CHAPTER 1: THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR
Mia Harper woke before sunrise because someone was standing outside her bedroom door.
She did not hear footsteps. Camille never walked loudly when she wanted to know whether Mia was awake. What reached her instead was the faint scrape of a fingernail against painted wood, followed by the soft metallic movement of the handle being tested without turning all the way. Mia remained still beneath the covers, breathing through her mouth and watching the narrow strip of darkness below the door.
After several seconds, a shadow crossed the gap.
Then it disappeared.
Mia waited until the old clock on her dresser had ticked another full minute before lifting her head from the pillow. Her bedroom was dim and colorless in the early morning, except for the blue dress hanging from the closet door. Grant had bought it for her birthday after she pointed to it in a shop window two months earlier. Camille had called the dress childish when the package arrived, but she had ironed it that evening and hung it where Mia would see it as soon as she woke.
On the desk beside the window sat a framed photograph of Rebecca Harper.
Mia’s mother was laughing in the picture, her brown hair pushed across her face by the wind. She was standing on a beach in Maine, barefoot and holding one hand toward whoever had taken the photograph. Grant had told Mia that Rebecca always ruined pictures by moving at the wrong moment. Mia thought that was why she liked this one. Her mother did not look posed or careful. She looked alive.
The bedroom door opened.
Camille stood in the doorway wearing a pale silk robe, her blond hair pinned away from her face. Even at six in the morning, she looked composed enough to be photographed. Her gaze moved from Mia to the framed picture, then settled on the open eyes above the blanket.
“You’re awake,” she said.
Mia sat up slowly. “I thought I heard something.”
“This house makes noises.”
Camille crossed the room and picked up the photograph. She wiped the glass with the corner of her sleeve although there was no dust on it, then turned it facedown on the desk.
“Your father wants today to be happy,” she said. “We’re going to make sure it is.”
Mia looked at the back of the frame. “Can Mom be downstairs for the cake?”
Camille’s expression did not change, but the muscles near her mouth tightened. She placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly.
“Rebecca will not be sitting at the table.”
“I know. I only meant the picture.”
“I know what you meant.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the words. Mia lowered her eyes to the blanket and ran her thumb along a loose thread. Camille preferred direct answers, but direct answers often became the beginning of longer conversations in which Mia was told what she had truly meant, what she had truly felt, and why those things were hurtful.
Camille straightened.
“Wear the pink dress.”
“Dad bought the blue one.”
“The pink photographs better.”
“He said I could choose.”
Camille stared at her for several seconds. “Then choose carefully.”
She left the room without closing the door.
Mia remained in bed until she heard Camille’s footsteps descend the main staircase. Only then did she reach beneath her pillow and pull out the small silver locket Grant had given her the night before. The chain was thin and cool against her palm. Inside was a miniature photograph of Rebecca holding Mia when she was an infant, their foreheads touching.
Grant had fastened it around Mia’s neck and said, “Now she can be with you tomorrow.”
Camille had been standing in the doorway when he said it.
At breakfast, the kitchen smelled of coffee, orange peel, and the vanilla cakes Teresa Morales had baked before dawn. Two undecorated layers cooled on wire racks beside the stove. Teresa moved quietly between them, checking the texture with the flat of one hand while keeping an eye on Mia.
“Happy birthday, pequeña,” she said.
Camille looked up from her phone.
Teresa corrected herself at once. “Happy birthday, Mia.”
Mia smiled and touched the locket beneath her pajama collar. She had known Teresa for as long as she could remember. Teresa had been there before Rebecca became ill, before the medicine bottles began filling the bathroom cabinet, and before adults started speaking in careful voices whenever Mia entered a room.
Grant walked into the kitchen carrying his jacket over one arm. His phone was pressed to his ear, and his tie hung loose around his collar. He gave Mia a distracted smile, then raised one finger to signal that he needed another minute.
“Yes, I understand,” he said into the phone. “Move the meeting to eleven. I’ll take the first flight back.”
Mia stopped stirring her oatmeal.
