CHAPTER 8
The custody investigator arrived on Monday.
Her name was Rebecca Shaw.
Unlike Angela, she didn't know Sophie.
Unlike Detective Ortiz, she wasn't investigating Vanessa.
She was evaluating me.
That distinction mattered.
Rebecca walked through the house with a clipboard.
She inspected Sophie's room.
The kitchen.
The pantry.
The blue room.
When she opened that door, Sophie froze behind me.
I noticed.
So did Rebecca.
“Would you like this door removed?” she asked Sophie.
My daughter looked surprised.
“Removed?”
“Yes.”
Sophie looked at me.
“Can doors be removed?”
“Yes.”
She thought for several seconds.
“Can we take the whole room away?”
I wished I could.
Rebecca crouched.
“We can't remove the room, but we can change it.”
Sophie stared inside.
“What could it be?”
I answered before thinking.
“Anything.”
By the end of that afternoon, Sophie decided the blue room would become an art room.
The lock came off first.
I removed it myself.
Then the door.
A contractor arrived the next morning to install shelves, lights, and a wide opening.
Sophie chose yellow paint.
“That way it can't be a punishment room anymore.”
I nearly cried in front of the painter.
Rebecca noticed.
She noticed everything.
Later, she sat across from me.
“You've made substantial changes.”
“Not enough.”
“What would be enough?”
I looked toward the backyard where Sophie and Emily were planting flowers.
“I don't know yet.”
“That's a better answer than most parents give.”
I didn't know whether it was a compliment.
I didn't ask.
“Will she stay with me?”
Rebecca closed her notebook.
“I haven't decided.”
My stomach tightened.
“Emily has agreed to temporary guardianship if necessary.”
“I know.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Terrified.”
She waited.
“And grateful.”
That answer was also true.
Emily had moved into the guest suite.
She handled school pickups while I attended legal meetings.
Sophie adored her.
Part of me feared Sophie might discover life was easier without me.
Another part knew that fear was selfish.
Rebecca asked the question directly.
“Would you cooperate if Sophie were temporarily placed with Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you disagreed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Sophie has spent too long living inside adult decisions made for adult convenience.”
I swallowed.
“I won't do that again.”
That evening, Emily found me in Claire's old closet.
I was sitting on the floor with one of her sweaters in my hands.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She sat beside me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
“I hated you after she died,” Emily said.
“I know.”
“I thought you ran back to work because you didn't care.”
“I ran because I cared too much.”
She looked at me.
“I couldn't walk into this house without seeing Claire everywhere.”
“So you left Sophie here to see her everywhere alone.”
The truth hurt.
“Yes.”
Emily's eyes filled.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“I thought being angry at you meant I didn't have to look at what I did.”
I turned.
“What did you do?”
“I stayed away.”
“Vanessa pushed you away.”
“And I let her.”
We sat there in silence.
Two adults realizing grief didn't excuse everything it explained.
Then Emily laughed softly.
“What?”
“She hated that sweater.”
I looked down.
Claire's green sweater.
“She wore it constantly.”
“Because you bought it.”
I smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
“She said it made her look like a Christmas tree.”
For the first time, remembering Claire didn't feel like being stabbed.
It hurt.
But there was warmth inside it.
Later that night, my phone rang.
David.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“Vanessa made bail.”
I stood.
“How?”
“Her attorney argued she's not a flight risk because the passport was seized.”
“She was arrested at an airport.”
“I know.”
“Trying to leave the country.”
“I know.”
My voice rose.
Sophie appeared in the hallway.
I stopped immediately.
David continued.
“She has an ankle monitor and a restraining order. She cannot approach you, Sophie, the house, or Sophie's school.”
“That isn't enough.”
“Legally, it's what we have.”
I hated the helplessness.
Then Sophie asked, “Is she coming?”
I ended the call.
“No.”
“You sounded mad.”
“I am.”
“At me?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly.
Dr. Lee had taught us a ritual.
When Sophie became afraid, we named what was true.
So I crouched.
“Truth number one. Vanessa is not allowed here.”
Sophie held up one finger.
“Truth number two. Security is outside.”
Two fingers.
“Truth number three. You can tell me when you're scared.”
Three.
“Truth number four,” Sophie said.
I waited.
“Winston bites bad guys.”
I almost laughed.
“Winston is mostly afraid of vacuum cleaners.”
“He can still try.”
“Fair.”
That night, security doubled.
At 1:08 a.m., an alarm triggered at the rear gate.
I ran downstairs.
Two guards were already moving.
I checked Sophie's room first.
Empty.
My heart stopped.
Then I heard her crying.
“Daddy!”
The bathroom.
She had hidden in the bathtub with Winston.
I grabbed her.
“I'm here.”
“Is it her?”
“I don't know.”
My phone rang.
Security.
A car had stopped outside the property.
The driver threw something over the gate and sped away.
Police recovered the package.
It was a box.
Inside was Sophie's old pink sweater.
The one she'd worn the day Claire died.
There was a note.
You can't protect her forever.
My fear transformed.
Not into rage.
Into clarity.
Vanessa wasn't just defending herself.
She was threatening my daughter.
And this time, there would be no private solution.
No quiet payout.
No agreement designed to protect the Sterling name.
I called David.
“Whatever it costs, whatever comes out, whatever embarrassment it causes me, we give police everything.”
“Richard—”
“Everything.”
My reputation could burn.
My company could replace me.
Every ugly mistake I had made could become public.
I didn't care.
May you like
Sophie had spent months believing adults wouldn't risk discomfort to save her.
I was going to prove her wrong.
