Chapter 1: The Woman Behind the Door
That old woman can stay in there. Tonight, my husband belongs to me.
Patrice smiled as she pulled the blanket over the birdcage.
Her fingers released the fabric just as the front door opened.
Derrick stepped inside, carrying a small white birthday cake with pink roses piped around its edges. A single golden candle rested in the center. His coat was damp from the evening rain, and he had that familiar smile on his face—the one he always wore when he was about to do something for someone he loved.
"Happy birthday, Mom," he said softly, although the person he was addressing wasn't in the room.
Patrice turned toward him.
"You're home early.""
"I left work as soon as I could."" Derrick lifted the cake.
"The bakery almost closed before I got there. You know how Mom likes their strawberry frosting.""
"That's sweet.""
She kissed his cheek.
Her eyes briefly traveled toward the hallway.
Then she smiled again.
Under the blanket, something shifted inside the cage.
Derrick glanced toward it.
"Is the bird okay?""
"He's been making a mess all afternoon.""
A muffled sound came from beneath the fabric.
"Let me out!""
Derrick stopped.
Patrice laughed lightly, as if she'd heard something amusing.
"That bird watches too much television.""
She took his coat and hung it beside the front door.
Derrick placed the cake on the small table near the entrance. He looked down at the delicate pink roses, then toward the hallway.
"Where's Mom?""
Patrice didn't answer immediately.
She adjusted the sleeve of her cream-colored jacket.
"At your aunt's house.""
Derrick frowned.
"At Aunt Denise's?""
"Yes.""
"Why?""
"She wanted some peace and quiet.""
He looked at her.
"Today? It's her birthday.""
Patrice gave a small shrug.
"Not everyone wants a big celebration, Derrick. Your mother told me she didn't want people fussing over her.""
That was a lie.
Gloria had spent the entire previous week talking about her birthday.
She had asked Derrick whether he would be home early. She had mentioned the old photographs she wanted to look through. She had even called Patrice twice to ask what kind of cake they were buying.
But Derrick didn't know all of that.
Or perhaps he did, and he simply hadn't connected the pieces yet.
"She didn't say anything to me," he murmured.
"Because she didn't want you worrying. You know how she is.""
Patrice walked toward the dining table.
"We should go. I made reservations for eight.""
Derrick didn't move.
Instead, he reached for the blanket covering the birdcage.
"Let me see what this troublemaker is doing.""
Patrice's smile tightened.
"Derrick, leave it alone.""
He pulled the blanket away.
The green parrot stood on its wooden perch, feathers slightly ruffled. Its little black eyes followed Derrick as he leaned closer.
For a moment, the bird was silent.
Then it tilted its head.
"Patrice, open the lock!""
Derrick straightened.
The words seemed to hang in the room.
He turned slowly toward his wife.
"Patrice?""
She let out an uncomfortable laugh.
"Your mother taught him that.""
Derrick looked back at the bird.
"Mom taught him to say that?""
"Yes. She thought it was funny.""
The explanation came too quickly.
Only a few minutes earlier, the bird had supposedly been repeating something from television.
Now Gloria was responsible for teaching it those words.
Derrick studied his wife's face.
"Funny?""
"She has a strange sense of humor sometimes.""
He didn't respond.
Instead, he walked down the hallway.
At the end stood a small guest room with a white door and an old brass handle. Gloria had been staying in that room since her bedroom was repainted.
Derrick reached for the handle.
It wouldn't turn.
He tried again.
The lock held.
He looked over his shoulder.
"Why is this door locked?""
Patrice appeared behind him.
"Because I don't want the bird getting in here.""
Derrick glanced back at the cage.
"The bird is in the living room.""
"He's clever. You'd be surprised.""
He tested the handle a third time.
"Then open it.""
Patrice took half a step toward him.
"Baby, we're going to be late.""
He ignored her.
"Patrice, open the door.""
She looked at the cake in the distance.
"Your mother is not even here. Why are you making such a big deal out of a locked room?""
"Because I asked you a question.""
Her expression hardened for half a second before she replaced it with a smile.
"Let's go celebrate. We can talk about this later.""
Derrick finally turned around.
"Give me the key.""
Patrice slipped one hand into her jacket pocket.
The faint metallic sound of keys clinking filled the hallway.
Derrick held out his palm.
"Give me the key, Patrice.""
She pulled out a small key ring.
But she didn't hand it over.
Her eyes flickered toward the locked door, then back to her husband.
Behind them, the parrot suddenly spoke.
"Dre, don't leave Mama behind.""
Derrick froze.
Dre.
That was what his mother had called him since he was a little boy.
Not Derrick. Not sweetheart.
Dre.
The name came from a time when his father was still alive, when his mother used to call him in from the backyard for dinner.
He turned his head toward the bird.
"What did you say?""
The parrot shuffled along its perch.
"Dre, don't leave Mama behind.""
Derrick looked at Patrice again.
His hand remained extended.
"What is going on?""
Patrice squeezed the keys.
For the first time that evening, her smile disappeared completely.
She opened her mouth.
But before a single word came out, Derrick spoke again.
May you like
"Patrice. Give me the key.""
And this time, he wasn't asking.
