Chapter 4 - The Midnight Pact
The silence in the garage was deafening. The hum of the refrigerator inside the house sounded like a distant jet engine.
Mark took an instinctual step backward, his face flushing crimson. "Em... sweetie. How long have you been standing there?"
Emma didn't answer him. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. That was what scared me most—there was no dramatic outburst, only a terrible, desolate calm that settled over her young face.
She looked at the wooden crates under the blue tarp. Then she looked at her father.
"The public library opens at nine AM on Monday," she said. Her voice was remarkably steady, completely devoid of emotion. "I just came down to get a glass of water."
"Emma, listen to me," Mark started, taking a step toward her, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "You misunderstood. I was talking about the past—about how hard things were with your mom—"
"Don't," Emma said softly. She raised one hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Please don't."
She turned around and walked back up the wooden steps, her socks making almost no sound against the wood. The door to the house clicked shut.
I turned on Mark with a look that made him flinch. "Touch me, talk to me, or follow me tonight, and I swear to God I will call the police to remove you from this house."
I shoved past him, ran up the stairs, and headed straight for Emma’s bedroom at the end of the hall.
I knocked gently. "Emma? It's Diane. Can I come in?"
There was a long pause. "It's unlocked."
I opened the door. The room was neat, illuminated only by a small string of fairy lights hung above her bed. Emma was sitting cross-legged on her mattress, staring out the window at the dark street below. The fifteen-dollar candle set was sitting on her nightstand next to a stack of library books.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, I didn't know what to say. The betrayal was so massive, so deep, that hollow apologies felt like an insult.
"Emma... what your father said down there... it was horrific. It was cruel, and it was entirely wrong. You are not a ghost. You are a brilliant, wonderful young woman, and you didn't do anything to deserve this."
Emma turned her head slowly. Tears were finally welling in her eyes, reflected in the fairy lights, but she kept them from falling.
"He's felt that way for a long time, hasn't he?" she asked quietly. "I wasn't sure before. I thought he was just strict. Or busy. But whenever Jacob asked for something—baseball camp, new shoes, guitar lessons—there was always money. Whenever I asked for paint supplies or help with AP exam fees, he always said we had to stretch every dollar."
My heart broke into a thousand pieces. I realized with staggering guilt how much I had missed over the years, blinded by my own busy work schedule and the comfortable lie that we were one big, happy blended family.
"I didn't know," I said, reaching out to wrap my fingers around her cold hand. "I swear to you, Emma, I didn't know he was doing this with the finances. But I know now. And things are going to change."
"He's my dad," she whispered, a tear finally escaping and running down her cheek. "How can your own dad look at you and only see someone he hates?"
"Because he is weak," I said fiercely, leaning in close so she could see the absolute conviction in my eyes. "He is weak, and he blamed a little girl for his own failed past. But he doesn't control your future. I do not care whose blood runs through your veins, Emma. You are my daughter. Do you hear me? You are my child."
Emma swallowed hard, her hand tightening around mine.
"Tomorrow morning," I told her, "we are going to take back control. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
May you like
Emma wiped her cheek with her sleeve and nodded once. "What are we going to do?"
"First, we sleep," I said. "Then, we show your father what happens when he underestimates the women in this house."
