Chapter 1 - The Door Was Barely Open
The nursery door was open maybe three millimeters.
That was all it took.
Through the narrow crack, I saw my mother standing beside Sofia's crib with both hands locked around my ten-month-old daughter's ankles. Sofia's little body hung upside down, her head inches above the rug.
Then I saw the red finger marks around Sofia's legs.
"Mom!"
My voice came out like a gunshot.
She turned.
Sofia didn't cry. That scared me more than anything. Her tiny fists were clenched so hard her fingernails had dug into her palms.
I hit the door with my shoulder and crossed the room in two steps.
"What are you doing?"
My mother, Marlene, opened her mouth.
I didn't wait.
I slammed into her.
Her back struck the dresser. We both went down. Sofia slipped from her hands, but I caught her against my chest before her head touched the floor.
"It's okay. Mommy's here. Mommy's here."
Sofia made one broken little sound and buried her face against me.
Marlene stared up from the carpet, stunned.
"You attacked me."
"You were holding my baby upside down!"
"I was checking her."
"Checking what?"
"Her leg. She was choking."
"With her ankles in your hands?"
My husband, Noah, appeared in the doorway.
"What happened?"
Before I could answer, something fell from my mother's coat pocket.
It hit the rug with a dull metallic click.
A small rusted key.
Marlene's face changed.
Not anger.
Fear.
She lunged for it.
I got there first.
The second my fingers closed around the key, she froze.
"Claire," she whispered. "Give me that."
I held Sofia tighter.
"What does it open?"
"Nothing."
"Then why are you scared?"
Noah looked from her to me.
Marlene stood slowly.
"You don't know what you're holding."
I stared at the faded number stamped into the key.
117.
May you like
And suddenly I remembered where I'd seen that number before.
On the door of the storage unit my father rented the week before he died.
