CHAPTER 2: THE PERFECT WOMAN
Vanessa Cole had entered their lives fourteen months after Claire died.
At first, Richard had considered her a miracle.
Claire's death had left the Sterling house full of things no one knew what to do with.
Her coffee mug.
Her gardening gloves.
A half-read novel beside the bed.
And Sophie.
Especially Sophie.
She was four when her mother died.
For months, she asked the same question every morning.
“Is Mommy still dead today?”
Richard never discovered a good way to answer.
He tried.
God, he tried.
But grief was expensive in ways money couldn't solve.
His company was entering its largest expansion.
There were employees depending on him.
Investors calling.
Flights.
Meetings.
Problems.
Richard convinced himself he was protecting Sophie's future.
Vanessa arrived through a highly recommended household staffing agency.
She was organized, calm and exceptionally competent.
Within weeks, Sophie was never late for school.
Her clothes were clean.
Her meals appeared on schedule.
The house became orderly again.
Richard mistook order for healing.
At dinner that Thursday, he sat beside Sophie while she ate.
Not across from her.
Beside her.
Pasta.
Chicken.
Peas.
A glass of milk.
Sophie ate too quickly.
Richard noticed.
“Slow down, sweetheart.”
Her hand stopped.
Fear crossed her face.
Richard hated himself for not understanding why.
“You're not in trouble,” he said.
Sophie stared at him.
“You can eat as much as you need.”
She resumed eating.
Then she took a bread roll.
She looked at Richard.
“Can I?”
His chest hurt.
“You never need permission to eat.”
Sophie held the bread for several seconds.
Then she began crying.
Richard moved closer.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Something made you sad.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Miss Vanessa says crying at the table is rude.”
Richard pushed his plate away.
“Vanessa isn't here.”
Sophie looked toward the doorway anyway.
That night, Richard didn't go to the office.
He canceled three calls.
At 8:30, he tucked Sophie into bed himself.
The room looked beautiful.
White furniture.
Expensive toys.
Everything arranged perfectly.
Too perfectly.
There were no drawings taped to the wall.
No clothes on the floor.
No half-finished crafts.
It looked like a catalog photograph of a child's bedroom rather than somewhere a child actually lived.
“Where are your pictures?”
Sophie froze.
“What pictures?”
“You used to draw every day.”
“I don't anymore.”
“Why?”
A shrug.
Richard sat on the bed.
“What happened to them?”
Sophie looked toward the wardrobe.
Richard followed her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He opened the wardrobe.
At first he saw dresses.
Shoes.
Boxes.
Then, on the highest shelf, behind a stack of blankets, he noticed an old cardboard box.
He brought it down.
Sophie sat completely still.
Inside were broken crayons.
Photographs of Claire.
A stuffed rabbit Richard hadn't seen in months.
And drawings.
Dozens of them.
Richard unfolded the first.
A little girl standing beside a woman beneath a yellow sun.
MOMMY + ME.
Another showed Richard beside an airplane.
DADDY WORK.
His throat tightened.
Then he found a drawing folded four times.
A little girl inside a dark square.
No windows.
A door drawn in thick black crayon.
Above her were shaky blue lines that looked like tears.
At the bottom Sophie had written:
I WISH MOMMY WOULD COME BACK.
Richard looked up.
“Sophie.”
She pulled her blanket toward her chin.
“What room is this?”
No answer.
He showed her the drawing.
“This room.”
Sophie's eyes filled.
Then she slowly lifted one finger.
She pointed toward the hallway.
Richard knew immediately which door she meant.
The old storage room.
The one at the end of the west corridor.
He had passed it hundreds of times.
“Sophie…”
His voice barely worked.
“Does Vanessa put you in there?”
Sophie's lip began trembling.
“When I'm bad.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
Richard closed his eyes.
“How often?”
“Sometimes.”
“What makes you bad?”
Sophie thought seriously about the question.
That was somehow worse.
“Spilling.”
A pause.
“Talking too loud.”
Another.
“Missing Mommy.”
Richard opened his eyes.
“What?”
“She says Mommy isn't coming back, so talking about her is attention-seeking.”
Richard felt something inside him fracture.
He looked at Claire's photographs hidden inside the box.
“Did Vanessa take these away?”
Sophie nodded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Sophie's face crumpled.
“I tried.”
Richard went still.
“When?”
“The blue phone.”
Memory struck him.
Six months earlier.
He had been in Chicago.
His phone had rung during dinner with investors.
Sophie.
He'd answered.
She'd been crying.
Then Vanessa had taken the phone.
She's overtired, Richard. I'll handle it.
He had said:
Thanks, Vanessa.
Then returned to dinner.
Richard covered his mouth.
Sophie watched him.
“Daddy?”
He couldn't speak.
Because the truth was finally becoming unbearable.
May you like
Sophie hadn't failed to tell him.
He had failed to listen.
