Chapter 2 - The House Where Nobody Said Her Name
Andre didn't speak during the ride home.
Maya sat in the back seat, holding her injured wrist against her stomach.
Two red marks had appeared where Simone's fingers had pressed into her skin.
When they reached their driveway, Andre turned off the engine.
“You embarrassed your stepmother today.”
Maya stared at the back of his seat.
“She hurt me.”
“You shouldn't have tried to run into the street.”
“I was going to my mommy.”
Andre gripped the steering wheel.
“Maya.”
His voice carried a warning.
“Your mother is gone.”
Maya looked up.
“Did you see her die?”
Silence.
Andre turned around slowly.
“What?”
“Did you actually see her die?”
For the first time, her father seemed unable to find an answer immediately.
Then he opened his door.
“Go inside.”
That evening, Maya sat alone in her bedroom while laughter drifted from the television downstairs.
Her room was full of things Simone had chosen.
Pink curtains.
A white bookshelf.
Framed photographs from family vacations.
In every photograph, Andre stood beside Simone.
Maya was usually positioned between them, smiling because someone had told her to.
There wasn't a single picture of Renee, her biological mother.
Maya opened the bottom drawer of her dresser.
Beneath old coloring books lay a small notebook with a bent purple cover.
Inside were memories she had written down because she was afraid of forgetting.
Mommy likes peach tea.
Mommy sings when she cooks.
Mommy calls me her little sunshine.
And on the final page:
I made Mommy a yellow star for her blue scarf.
Maya ran her fingers over the crooked letters.
She remembered sitting cross-legged on the carpet while Renee patiently showed her how to push a needle through fabric.
The star had looked terrible.
One side was too long.
The stitches were uneven.
But her mother had kissed her forehead.
“Now I'll always have a little piece of your sunshine with me.”
Maya pressed the notebook against her chest.
The scarf outside the café had carried that same star.
She hadn't imagined it.
A soft knock came at her door.
Andre entered with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel.
“Your wrist still bothering you?”
Maya nodded.
He set the ice pack beside her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
“Daddy, why did you tell the police I was lying?”
Andre lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.
“I told them what I believed was true.”
“But you didn't look outside.”
His jaw tightened.
“Maya, sometimes people look familiar.”
“Even their clothes?”
He glanced at the notebook in her lap.
“Where did you get that?”
“It's mine.”
“Simone said we put all those old things away.”
“I kept this one.”
Andre reached toward it, but Maya pulled it against her chest.
His hand stopped.
For a moment, he looked exhausted rather than angry.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said.
After he left, Maya heard Simone speaking downstairs.
Her bedroom door hadn't closed completely.
“You saw what happened,” Simone hissed.
Andre answered too softly to understand.
“She wasn't supposed to come anywhere near us before the hearing.”
Maya sat upright.
Hearing?
What hearing?
Andre's voice rose.
“You said she wouldn't find out where we were.”
“Lower your voice!”
Footsteps approached the staircase.
Maya quickly turned off her bedside lamp.
She lay perfectly still as Simone passed her room.
But she couldn't sleep.
The words repeated in her mind.
She wasn't supposed to come anywhere near us.
Who wasn't?
And why was there a hearing?
The following morning, Simone wanted her to stay home.
“She needs a day to calm down,” she told Andre.
But Andre insisted that another unexplained school absence would raise questions.
Maya quietly put on her backpack.
At school, she barely heard her teacher.
During reading period, she drew the woman from the café window.
She colored the scarf navy blue and carefully added one crooked yellow star.
When her teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, approached, Maya covered the drawing.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
Maya's first instinct was to nod.
She had learned that telling adults what they wanted to hear made difficult conversations end faster.
But then she remembered Isaiah Bell.
A stranger had seen her fear.
A stranger had believed it mattered.
“My stepmom hurt me yesterday,” Maya whispered.
Mrs. Jenkins pulled up a chair.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Maya showed her the marks on her wrist.
Then she told her everything.
The woman.
The scarf.
The police.
Her father's refusal to listen.
And finally, the conversation she'd overheard downstairs.
Mrs. Jenkins didn't tell her she was imagining things.
She didn't ask whether she'd been a good girl.
She simply listened.
Then she said, “I'd like you to speak with our school counselor, Ms. Porter. And I'm going to stay with you while we get her.”
Maya looked frightened.
“Will you call my dad?”
“We'll explain what happens next,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “But first, we're going to make sure you're safe.”
For the first time since the café, Maya felt something besides fear.
May you like
Someone was taking her words seriously.
And this time, her father wouldn't be the only person deciding what happened.
