The Silent Portrait
962 Words
Imani's POV
I sat in my car outside the police station. My hands are still shaking. The statement sat in my head like a rock I couldn't swallow.
Yara missed a step.
I never wrote that. I never said that. But there it was. My handwriting. My signature.
What the f**k was going on?
I started the engine. Drove home.
The woman in black. She was at my gate. Covered her face. Ran. And my front door was unlocked. I never leave the door unlocked.
Roy said he was at the airport. But I thought I heard him. I heard his voice in the house that morning. 'Yara baby, come watch Bluey with me'.
I heard it.
Didn't I?
Or did I imagine it?
***
The mansion appeared through the trees. Dark now. The windows looked like empty eyes.
I killed the engine and just sat there. Looking around. Scared. Like someone was watching.
The spot where the woman stood. Right there. By the gate. Her car was parked on the shoulder. Red Mercedes. No plates.
I got out. Walked to the front door. My legs felt heavy.
Inside. The sitting room.
The staircase.
I stopped and stared at it. Twelve marble steps. Dark wood railing. I've watched Yara run up and down those stairs a thousand times. She never missed a step. Never. Yara was careful. Too careful for a six-year-old.
I was the clumsy one. Not her.
So how did she fall?
Or rather, who pushed her?
***
My eyes moved to the wall. The portrait.
My father-in-law. Harold Reginald. Dead fifteen years now. The portrait was a gift from some business partner who admired Roy. It hung right there, facing the staircase. Harold's eyes looked straight at the spot where I found Yara.
I walked closer. Touched the frame.
"If only you could talk," I whispered. "You were staring right at her. You saw everything. You could tell me what happened."
My throat closed up.
He just stared back. Oil paint and memory. Silent.
I moved to the spot where Yara's body had been. The marble floor was clean now. No blood. No sign anything had happened. But I could still see it. Her small body. Her twisted arm. The blood spreading.
I sank to my knees.
The tears came. Hard. Ugly. I put my hands over my face and cried until I couldn't breathe.
The door opened.
I flinched. Jerked my head up.
Roy.
He crossed the room fast and dropped to his knees beside me. Wrapped his arms around me. Pulled me into his chest.
"Baby, I'm here. I'm here. Breathe."
I grabbed his shirt. Held on.
"I can't breathe, Roy. I don't understand what's happening. The police said I wrote something I never wrote. And there was a woman at our gate. And the door was unlocked. And Yara—"
"Breathe, baby. Just breathe."
"I heard you. I heard your voice this morning. You were here. You were with her."
He pulled back. Looked at my face. His eyes were wet.
"I wasn't here, Imani. I swear to you. I was at the airport. Vincenzo's flight landed at nine. I picked him up. Got him settled at the hotel. I've been gone since eight-fifteen."
"But I heard—"
"I don't know what you heard. But it wasn't me." He cupped my face. Thumb wiped my tears. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I left to take care of Vincenzo when I should have been with Yara. I should have cancelled everything. I feel terrible."
I shook my head. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."
"That doesn't make it better." His voice cracked. "Our daughter is in a coma. She fell, right here in our home and I wasn't there. I'm the worst dad."
I reached up. Touched his cheek. "Stop. You're a good dad. The best. You didn't do anything wrong."
He leaned into my hand. Closed his eyes.
"We're going to get through this," he said. "Yara is going to wake up. She's strong. And I'm here. I'm not leaving your side again."
He kissed me. Soft. Gentle. Not hungry or demanding. Just... there. Present. The kind of kiss that said I'm here for you.
When he pulled back, he kept my face in his hands.
"We need to go back to the hospital. Ingrid has been there all day. She needs a break."
I almost smiled. "I don't know what I would do without her."
"She's God sent," Roy said. "Both of you."
He helped me up. Kept his arm around my waist as we walked to the door.
I looked back once. At the staircase. At the portrait. At Harold's silent eyes, watching the spot where my daughter almost died.
If only portraits could talk.
***
It had been two weeks of praying over a body that refused to answer me.
My Yara.
Roy moved between the hospital, the office, and the Vincenzo deal. He cooked and brought me food. He slept in the waiting room some nights.
And the investigation?
Dead.
Every time I called Detective Gerald, I got the same answer. We’re doing everything we can.
But it didn’t feel like everything.
It felt like nothing.
Something was wrong.
Someone pushed my daughter.
And my daughter… was the only one who could expose them.
But she lay still beneath all these wires and machines. Sometimes, I would hold her hand and swear I felt her fingers twitch. Sometimes, I would whisper her name like it could guide her back.
Because she knew.
Whatever happened in that house… whoever stood at the top of those stairs with her…
Yara knew.
And until she opened her eyes, the truth was locked inside a six-year-old who couldn’t speak.
- Writer
