Chapter 1
My daughter Lila froze mid-cartwheel.
One second her pink sneakers were flying toward the ceiling.
The next she was on her knees, cheek pressed so hard to the new living room floor her skin whitened.
I was folding socks on the couch, the basket warm from the dryer.
I called her name.
She didn’t answer.
Her small fingers curled into fists against the shiny oak planks.
Knuckles white as the laundry detergent I’d used that morning.
Then she whispered.
So quiet I almost didn’t catch it over the hum of the fridge.
“Mom. It’s Jamie. He’s under there.”
The laundry basket slipped out of my lap.
Socks spilled across the floor—striped, fuzzy, the pairs I’d spent ten minutes matching.
I stumbled over, heart hammering so hard it thudded in my ears.
My knee hit the wood hard enough to bruise.
Before I could press my own ear to the floor, my sister Mara came sprinting from the kitchen.
She’d been baking chocolate chip cookies, the scent still thick in the air.
Flour dusted her cheek.
Her face was the color of the paper towel roll by the sink.
She grabbed Lila’s upper arm.
Fingers digging in so hard her nails left half-moon marks.
Yanked her backward so fast Lila yelped, her knee scraping the floor.
“Kids and their silly imaginations,” Mara said.
Her laugh was sharp, breathless.
It didn’t reach her eyes.
Those were wide, wild, darting from the floor to me to the front door like she was looking for an escape.
“Just the old pipes rattling, baby. Nothing to scare yourself over.”
She stroked Lila’s hair.
Her hand was shaking.
She wouldn’t look at me.
I stepped past her.
Toward the spot Lila had been kneeling.
Mara moved faster than I’d ever seen her move in our 32 years of life.
She blocked my path.
Arms outstretched, chest heaving like she’d run a mile in the rain.
Her voice dropped to a ragged hiss.
“Don’t. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
That’s when I saw it.
The loose board at her feet.
The foreman had pointed it out yesterday, said it needed a few extra nails to sit right.
Mara had told him not to bother.
Said she’d fix it herself later.
I shoved her aside.
Hard enough that she stumbled into the couch, a throw pillow tumbling to the floor.
I dropped to my knees.
Curled my fingers under the edge of the plank.
The wood was smooth, still smelling of fresh sawdust.
I pulled.
With every ounce of strength I had.
The muscles in my arms burned.
My shoulders screamed.
The wood split with a crack that echoed off the walls.
Dust and old insulation puffed up into my face.
I blinked it away.
And looked down into the dark gap beneath.
What I saw there made me scream.
Scream so loud my throat went raw.
Scream until Lila started crying, until Mara was sobbing behind me, until the neighbors probably heard it three houses down.
My son.
Jamie.
Nine years old, the gap where his front tooth used to be unmistakable.
Curled into a ball on the cold dirt.
His wrists bound with frayed rope.
A rag stuffed in his mouth.
His eyes fluttered open when the light hit him.
May you like
He looked up at me.
And tried to say my name.
