Chapter 1 - THE PAN

The frying pan missed my daughter’s head by less than a foot.

I know because I knocked it out of the air with my forearm.

It hit the hardwood floor with a crack so loud my six-year-old son screamed.

For half a second, nobody moved.

Not me.

Not my wife.

Not my kids.

The pan spun in a slow circle between us, scraping metal against wood.

Then it stopped.

My eight-year-old daughter, Lily, was pressed against the couch with both hands over her mouth.

Noah stood beside her, shaking so hard his knees were knocking together.

And Claire—my wife of eleven years—just stared at me.

No horror.

No apology.

Not even surprise.

She looked annoyed.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

Claire folded her arms.

“They weren’t listening.”

I stared at her.

“You threw a frying pan at them.”

“Oh, please. I threw it near them.”

“It was going straight at Lily.”

“It wasn’t going to hit her.”

“You don’t know that!”

My voice filled the room.

Lily flinched.

Not because of me.

Because Claire moved.

Just one step.

That was all it took.

Lily threw both arms over her head.

My blood went cold.

Claire saw me notice.

Her face changed.

Only for a second.

But I saw it.

Fear.

Not fear of what she had done.

Fear of what I had just figured out.

I stepped between Claire and the kids.

“Go upstairs,” I told them.

Neither child moved.

“Guys?”

Noah looked at Claire first.

He was waiting for permission.

From her.

Something inside me broke.

I crouched beside them.

“Look at me.”

Lily’s eyes finally met mine.

“You don’t need her permission. Go upstairs. Lock my bedroom door. Stay there until I come get you.”

Lily grabbed Noah’s hand.

They ran.

Claire laughed under her breath.

That laugh made me turn.

“What?”

“You’re making this into some huge drama.”

“I just watched you throw a pan at our children.”

“Because they were acting like animals.”

“They’re eight and six.”

“And you baby them. Constantly.”

I looked toward the stairs.

Then back at her.

“Why did Lily cover her head before you even touched her?”

Claire’s jaw tightened.

“She’s dramatic.”

“No.”

“She gets that from you.”

“No.”

For the first time in eleven years, I looked at my wife and felt like I was staring at a stranger.

I climbed the stairs.

Claire followed.

“Daniel.”

I ignored her.

“Daniel, don’t you dare start questioning them like some detective.”

That made me stop.

I turned slowly.

“Why not?”

Her mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I went into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

Lily and Noah were sitting on the floor beside the bed.

Noah was crying silently.

Lily wasn’t crying at all.

Somehow that scared me more.

I sat down in front of them.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions.

Instead, I asked one.

“How many times?”

Lily’s face crumpled.

She looked at Noah.

Then at the locked door.

Then back at me.

“I don’t know.”

My chest tightened.

“You don’t know how many times she’s thrown things?”

Lily shook her head.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I don’t know how many times she’s done stuff.”

Behind me, Noah spoke.

“She only does the loud stuff when you’re gone.”

I turned.

“The loud stuff?”

He nodded.

My stomach dropped.

“What’s the quiet stuff?”

Noah immediately covered his mouth.

Lily grabbed his arm.

“Noah, stop.”

“Why?” I asked.

Neither answered.

Then Lily looked at the bedroom door.

Her voice was barely audible.

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