Grant ended the call and placed the phone on the counter. “The client changed everything at the last minute.”
“You’re leaving?” Mia asked.
“I’ll be back before the cake.”
“You promised.”
“And I’m keeping that promise.” He kissed the top of her head. “The flight is less than an hour. I’ll be home before you blow out a single candle.”
Across the table, Camille lifted her coffee cup. “Mia understands that adults have responsibilities.”
Grant glanced at his daughter. “You understand, right?”
Mia could feel Camille watching her.
“Yes.”
Grant smiled with visible relief. “That’s my girl.”
Camille reached across the table and adjusted the collar of Mia’s pajamas, her fingertips brushing the hidden chain. She stopped.
“What are you wearing?”
Mia covered the locket instinctively.
Grant picked up his car keys. “The present I gave her.”
“I thought we agreed not to encourage her fixation.”
“We agreed she was allowed to miss her mother.”
Camille’s face softened immediately, almost beautifully. “Of course she is. I only worry that keeping Rebecca at the center of every important day prevents Mia from moving forward.”
Grant exhaled and looked at the time. “We can talk about this later.”
Camille rose and kissed his cheek. “There’s nothing to discuss. I want today to be perfect.”
Grant crouched beside Mia’s chair. “I’ll be back by three.”
Mia wanted to ask him not to go. The request rose into her throat and stayed there, held in place by Camille’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Grant squeezed her hand and left through the side door. A few moments later, the sound of his car moved down the gravel drive and faded beyond the trees.
The kitchen became very still.
Camille remained beside Mia until even the distant hum of the engine had disappeared. Then she removed her hand from Mia’s shoulder and looked toward Teresa.
“You can finish the cake in the service kitchen.”
Teresa glanced at the cooling layers. “Mr. Harper asked me to decorate it here so Mia could watch.”
“Mr. Harper has gone.”
The words were spoken calmly, but Teresa obeyed. She carried the first cake layer toward the rear hallway, then returned for the second. As she passed Mia, she gave the child a brief, searching look.
Camille waited until Teresa was gone.
“Take off the necklace.”
Mia pressed her palm over the locket. “Dad said I could wear it.”
“Your father is sentimental when he feels guilty.”
“He doesn’t feel guilty.”
“He left on your birthday.”
“He’s coming back.”
Camille gave a small smile that did not reach her eyes. “Then you should make sure he comes home to a pleasant daughter.”
Mia slid off the chair. “I’m going upstairs.”
Camille caught her wrist before she had taken a full step. Her grip was not hard enough to leave a mark, but it tightened each time Mia moved.
“Today matters to me,” Camille said. “I planned the flowers, the photographs, the food, and the dress you apparently intend to reject. I will not spend the afternoon competing with a dead woman.”
Mia stared at her.
The house was so quiet that she could hear Teresa setting down a metal bowl in the service kitchen.
“She’s my mom,” Mia said.
Something shifted in Camille’s face.
It was slight. A loosening around the eyes, a tiny movement of the jaw, the momentary disappearance of the elegant woman who smiled at neighbors and remembered everyone’s birthdays. For one second, Mia saw the expression Camille usually kept hidden until doors were closed and Grant was far enough away that he could not return unexpectedly.
Camille released her wrist.
“Go put on the pink dress.”
Mia did not move.
Camille leaned closer. “And leave the necklace on the desk.”
When Mia reached the hallway, Teresa was standing near the service door, holding the second cake layer against her chest. Her eyes dropped to the faint red marks forming around Mia’s wrist.
Neither of them spoke.
Camille remained in the kitchen, watching.
Mia climbed the stairs one slow step at a time. At the landing, she looked down and saw Camille turn toward the dark window above the sink. For several seconds, her stepmother studied her own reflection in the glass and practiced smiling until the expression looked warm.
Then Camille reached for her phone and began recording.
“Today,” she said brightly to the camera, “we’re celebrating our beautiful little girl.”
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Behind her, Teresa quietly set down the cake.
For the first time since Rebecca’s death, she slipped her own phone from her apron pocket and checked that the camera was working. }); })();
