Kneel for her

Father's eyes

"If he raises his voice, say my name."

Zayn said it low, standing in front of the study door at noon, one hand flat against the wood. He had been told to wait in the hall. He did not like it. He liked it so little that his jaw looked carved from granite.

"Why would I say your name?"

"Because I will be through this door in two seconds."

"You will break a very expensive door."

"I will pay for it."

"With what? Your charm?"

"With his money," Zayn said. "He has a lot."

I almost smiled. Almost. Then he looked down at me, and the humor went out of his eyes and left only a quiet, steady warning. I felt it.

"Go," he said. "I am right here."

I opened the door and stepped inside.

A photograph. A little girl of about six, with dark curls and a gap in her teeth, sitting on a pony. She was laughing so hard her eyes were closed.

I stayed still. Marcus stood at the window with his back to me. He did not turn when I came in.

"Close the door."

I closed it.

"Sit."

I sat in a leather chair that felt like a witness stand. He walked to the desk slowly, lowered himself into his seat, and folded his hands.

"I am going to ask you some questions," he said. "I would like you to answer them as honestly as you can."

"I will."

"Do not tell me what you think I want to hear."

"I would not know what that was."

A flicker crossed his face. It might have been a smile. It died before it landed.

"The night of the fall," he said. "Tell me what you remember."

But when I looked at the little girl in the silver frame, I did not want to lie to her father.

So I did what I do best. I told the truth, wearing a different coat.

"I remember the cold," I said slowly. "A cold so deep it felt like it was inside my bones. I remember being afraid. Not of the dark, or the water. Afraid that I had lost everything and there was nobody left to tell."

"And I remember a room," I went on. My voice dropped without my choosing. "Small. White walls. A machine beeping next to a bed. A woman was lying in it, and I was holding her hand. It felt like paper. Her hair was gray. She was trying to tell me one last thing, and the machine started screaming before she could finish."

"I cannot see her face," I whispered. "I only know that when she stopped talking, I thought my heart would stop too."

He was staring at me as if I had spoken in a language he had not heard in twenty years. His hand, flat on the desk, trembled.

"A hospital," he said.

"I think so."

"Gray hair. A woman."

"Yes."

"You have never..." His voice broke off. He cleared his throat harshly. "Daisy was never in a hospital room like that. Not at that age. Not ever."

"Then I do not know what I am remembering."

"No." He looked away. "No, I do not suppose you do."

"Three nights before she disappeared," Marcus said at last, "Daisy came to this room. Late. She stood where you were sitting."

"She asked me a strange question. She said, Dad, do you believe some families are built on secrets? That the house stays standing only because nobody opens the wrong door?" His hands curled. "I told her not to be dramatic. I told her I had a call to make."

"You did not answer her."

"No. I did not." He looked at the silver frame. "I sent my daughter away because I was busy. And four days later I stood on a pier at four in the morning and looked at black water."

I saw it happen. His eyes filled. A single tear gathered on his lower lashes, and he reached up fast, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned his face toward the window, the way a man covers a wound with his hand before anyone can see the blood.

When he turned back, his eyes were dry and his face was ice again.

"Forgive me," he said.

"There is nothing to forgive."

"There is a great deal." He straightened his crooked tie. "I am not a man who knows how to say certain things. Victoria says I have a heart like a locked safe. She is correct."

I did not know what to do. A week ago, I would have said it was impossible for a man like this to hurt me. Now my own heart ached for him. I was sitting in a dead girl's chair, taking a grieving father's tears, and every breath I took was a lie.

"I am sorry I cannot remember," I said. And that, at least, was true.

I rose. My knees were a little unsteady. I was nearly at the door when he spoke again, so low that I almost missed it.

"The police found a phone in the lake. Daisy's phone."

"It was not the one she used every day. I never once saw her carry it." He did not look at me. "I think she had another. A second one. I would like to know where it is."

My heart skipped. "I do not know."

"No. I did not think you would." He paused. "There is one more thing. Security keeps a log of the east gate. On the night of the fall, three vehicles went in or out between eleven and midnight."

"Three?"

"My brother's car, coming home from a dinner. Lily's bicycle. She said she had gone to buy medicine." His fingers drummed once on the desk. "And a motorcycle, leaving at ten past eleven."

"Whose?"

Marcus finally lifted his eyes. They were pale blue and hard as frozen lake.

"Ask your bodyguard," he said, "where he went at eleven-ten that night. He has never told me. And he was supposed to be standing next to my daughter."

I put my hand on the door. I turned the handle. I stepped out into the hall.

Zayn was standing exactly where I had left him. He was not leaning on the wall. He was not looking at his phone. His arms were at his sides, his face was unreadable, and his eyes were already on me.

He had heard every word.

And he did not say a single one in his own defense.