Chapter 1 - THE PAN

The frying pan missed my daughterâs 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 Claireâmy wife of eleven yearsâjust stared at me.
No horror.
No apology.
Not even surprise.
She looked annoyed.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â I said.
Claire folded her arms.
âThey werenât listening.â
I stared at her.
âYou threw a frying pan at them.â
âOh, please. I threw it near them.â
âIt was going straight at Lily.â
âIt wasnât going to hit her.â
âYou donât know that!â
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.
âGo upstairs,â I told them.
Neither child moved.
âGuys?â
Noah looked at Claire first.
He was waiting for permission.
From her.
Something inside me broke.
I crouched beside them.
âLook at me.â
Lilyâs eyes finally met mine.
âYou donât need her permission. Go upstairs. Lock my bedroom door. Stay there until I come get you.â
Lily grabbed Noahâs hand.
They ran.
Claire laughed under her breath.
That laugh made me turn.
âWhat?â
âYouâre making this into some huge drama.â
âI just watched you throw a pan at our children.â
âBecause they were acting like animals.â
âTheyâre eight and six.â
âAnd you baby them. Constantly.â
I looked toward the stairs.
Then back at her.
âWhy did Lily cover her head before you even touched her?â
Claireâs jaw tightened.
âSheâs dramatic.â
âNo.â
âShe gets that from you.â
âNo.â
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.
âDaniel.â
I ignored her.
âDaniel, donât you dare start questioning them like some detective.â
That made me stop.
I turned slowly.
âWhy not?â
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 wasnât 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.
âHow many times?â
Lilyâs face crumpled.
She looked at Noah.
Then at the locked door.
Then back at me.
âI donât know.â
My chest tightened.
âYou donât know how many times sheâs thrown things?â
Lily shook her head.
âNo.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
âI donât know how many times sheâs done stuff.â
Behind me, Noah spoke.
âShe only does the loud stuff when youâre gone.â
I turned.
âThe loud stuff?â
He nodded.
My stomach dropped.
âWhatâs the quiet stuff?â
Noah immediately covered his mouth.
Lily grabbed his arm.
âNoah, stop.â
âWhy?â I asked.
Neither answered.
Then Lily looked at the bedroom door.
Her voice was barely audible.
May you like
âBecause sheâs still in the house.â
And downstairs, something shattered.