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“Ma chérie, Penelope worked hard to make breakfast for you,” I tell my daughter patiently. “She even made your favorite: oatmeal with cinnamon sugar.”
My little girl shifts in her seat, working her jaw. Her eyes flit between Penelope, our housekeeper, and me, but she doesn’t say anything. In fact, she hasn’t said anything in almost two years.
Not since the accident.
We’re gathered around the kitchen table. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a lovely Friday morning. It’s peaceful out here, exactly the way I designed it. Odette turned five shortly before September, but given her condition, I didn’t feel comfortable enrolling her in maternelle — the French version of kindergarten. The specialists I’ve been speaking to assure me that exposure to other children her age might help her affliction, but I’ve been exceedingly cautious since Marianne’s death.
What if Odette needs to ask a teacher for help? Her inability to properly communicate will only stress her out further. Hell, it’ll stressmeout further. As her father, I have a duty to protect her. Keep her safe. And if that means keeping her home with me and teaching her personally, so be it.
“Would you like something else, my dear?” Penelope asks sweetly. She’s a tiny woman pushing seventy years old. Her thinning silver hair is pulled back into a tight, severe bun atop her head. Despite her otherwise snooty appearance, Penelope is nothing but warm and kind. She’s been in my employment for a little over five years now, helping me keep an eye on Odette while staying on top of the household chores.
Odette eyes the gingerbread house kits that sit on the kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that tells me everything I need to know.
“It’s only the first of November,” the housekeeper teases. “If we eat them too early, the gingerbread men won’t have a place to call home.”
My daughter gives me an expectant look. She’s cute as a button, but I don’t budge. I may love her to the moon and back, but I draw the line at poor nutrition.
“Eat your oatmeal, chérie, andthenI’ll think about it.”
Her mouth opens slightly. I hold my breath, hoping this is the moment she finally chooses to speak. Instead, Odette snaps her mouth shut and moves to grab her spoon.
So close.
“Perhaps after breakfast we can decorate the living room?” Penelope suggests. “I know we don’t have a tree picked out, but we can still decorate the mantle with ornaments. What do you say, my dear?”
Odette nods, happily kicking her feet back and forth beneath the table. She doesn’t even reach the floor.
Penelope looks to me next. “Care to join us, Monsieur Rochefort?”
“I have some work to do in the office, but I’ll be free in an hour.”
“Oh, wonderful. I assume your clients are keeping you busy?”
I nod. “Everyone’s trying to get their documents in order ahead of tax season. Boring stuff. I should be able to crunch the numbers and—”
The thunderous sound of something crashing through our front gate cuts me off. While Odette and Penelope jolt in their seats, I’m already springing into action. My new life is one of quiet domesticity, but there’s always a small part of me that hasn’t been able to let go of what I used to be. The need to be prepared is ingrained into me, much like breathing or blinking —automatic.
“Stay,” I command, quickly making my way to the front door of the house to peer outside. I peek out the window, but I don’t see anyone. I don’t lower my guard.
Could it be Favreaux?
Even after twenty years, that man still haunts me. He’s my own personal specter. I gave up everything I had to ensure he’d spend the rest of his days behind bars, but I know as well as anyone that nothing can keep that beast locked up. Not forever, anyways. Is today the day my past finally catches up with me?
“What is it?” Penelope asks, her voice shaking. “It felt like an earthquake.”
Three sharp knocks sound at the front door, the ghostly silhouette of a person lingering on the other side of the thick frosted glass. I hesitate to reach for the shotgun stored on the top shelf of the entryway closet. If it really is Favreaux, surely, he’d be smarter than to show up at my front doorstep.
“H-hello?” The voice belongs to a woman.
Curious, and against my better judgment, I open the door. I’m speechless. Standing on the other side is a young woman in her early twenties. She has long black hair and deep brown eyes. She’s about a foot shorter than myself, her slender legs and long arms giving her an indescribable grace. She’s strikingly beautiful, but I’m too preoccupied with the brownish-red staining her clothes to admire her.
“Gabriel Lacroix?” she croaks.
My heart seizes. I haven’t used my real name in over twenty years. Concern lances through me. Who the hell is this woman and why is she bleeding all over my welcome mat?
“My God!” Penelope gasps behind me. She’s holding Odette’s hand, her other hand over her mouth in shock. “Does she need help? Pierre, we must get her to a hospital!”
“No hospital!” the woman snaps in English. Some words don’t require translation.
