Chapter 2 - What Piper thought she had done
I did not question Piper for three hours.
That was harder than it sounds.
Every part of me wanted names.
Dates.
Objects.
Exact words.
Instead, I called our pediatrician’s after-hours line because Piper was shaking and saying she felt sick.
No injury.
No medical emergency.
The nurse suggested:
Quiet.
Water.
Normal routine.
If panic worsened, seek urgent evaluation.
Then I called Rachel Voss, a child therapist Piper had seen briefly after Audrey died.
Not to conduct an investigation.
To ask how not to make things worse.
Rachel said:
“Let her know you believe she is frightened. Do not promise there will be no consequences for anything until you know what happened. Do promise adult problems stay with adults.”
That was useful.
So I told Piper:
“Whatever happened last summer, you are not responsible for adult insurance problems.”
She stared at me.
“You don’t know.”
“You are eight.”
“I was seven.”
“Exactly.”
She looked offended.
Seven had apparently been mature.
Then:
“I broke Grandma June’s lamp.”
Audrey’s mother, June Morgan, had died years before.
Some of her belongings remained stored in my detached workshop because Audrey had never decided what to do with them.
“What lamp?”
“The brass one.”
I remembered.
Tall reading lamp.
Vintage.
Sentimental more than valuable.
It had been damaged during the storm claim the previous summer.
At least that was what I thought.
Piper said:
“Jenna dared me.”
“To do what?”
“Go in the workshop.”
“Why?”
“She said there were Mom’s old things.”
That made sense.
Audrey died three years earlier from leukemia.
Piper remembered her in fragments.
Perfume.
A yellow raincoat.
Songs in the car.
She collected anything that felt connected.
“You knew the workshop was locked?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get in?”
Piper twisted her bracelet.
“The side door wasn’t locked.”
That surprised me.
I had been told the workshop remained secured during water-damage repairs.
“What happened?”
“We went in.”
“Both of you?”
Piper nodded.
“Then?”
“Jenna got scared.”
“Why?”
“People were coming.”
“Who?”
“Aunt Celeste and a man.”
“Did they see you?”
“Not at first.”
“What were they doing?”
Piper’s breathing changed.
I stopped.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
“But the lamp.”
“We can talk about the lamp.”
She nodded.
“I hid behind boxes. Jenna ran out.”
“Okay.”
“I knocked something.”
“The lamp?”
“Yes.”
“Did it fall?”
She nodded.
“Break?”
“The shade. And the bottom bent.”
“That frightened you?”
“Yes.”
“Then Celeste found you?”
Piper looked down.
“She said I ruined everything.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“She said insurance people were coming and if I told them I had been in there, they would think I broke all the things.”
“All what things?”
“Boxes.”
“What was wrong with the boxes?”
“They were wet.”
The storm.
There had been a severe thunderstorm four nights earlier.
A section of workshop roof leaked.
Water entered along one wall.
Celeste had offered to coordinate restoration because I was out of state finishing a hotel renovation project.
I returned two days after the adjuster inspected.
Celeste handled most of it.
At the time, I was grateful.
Then Piper said:
“She said they could take the house if they thought we lied.”
I closed my eyes.
An insurance carrier does not ordinarily “take your house” because a seven-year-old trespassed into a workshop.
But children hear legal threats as physical ones.
“Did Celeste tell you not to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said you already had enough because Mom died.”
That sentence hurt.
Then:
“Did Jenna know?”
Piper hesitated.
“She knows the lamp.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Piper looked toward the envelope.
“Are the pictures because she wants to show I sneak into places?”
I had been thinking the same thing.
I did not tell her.
“I’m going to find out why they exist.”
“Are you mad?”
“At you?”
She nodded.
“You went somewhere you knew you weren’t supposed to go.”
Her eyes filled.
I continued:
“That was a mistake. It is not the same thing as what Celeste has been making you afraid of.”
“What if the lamp was expensive?”
“Then we deal with a lamp.”
“What if I broke the whole workshop?”
“You did not.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know a seven-year-old did not create a storm.”
For the first time that evening, she almost smiled.
Then I asked one final question.
“Did you take anything out of the workshop?”
Piper shook her head.
Then stopped.
“There was a camera.”
My stomach tightened.
“What camera?”
“Mom’s little one.”
Audrey had owned several cameras.
One small silver digital camera disappeared after the storm.
Celeste’s insurance contents schedule listed it as water-damaged and disposed of.
I remembered because I had been surprised.
Piper whispered:
“I hid it.”
May you like
“Where?”
“I don’t remember.”
