Usually Lily would rocket into his arms. Tonight she shrank back, still gripping the object, gaze darting between Ethan and Sofia as though neither felt entirely trustworthy.
Then she whispered words that sliced straight through his anger and left only bewilderment: “Daddy… don’t go near it. If you touch it… you’ll disappear.”
Ethan froze. Children say strange things. This wasn’t whimsy. This was solemn warning.
He looked down. In Lily’s small hands rested an antique-looking wooden music box, edges worn, a tiny metal key protruding from the side.
It wasn’t one of hers. Ethan knew every toy he had ever given her.
Sofia, still on the floor, spoke with care. “Mr. Hayes, that box isn’t safe. She’s clung to it every night. She won’t release it. She won’t sleep. I wasn’t hurting her—I was trying to take it away before—”
“Before what?” Ethan cut in, voice like a blade.
“Before she cries again,” Sofia finished. “She’s not afraid of me. She’s afraid of what she believes will happen if she lets go.”
Ethan forced slow breaths. This was his child. He crouched. “Sweetheart, why would I disappear?”
Lily’s lip quivered. She hugged the box tighter. “Because… somebody said so.”