Chapter 2 - The Child Who Wasn't Angry|
Dominic Vale crossed the marble foyer in six long strides.
His polished black shoes stopped beside the overturned bucket.
“Take Noah upstairs,” he ordered.
A security guard approached the boy.
Immediately, Noah began screaming.
“No! No! No!”
His voice cracked.
He dropped the bronze horse and crawled backward, pressing himself against the staircase.
The guard reached for him.
“Come on, little man.”
Noah kicked wildly.
“Don't touch me!”
I had been lying on the floor trying to catch my breath, but something about his reaction bothered me.
It wasn't ordinary defiance.
He looked like a trapped animal.
“Please stop,” I said.
The guard glanced at me.
“Stay out of this.”
I looked toward Dominic.
“Sir, could you ask him to step back?”
Dominic's expression darkened.
“My son just attacked you.”
“I know.”
“And you're defending him?”
“No. I'm asking you to look at him.”
Dominic followed my gaze.
Noah was shaking so badly his little sneakers scraped against the marble.
I slowly shifted onto my knees.
“Hi, Noah.”
He covered his face.
“My name is Clara.”
No response.
“I won't touch you.”
His hands lowered slightly.
“You don't have to come near me, either.”
The room fell strangely quiet.
Dominic raised one hand, signaling the guards to remain where they were.
I noticed Noah watching my fingers.
So I kept both hands visible.
“Are you scared?”
He nodded.
“Of me?”
He shook his head.
“Of something else?”
His eyes darted toward the hallway again.
Then he whispered:
“The bells.”
I looked around.
The mansion was silent.
“What bells, sweetheart?”
Noah pressed his hands over his ears.
“Make them stop.”
A faint melody drifted from somewhere upstairs.
Three delicate piano-like notes.
Noah began trembling again.
Dominic's expression changed.
“Turn that off,” he ordered.
Mrs. Hargrove appeared from the hallway.
“Sir?”
“The music.”
She went pale.
“I didn't turn anything on.”
Dominic stared at her.
“Then find out who did.”
The melody stopped.
Almost immediately, Noah's breathing became steadier.
He looked toward me.
Then did something that apparently surprised everyone.
He crawled forward.
Not toward his father.
Toward me.
His tiny hand settled against my wrist.
I didn't move.
Dominic watched silently.
After several seconds, Noah whispered:
“Clara?”
My heart tightened.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Don't go upstairs.”
“Why not?”
His lower lip trembled.
“That's where Mommy cried.”
The words seemed to strike Dominic harder than any weapon.
For two years, Noah had barely spoken about his mother.
Now he had mentioned her twice in less than a minute.
Dominic crouched beside us.
“Noah, what do you mean?”
The little boy immediately withdrew his hand.
His eyes widened.
Then he stared at his father.
“Daddy.”
Dominic's voice softened.
“Yes, son?”
Noah shook his head.
“No more blue room.”
Dominic went completely still.
I looked between them.
“What blue room?”
Noah buried his face against my shoulder.
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And Dominic Vale, the man who supposedly feared nothing, whispered:
“There hasn't been a blue room in this house for twenty years.”
