Chapter 2
Grant called security while I searched the dressing room.
Sophie’s coat was gone. So were Bunny and the inhaler.
She had not planned to disappear. She had only meant to collect her things.
That frightened me more.
“The ballroom exits are covered,” the security chief said through Grant’s phone. “No child matching her description entered the lobby.”
“Check the service corridor,” I said.
I opened the backstage door. Cold air moved through the hall beyond it. The emergency lights were not working.
“Why is it dark?”
Grant used his phone as a flashlight. “The old wing shares this circuit.”
“The wing your safety report says has been sealed for six months?”
His silence answered me.
I had arrived at Blackwood Bay that morning with one suitcase, one child, and the authority to decide whether the hotel survived.
The bank had given me ninety days to repair its finances or recommend a sale. Because the review included night operations, I was required to live on the property.
Sophie’s summer program had closed after a storm damaged its roof. The hotel’s children’s music program had seemed like the safest remaining option.
I had been wrong.
We reached a heavy door at the end of the corridor. A faded sign read EAST WING—CLOSED.
The door stood open by several inches.
On the floor lay a small silver star. Sophie’s teacher had placed three of them on her dress before the performance.
I picked it up.
“She came this way.”
Grant pushed open the door. Water ran down the stairs on the other side.
“The lower passage floods during heavy rain,” Grant said.
“Then why wasn’t this locked?” I asked.
“It should have been.”
We went down.
Each step took us farther from the voices searching above. At the bottom, water covered our shoes.
“Sophie!” I called.
No answer.
Grant swept his light across old linen carts and stacked chairs.
“Does she hide when she’s frightened?” Grant asked.
“She finds somewhere quiet,” I said.
“Can she use the inhaler alone?” Grant asked.
“Yes.”
“How many doses are left?” Grant asked.
“Not enough.”
The gauge had entered the red zone that morning. I had ordered a replacement, but the pharmacy delivery was delayed by the storm.
Grant looked at me.
“You brought her here without enough medication?”
The accusation struck exactly where he intended.
“And you left a condemned wing open beside a children’s event.”
He looked away first.
A metal door blocked the next passage. Grant pulled the handle. It did not move.
“The frame has swollen.”
I struck the door with both hands.
“Sophie!”
For several seconds, there was only dripping water.
Then I heard a cough.
It came from the other side.
“Mom?”
I pressed my face against the narrow gap.
“I’m here. Use your inhaler.”
“It’s empty.”
Grant drove his shoulder into the door.
It did not open.
Water rushed around our ankles as another drain backed up.
Sophie coughed again.
My phone rang again. The replacement inhaler was still at a pharmacy on the other side of the closed bridge.
“Tell the paramedics to bring albuterol to the east-wing entrance,” I said.
Grant repeated the instruction to security, then removed his shoes before stepping deeper into the water. One floated away behind him.
Seven years ago, I would have noticed that small, ridiculous detail and almost laughed. Now I watched the water reach the hem of his trousers and thought only of Sophie trying to count her breaths the way I had taught her.
Four in. Four out. Call for me before fear made the numbers disappear.
This time, she could not finish saying my name.