Chapter 4 - The House on Fire
The drive back to Bedford was suffocatingly quiet.
Maisie sat in the backseat of the Ford Explorer, clutching her wooden fox against her chest, watching me nervously in the rearview mirror.
"Daddy?" she asked quietly as we turned onto our tree-lined street.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"Are you going to tell Mommy?"
I checked the driveway ahead. Claire’s white Audi SUV was already parked near the front garage. She was home early from her law firm.
"I need to talk to Mommy, yes," I said gently, placing the car in park. "But I want you to know something, Maisie. You are not in trouble. You did the bravest thing a little girl could ever do by telling me the truth today."
She let out a long breath, her tiny shoulders relaxing. "Is the wooden fox man a bad man?"
I looked at the house, my heart aching for the storm that was about to break inside its walls.
"No, Maisie," I whispered. "He's just a man who got lost in a very sad story."
Ten minutes later, after settling Maisie upstairs in her room with her golden retriever, Moose, I walked down to the main floor study.
Claire was standing by the fireplace, holding a glass of white wine, looking over a stack of legal briefs. She looked breathtakingly beautiful in her cream-colored silk blouse and trousers—confident, brilliant, and completely oblivious to the wrecking ball hanging over her head.
"Ethan?" Claire looked up, her face lighting up with genuine surprise. "What are you doing home?! I thought you were in Chicago closing the Nexus deal!"
"I didn't go to Chicago, Claire," I said, shutting the heavy mahogany doors of the study behind me.
Claire set her wine glass down, her smile fading as she read the serious, pale expression on my face. "What happened? Did the deal fall through?"
"The deal doesn't matter," I said, walking toward her desk. "Claire... we need to talk about your mother. And we need to talk about your father."
Claire frowned, tilting her head in confusion. "My father? Warren died five months ago, Ethan. What does he have to do with anything?"
"Not Warren," I said, taking a deep breath as my stomach churned into knots. "Thomas."
The moment the name left my mouth, the ambient light in the room seemed to shift. Claire’s posture stiffened into instant, icy defense.
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"Ethan, you know I don't like talking about Thomas," she said softly, her voice tightening. "He died eight years ago. We buried what was left of his memory. Why are you bringing this up now?"
"Because Thomas didn't die eight years ago, Claire," I said, looking her straight in the eyes. "He is alive. And two hours ago, I found him standing in a woodworking shop in Port Chester, carving a birdhouse with our daughter."
