Chapter 4: The Closed Door on the Second Floor
The morning light cut through the high arched windows of the grand foyer, casting long, pale stripes across the polished white marble floors where I had stood frozen just twelve hours before. Downstairs, the house felt unnaturally quiet, save for the muffled clatter of silverware and the low hum of the refrigerator in the expansive kitchen off the back hall. I tied my white apron over my green dress, adjusting the crisp fabric with fingers that still felt clumsy from a restless night. My mind kept drifting back to the dark wood console table, the framed family photograph resting upon it, and the sound of Richard’s measured tread on the curved staircase.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed from the dining room archway.
Richard stood there already, fully dressed in a tailored dark suit and white dress shirt, his sleeves unbuttoned at the cuffs as he poured coffee from a silver pot into a porcelain cup. He did not look directly at me, keeping his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the dark liquid, but his posture was rigid, telegraphing the tension that he desperately wanted to disguise as ordinary domestic routine.
"Valeria," he said, his voice clipped and entirely devoid of the warmth one might expect from a father starting his day. "Prepare a tray for Mateo. Scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice. Bring it up to his room."
I kept my hands folded over the front of my apron, nodding once. "Yes, sir."
"He needs to eat," Richard continued, setting the silver pot down with a soft metallic click that sounded too loud in the stillness. "He needs to maintain his schedule. This nonsense from yesterday evening has gone on long enough. Children use theatricality to test boundaries when they realize adults are distracted. We are not going to indulge it."
He framed the situation as a minor behavioral issue, a disciplinary hiccup to be corrected with institutional rhythm rather than care. I didn't argue. Arguing with Richard was like striking a stone wall with a bare hand; it only bruised the skin while leaving the granite unmarked.
"I'll take it up right away," I said quietly.
"See that you do," Richard replied, turning his back to check his gold wristwatch. "And Valeria? Keep it brief. He needs to understand that life in this house proceeds with or without his cooperation."
I assembled the breakfast tray on the marble counter, placing the porcelain plate and the crystal glass of juice carefully beside a linen napkin. The porcelain was warm, but the kitchen air felt chilly. Walking back out toward the grand foyer, I avoided looking at the console table or the curved staircase, though I could feel the invisible weight of them pressing against my shoulders as I climbed the steps. The wrought-iron railings were cold to the touch.
At the end of the long second-floor hallway, the nursery door stood shut.
In a normal household, a child's door might be left slightly ajar in the morning, inviting the sounds of the house. Here, the heavy oak panel was sealed tight, the polished brass handle glinting mockingly under the wall sconces. I approached slowly, balancing the tray in one hand while lifting my free hand to rap my knuckles lightly against the wood.
"Mateo?" I called out, keeping my tone low and level, pitching it so it wouldn't carry down to the foyer where Richard was likely still listening. "It's Valeria. I have your breakfast."
No sound came from within. The stillness behind the door felt dense, heavy with a child's suppressed breathing and the terror of what might lie on the other side.
I waited, listening for the scuff of a sneaker or the rustle of bedsheets. Nothing. I tried the brass handle. It refused to turn, held fast by a deadbolt thrown from the inside. He had locked himself in, barricaded against the world that demanded he act normal when nothing about his life was safe.
"Mateo, please," I murmured, leaning my forehead gently against the cool wood of the door. "I'm not going to force my way in. But you need to open it just a crack. You can't stay in there all day by yourself."
A long pause stretched between us, filled only by the distant tick of a grandfather clock downstairs. Then, a faint metallic scrape broke the silence—the sliding of a latch turning over from within. The door drifted inward an inch, revealing a narrow sliver of dark carpet and the hem of a burgundy polo shirt.
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"Valeria?" a small, trembling voice whispered through the gap.
Before I could answer, a sudden, heavy footstep sounded on the hardwood behind me. I turned my head slightly to find Richard standing at the top of the grand staircase, halfway down the corridor, watching us with unblinking eyes, his expression a mask of cold surveillance.
