“I wrote a diary,” she said. “Grandma said I couldn’t. She said it was rude to write things down. But I did anyway. I hid it under the mattress.”
She tapped the screen again.
The seventh slide was a photograph of Patricia. She was standing in the doorway of the yellow room. Her arms were crossed. Her face was cold. The photograph was blurry, taken from a low angle, as if Harper had been sitting on the floor.
“I took this with my tablet,” Harper said. “I was supposed to be doing homework. But I wanted to remember what she looked like when she was angry.”
Patricia made a sound. It was small and strangled. Like a wounded animal.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Turn it off.”
Harper ignored her. She tapped the screen again.
The eighth slide was a photograph of a calendar. It was the calendar from last summer. Several dates were circled in red marker. I counted them. Twelve.
Twelve days. Twelve days that Harper had been locked in that room.
“She said it was a game,” Harper said. “She said if I was good, I could come out. But I was never good enough. I was never quiet enough. I was never respectful enough.”
She looked at her grandmother. Her voice was steady. “You said I was a burden. You said my mother ruined you. You said I was just like her.”
Patricia took a step forward. Her face was twisted. “You little liar—”
“Don’t,” I said. I stood up. I put myself between Patricia and my daughter. “Don’t you dare call her a liar.”
Patricia stopped. She looked at me. For the first time, I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before. Fear.
Bennett was still standing by the television. He hadn’t moved. His face was pale. His hands were clenched at his sides.
“Mom,” he said. “Tell me this isn’t true.”
Patricia didn’t answer.
“Tell me,” he said again. His voice cracked. “Tell me you didn’t lock my daughter in a room.”
Patricia looked at him. Her lip curled. “She’s a difficult child. She needed discipline. You were the same way. I did what I had to do.”
Bennett stared at her. He looked like a man who had just discovered that the ground beneath his feet was made of glass.
“You locked her in a room,” he said. “For twelve days.”
“She was fine,” Patricia snapped. “She had a bed. She had books. She had food. I’m not a monster.”
“You are,” I said. My voice was shaking. “You are exactly what you always accused everyone else of being. You are cruel. You are small. And you are done.”
I turned to Harper. She was still sitting on the floor, her tablet in her lap. She was watching me with those calm, old eyes.
“Baby,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I should have known. I should have seen.”
She reached up and took my hand. Her fingers were small and warm. “It’s okay, Mom. You know now.”
The other parents were on their feet. Someone was calling the police. Someone else was ushering the children out of the room. The birthday party was over. The cake was in the trash. The candles had gone out.
Patricia tried to leave. Bennett blocked the door.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. His voice was hard. I had never heard him sound like that before.
“Get out of my way,” Patricia hissed.
