking into moments earlier, because the silence carried the peculiar tension of a room in which someone had stopped talking as soon as another person entered.
Maisie was circling the paved courtyard on the small cream-colored bicycle Ethan had bought for her fourth birthday. Her feet barely reached the pedals at the lowest setting, and the little white helmet made her head look disproportionately large above her narrow shoulders. She had insisted on riding without the basket because she said baskets were for groceries and she was “going somewhere important,” although the farthest she had ever gone was from the back terrace to the hydrangeas and back again. Ethan watched her complete half a circle, concentrating so seriously that the tip of her tongue appeared between her lips, and the familiar sight loosened something inside him after a morning spent answering lawyers, investors, and people who believed everything in his life could be resolved by putting another meeting on his calendar.
Corinne stood several feet away beneath the shade of the covered terrace. She had changed out of the clothes she wore into the city and was dressed in pale linen trousers and a sleeveless blouse, looking composed in the effortless way Ethan had once admired because it seemed to bring order into a house that had known too much grief. Her attention, however, was fixed on Maisie with an expression he could not immediately read. Ethan remained partly hidden by the wall beside the gate, intending only to watch his daughter for another few seconds before announcing himself, and that accident of timing would become the detail he replayed most often afterward.
Maisie rode toward Corinne slowly, wobbling when one training wheel caught the edge between two stones. She corrected herself and smiled, perhaps expecting praise, but Corinne did not return it. Instead, she stepped down from the terrace and moved into the little girl’s path with such deliberate calm that Maisie immediately squeezed the brakes. The bicycle stopped crookedly between them, and Maisie looked up from beneath the rim of her helmet, her earlier confidence fading as she waited for whatever Corinne had come to say.
“You were told to stay on the other side of the yard while I was making my call,” Corinne said. Her voice was low enough that someone inside the house would not have heard it, although Ethan could make out every word from where he stood. “I am getting very tired of repeating myself to you, Maisie. You are old enough to understand when somebody asks you to stay out of the way.”
Maisie’s fingers tightened around the rubber grips. “I was just riding. I didn’t talk.”
“You don’t have to talk to be disruptive.” Corinne glanced toward the windows before looking back at her. “Everywhere you go, somebody has to stop what they’re doing and pay attention to you. You should start learning that people are not always going to rearrange themselves because you want something.”
The little girl’s face changed so slightly that Ethan might have missed it had he been farther away. She lowered her eyes and moved one foot toward the pedal, making herself smaller rather than arguing, which was strange enough to hold him where he was. Maisie argued about the color of socks and whether bedtime applied on Saturdays; she could negotiate over a cookie with the persistence of a trial attorney. With Corinne, however, she simply whispered, “Okay,” and tried to turn her bicycle around.
Corinne reached for the back of the seat and stopped it.
Maisie looked over her shoulder. “Can I go?”
There was something in the question that Ethan did not recognize. It was not childish impatience but permission-seeking of a more careful kind, the voice of someone who had learned that leaving too quickly might make matters worse. Corinne stared down at her for a moment, and the pleasant expression she wore at dinners and charity events had disappeared completely. Without that practiced warmth, her face seemed unfamiliar to Ethan, as though marriage had allowed him to become accustomed to a version of her assembled specifically for his benefit.
“You really do think someone will always come running for you, don’t you?” she asked.
Maisie glanced toward the house. “Dada comes.”
The answer was innocent, spoken with the simple certainty children reserved for facts they had never considered questioning. Corinne’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, and she leaned closer until Maisie had to tilt her head back to see her. When she spoke again, the words were soft enough to sound intimate.
“Your daddy’s not here to protect you now.”