Chapter 2
My dad didn't say anything for a long time.
He took Ava upstairs to get changed. I heard him running the bath. I heard him talking to her, soft and gentle, telling her she was safe, telling her it was over.
I stayed in the kitchen. I didn't move. I just stood there, milk dripping from my hair onto the floor, watching Denise.
She was pacing. Her hands were shaking. She kept glancing at the front door, like she was thinking about running.
"Maya," she said, her voice low. "Listen to me. This was a misunderstanding. Your father—he's overreacting. You know how he gets. If you just—"
"Don't talk to me," I said. My voice was steady now. The shaking was gone. "You poured milk on an eight-year-old. You called my mother names. You've been abusing us for two years. And now my dad knows. There's no talking your way out of this."
She laughed. It was a sharp, ugly sound. "Abuse? Please. I poured milk. That's not abuse. You're being dramatic. Just like your mother."
I lunged at her. I don't know what I would've done—hit her, screamed at her, something—but my dad came down the stairs just in time.
"Maya," he said. "Go upstairs. Get changed. I'll handle this."
I went. But I didn't go to my room. I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened.
"Denise," my dad said. "I want you to pack your things. You're leaving. Tonight."
"Robert, don't be ridiculous. I'm your wife. You can't just—"
"I can. And I will. I've had a private investigator following you for three months."
Silence. Then Denise's voice, small. "What?"
"You heard me. Three months. I noticed the credit card statements. The withdrawals. The lies about where you were. I hired someone. He's been watching you. And he put cameras in this house. Hidden cameras. I've seen everything, Denise. Everything. The way you talk to my daughters. The way you treat them. The milk. The insults. The punishments. All of it. I have it on tape."
I covered my mouth to muffle the sound. Cameras. He'd known. He'd been watching. For three months.
"You have no right—" Denise started.
"I have every right. This is my house. My daughters. And you've been abusing them. So pack your things. And get out. If you're not gone in an hour, I'm calling the police. And I'm giving them the tapes."
I heard Denise run up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door. I heard drawers opening. Clothes being thrown into suitcases.
My dad came up the stairs. He saw me standing there. He didn't say anything. He just opened his arms, and I ran into them.
"I'm sorry," he said, over and over. "I'm so sorry, baby. I should've known. I should've listened. I should've protected you."
I cried into his shoulder. For two years, I'd been holding it in. The fear. The anger. The shame. The guilt that I couldn't protect Ava. And now it all came out.
"Dad," I said. "How long? How long did you know?"
He pulled back. He looked me in the eye. His face was wet.
"I suspected for a while," he said. "But I didn't want to believe it. She was so good at pretending. So good at lying. And then—three months ago—I found the bank statements. She'd been stealing from me. Forty thousand dollars. From your mother's life insurance. From your college funds. I hired the investigator. And I saw the tapes. And I wanted to kill her. But I waited. I wanted enough evidence. I wanted to make sure she could never hurt you again."
He wiped my tears. "I'm sorry I waited. I'm sorry you had to go through that one more time. But it's over. She's leaving. And she's never coming back."
Denise left an hour later. She dragged four suitcases to her car. She didn't say goodbye. She didn't look at us. She just drove away.
And for the first time in two years, our house was quiet. Peaceful. Ours.
May you like
But it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Because Denise wasn't the kind of woman who went quietly. And what we found out next would change everything.
