Page 408

Claire looks toward him.

“Nathan made it up when she was little.”

I already know I'm not going to like this.

“He told her sometimes Mommy or Daddy might say it was time for the quiet game. If we did, she wasn't allowed to talk. She had to put on her shoes, grab Mr. Hopper, and do exactly what we said.”

My eyes move to the stuffed rabbit beside Sophie.

Nathan.

You paranoid son of a bitch.

You knew.

“How long had he been doing that?” I ask.

“Since Sophie was three.”

Three years old.

Nathan died when she was four.

Which means whatever scared him may have started long before his death.

“Did you ever ask him why?”

“All the time.”

“What did he say?”

“That he wanted his girls prepared.”

His girls.

I look away.

Nathan said that constantly.

My girls are waiting.

Taking my girls to the lake.

Claire's going to kill me if I'm late again.

Sophie drew you a picture, asshole. Call her.

I haven't seen one of Sophie's drawings in two years.

Because I stopped calling.

“Cole?”

Claire's voice pulls me back.

“What?”

“You asked what happened next.”