The penthouse was too quiet.
Derick pushed the heavy oak door open, the stale taste of scotch coating his tongue. He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it toward the housekeeper, missing the man's outstretched hands by a foot. He didn't bother to apologize. A smile lingered on his lips-the afterglow of last night's gala, the flash of cameras, the way Kamryn had looked at him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cluster of metallic silver balloons, the ones he had grabbed from the after-party. They bumped against the ceiling as he walked down the hallway.
"Cece?" he called out, his voice light. "Daddy's home. I brought you something."
He stopped outside her bedroom door. It was closed. Unusual. Cece always left it open, the sound of her cartoons drifting into the hall.
He pushed it open.
The bed was made. Pristine. The sheets were tucked tight, the pillows fluffed. The medical equipment-the oxygen tank, the pulse oximeter-was gone. The room smelled of antiseptic and emptiness.
Derick's smile faltered. The balloons drifted down, brushing against his shoulder. He turned and walked toward the living room.
Elinor was sitting on the sofa. She was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, a rumpled blouse and dark slacks. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers locked around a silver locket. She looked up as he entered.
There was no expression on her face. Her eyes were flat, glassy, like the surface of a dead lake.
"Where is she?" Derick asked. He tried to keep his tone casual, but a thread of unease wound through his chest. "Where's Cece?"
Elinor stared at him. She looked at him like he was a stranger who had wandered into the wrong apartment.
"Cece is dead," she said.
The words hung in the air, sharp and brutal.
Derick froze. His fingers loosened. One of the balloons slipped from his grip, drifted toward a side table, and struck a brass lamp. The sharp metal prong of the balloon's ribbon caught the surface.
Pop.
The sound was deafening in the silence. Derick flinched. The remaining balloons drooped in his hand.
"What did you say?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous low.
"You heard me," Elinor said. Her voice was monotone, devoid of the hysteria he expected.
Derick's mind rejected the words. They were impossible. Absurd. This was Elinor playing one of her games, punishing him for staying out, for taking Kamryn to the gala.
"You're lying," he snarled, taking a step toward her. "Are you playing games again? Just like you did five years ago at the fundraiser? You'll do anything for attention, won't you? You're being ridiculous because I didn't answer your calls."
"I'm not lying," Elinor said. A ghost of a smile touched her lips, a terrible, hollow thing. "She died waiting for her daddy to take her to see Mickey."
Derick lunged. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Elinor by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her collarbones. He shook her once, hard.
"Stop it!" he yelled. "This is sick, Elinor. Even for you. Where is she? Did you send her to your mother's?"
Elinor didn't fight him. She didn't cry out. She just let him hold her up, her body limp in his grip.
"I want to see her!" Derick released her with one hand, fumbling for his phone. He scrolled to Dr. Cole's number.
"You can't," Elinor said. "She's been cremated."
Derick stopped. He stared at her, the phone forgotten in his hand. "What?"
"The ashes are right here." Elinor lifted the locket. It swung on its chain, catching the morning light.
Derick stared at the small piece of jewelry. A wave of revulsion and disbelief washed over him. This was too far. Even for Elinor, this was a twisted, manipulative lie.
"You're hiding her," he said, his voice trembling with rage. "You're using her to get back at me. You think this is funny?"
Before Elinor could respond, Derick's phone rang. The screen lit up with a photo of Kamryn, her face bright and smiling.
Derick looked at the phone, then at Elinor. Elinor's expression didn't change. She just sat there, holding the locket, that empty look in her eyes.
He answered the call. "Kamryn?"
"Derick," Kamryn sobbed on the other end. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but Kiana has a terrible fever. She's burning up. I don't know what to do. I need you."
Derick looked down at the balloon in his hand, then at the woman sitting on the sofa. The choice was instantaneous. The reality of a sick child versus the theatrical lie of a bitter wife.
"If you're going to keep up this sick joke," Derick said, shoving the phone into his pocket, "I don't have time for it."
He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
"Divorce papers will be sent to your office," Elinor said to his back.
Derick paused, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around. He wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him, the sound reverberating through the empty apartment.
Elinor sat alone. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. The numbness that had protected her cracked, and the pain hit her like a tidal wave. She doubled over, a sob tearing from her throat, raw and ugly.
She clutched the locket until the metal edges bit into her palm. She wouldn't break. She couldn't afford to break. Not yet.
She reached for her phone on the coffee table. Her hands shook as she typed into the search bar: Private investigators New York. Medical malpractice.
