Chapter 1
Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” -Matthew 19:14, NIV
Her name whistled through his teeth, soft as chiffon.
“Willow,” he called.
His boot thumped above her head, shading the cracks of light between the floorboards. Willow covered her grin to contain the joy in her belly. One day, she would show Oona her hiding spot, but not until she won a few more games. She wondered where Oona was hiding.
“You’re such a good hider,” Brandt said. The song of his accent made everything easygoing. She wanted to burst through the floor and scream with joy. His shadow swept past her and drifted to the corner of the kitchen. “Where are you, little darling?”
The pantry door creaked when he whipped it open. His weight shifted to one foot, by the groan of the planks, and then grew still. Willow’s heartbeat echoed in her skull, thinking he had somehow seen her through the floor, but then she heard the rumble of her parents’ approach. Brandt’s feet quickened, and the pantry door closed.
She heard her father’s voice first.
“You sound ridiculous,” he said. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”
Willow crouched forward and tilted her head to listen.
“Eric, do not brush me off,” Maya replied. The tone of her mother’s voice flattened the joy in her belly. “I am not an idiot.”
Her mom’s shadow stayed by the entrance to the kitchen, while her dad walked over Willow’s head and stopped at the sink. The faucet roared and muffled their next words.
“I didn’t say you were,” she thought he said.
“And I know you,” her mother continued. “I know how you romanticize things, how you fixate on people. I can see you doing that with her.”
In Eric’s pause, Willow knew whatever he was about to say next would somehow feel worse. “No offense,” he said in a cool tone. “But you sound fucking ridiculous.”
A longer pause from her mother. Her silence weighed on Willow’s shoulders. She wished she could see their facial expressions, know for sure whether they were as mad at—or afraid of—each other as they seemed. Sometimes they play-talked like this, and everything turned out okay. Please let it be this time, too, she thought.
“Promise me,” her mother said, hardly above a whisper. “Promise me this isn’t like the last time.”
“Jesus Christ, I already told you,” he said. “What more do you want?”
Maya’s weight leaned back, and her voice faded away.
With the close of the back door, Willow was alone again.
Then the pantry door opened.
Brandt’s footsteps were slow, deliberate. His boots landed squarely over Willow’s head. She waited to hear him say something, and in the pause she wondered if her father was in the backyard, in the barn studio.
Brandt stepped away carefully, seeming to forget about their game of hide and seek.
When she climbed out of the crawl space and went back to the kitchen, her eyes scanned the floor in curiosity. In the middle of the room, she found dried blood blended into the floorboard stain, its shape similar to the letter S.
…
