The little girl came back from her father’s house and said she did not like Daddy’s game, and Mara felt something inside her turn cold before she even understood why.

The apartment door had closed behind them with a soft click.

It was the kind of sound Mara heard every day and never noticed.

But this time, after that small click, everything went still.

Sol stood in the hallway with her shoes on and her backpack hanging crooked from one shoulder.

Her winter coat was zipped to her chin, though the heater clicked and breathed warm air through the living room vents.

One small hand gripped the strap of her backpack, and the other held the gray stuffed rabbit she had slept with since she was two.

The rabbit’s left ear was nearly bald from being twisted.

Mara saw Sol twisting it now.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Mara did not speak right away.

She had learned, during years of living with Victor, that fear had a temperature.

It changed a room.

It made silence feel heavy and unnatural.

Her daughter was six years old.

She was usually noise in human form.

She came home from school with crumbs on her shirt and stories spilling out before she crossed the threshold.

She asked questions while Mara tied her shoes.

She sang to the microwave.

She named every cloud they passed on the walk home.

But this child in the hallway was quiet in a way no child should ever have to be.

Mara set her purse on the small console table by the door.

—Hi, sunshine, she said, making her voice soft.

Sol did not answer.

She stared at the floor, at the narrow line of light falling through the blinds.

Her chin tucked lower into her coat collar.

Mara slowly crouched until they were eye to eye, or close to it.

Sol still would not look at her.

—How was the weekend with Daddy?

The rabbit’s ear twisted faster.

Sol swallowed.

The sound was tiny, but Mara heard it clearly in the silent apartment.

—I didn’t like Daddy’s game.

Mara kept her face still.

She had practiced that face for years.

A calm face.

A face that did not frighten a child.

A face that did not give Victor the satisfaction of making her react, even when he was not there.

But her body betrayed her.

Her hands went numb.

The skin at the back of her neck prickled.

—What game, honey?

Sol’s eyes moved toward the door.

Then to the hallway.

Then back to the floor.

—He said it was secret.

Mara felt her pulse begin to pound in her ears.

—What kind of secret?

Sol pressed the stuffed rabbit against her mouth, muffling her words.

—He said if I told, you would disappear.

Mara’s smile vanished before she could stop it.

For one second, the room tilted.

She saw Victor as he had been in court two months earlier, standing in his gray suit with his hands folded, speaking in that patient voice he used when he wanted to sound wounded and reasonable.

He had told the judge Mara was emotional.

Bitter.

Overprotective.

He had smiled when he said he only wanted equal time with his daughter.

Mara had brought messages.

Notes.

Dates.

The broken lamp from the night