Chapter 4 - THE WHISPER IN THE DARK
The man leaned in.
His breath brushed against the mother’s cheek, smelling sharply of mint and stale coffee.
He ignored her hand clawing at his wrist.
He tilted his chin toward the heavy double doors, then back to the woman.
"You better shut up."
His whisper was a hiss of escaping steam.
He squeezed Claire’s shoulder tighter.
The little girl let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to stop the sound.
"Tell him everything is fine."
The mother’s eyes darted frantically.
She looked at the white knuckles gripping her daughter’s shoulder.
She looked at the heavy brass handle of the front door, still twenty feet away.
She looked down at her own swollen stomach, wrapped in torn silk.
Child logic echoed in Claire’s mind again.
If you whisper, it means it's a secret.
Secrets are only for bad things.
Good things are yelled out loud.
The mother’s fingers slowly uncurled from the man’s wrist.
She let her hand drop to the carpet.
The man’s lips twitched upward into a microscopic, satisfied smirk.
He thought he had won.
He thought the gravity of the room still belonged to him.
He loosened his grip on Claire’s shoulder just a fraction of an inch.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
The mother did not shrink back.
She inhaled.
She drew all the air the warm, dim room had to offer into her lungs.
May you like
Her ribcage expanded, pushing her pregnant belly forward.
---
