Chapter 2 - The House on Maple Street
The sun was just beginning to bleed a dull, slate-gray light over the flat horizon of south-central Kansas when I turned onto Maple Street. It was 6:15 AM.
Our neighborhood was a quiet grid of ranch-style brick houses built in the late 1970s, shaded by mature silver maples that dropped gold and scarlet leaves onto damp asphalt. My father, Walter, had bought this house when I was twelve. Every corner of it was etched into my memory: the front porch step that creaked in high humidity, the garage door with the faint dent where I’d hit it with a basketball, the hydrangeas my late wife, Natalie, had planted along the foundation during our brief two years living here before her illness consumed her.
Renee’s silver Buick Enclave sat in the driveway, parked crookedly. In the back seat, visible through the tinted glass, were bundles of metallic blue balloons, three empty cardboard pizza boxes, and several oversized gift bags decorated with football motifs.
I parked my rig along the curb, killed the engine, and stepped down onto the pavement. The silence of the neighborhood felt oppressive.
I unlocked the front door with my key, easing it open so the deadbolt wouldn't click.
The foyer smelled of stale pepperoni, melted candle wax, and dry sugar. In the dining room, the mahogany table my father had refinished with his own hands was buried beneath stacks of opened board games, remote-controlled monster trucks, and brand-new sports equipment. A massive banner reading *HAPPY 9TH BIRTHDAY JONAH!* hung lopsided from the crown molding, taped with blue painter's tape that had peeled away from the drywall.
On the kitchen island, sitting beside an empty two-liter bottle of soda, was the trash can.
I walked over and looked down. Right on top of the pile lay the transparent plastic box from Kwik Shop. The printed receipt was crumpled inside it:
*10/17/2026 14:12 PM*
*KWIK SHOP #42 - WICHITA KS*
*1x CHOC CUPCAKE SGL - $3.49*
*TAX - $0.26*
*TOTAL: $3.75*
*CASH: $5.00*
*CHANGE: $1.25*
Two o'clock in the afternoon. Exactly the hour Elsie’s party at Chuck E. Cheese was supposed to have started. Renee had stopped at a convenience store on her way to drop off decorations at the trampoline park, tossed three dollars and change onto a counter, and brought home a dry, preservative-laden pastry for my daughter.
I walked down the hallway, my heavy work boots moving silently over the runner rug.
Jonah’s bedroom door was cracked open. Soft, rhythmic snoring came from inside. Through the gap, I could see his floor covered in wrapping paper, a high-end virtual reality headset resting on his desk, and two new pairs of basketball shoes still in their bright orange boxes.
I kept walking until I reached the small bedroom at the end of the hall.
Elsie’s door was shut. I turned the brass knob with excruciating care and pushed it inward.
The nightlight—a small ceramic rabbit that Natalie had bought before Elsie could walk—cast a warm, buttery glow across the room. Elsie was lying on top of her floral quilt, curled into a tight, defensive ball.
She hadn’t changed.
The lavender party dress was crumpled and creased around her small frame. The delicate tulle skirt was flattened beneath her knees. Her white ankle socks were still on, their lace edges gray from walking across the kitchen floor. One of her hands was tucked under her cheek; the other was clenched tightly around the faded sleeve of Natalie’s oversized gray wool cardigan, holding the fabric against her nose.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed. The weight of eight hours of driving, four years of grief, and an ocean of suppressed rage crashed down on my shoulders all at once.
“Elsie,” I whispered, touching her hair.
Her eyelids fluttered. She blinked once, twice, squinting against the soft amber light, and then her eyes widened.
“Daddy?”
“Hey, baby girl,” I said, my voice thick.
She didn't jump up. She didn't squeal with joy the way she usually did when I returned from a run. Instead, she looked at me with an expression of profound, guarded caution. She sat up slowly, smoothing the wrinkled fabric of her skirt with small, uncertain fingers.
“Daddy, you weren't supposed to be home until Monday,” she whispered.
“I came back early. I wanted to see you.”
She looked down at her lap. Her thumbs traced the seam of her dress. “Nana said you were working because big parties cost too much money.”
My chest seized. “What did she say, Elsie?”
“She said... she said if I asked for a big party like Jonah’s, you’d have to drive all the way to California and never come home,” Elsie said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the furnace. “So I told her the cupcake was good. It was really good, Daddy. It had sprinkles. I didn't cry. I was a big girl. Did she tell you I was a big girl?”
I pulled her into my arms. I buried my face in her shoulder, feeling the stiff, artificial tulle scratch against my cheek. She smelled of Natalie’s old wool and cheap cocoa frosting.
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“You don't ever have to pretend with me,” I told her into her hair, holding her so tightly I could feel the rapid, bird-like thud of her heart. “You never, ever have to pretend.”
***
