Death Under The Velvet Skin Chapter 2

Grandpa was out of the country. He wouldn't reach the city until tomorrow at the earliest.

Mrs. Gable tried to take me home with her, but the police insisted on reaching my father first. When they finally got him on the line and explained the situation, I heard his voice crackle through the speaker—derisive and cold.

"I checked it myself. It was a slipcover, for God's sake. Claire has nails like talons; if she wanted out, she would have clawed through the fabric."

I pulled on Joe’s sleeve and whispered, "It wasn't normal fabric."

The detective had told Joe earlier—the slipcover was industrial-grade, puncture-resistant synthetic velvet. It was designed to be indestructible. Even with a knife, it would have been a struggle. And with the zipper teeth intentionally jammed with adhesive, she never stood a chance.

My father must have heard me. He let out a sharp, jagged laugh.

"Daisy, stop it. I know your mother coached you to say this. It’s pathetic."

Joe tried to argue, but my father cut him off.

"This is the last time I’m dealing with this drama. I’m at an awards gala with Tiffany. If you keep helping Claire lie to the police, I’ll have your contract terminated the second I get back."

He hung up. Joe cursed under his breath, and the police allowed Mrs. Gable to take me for the night.

But in the middle of the night, I slipped out of her guest bed. I climbed through a window and walked back to my house. It still smelled like Mommy’s perfume. I curled up on the rug in the foyer and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming.

My father was standing over me, looking haggard and furious.

"I broke up with Tiffany. Are you happy now? Is your mother finally satisfied?"

He spat the words at me, then tossed the same ragged teddy bear from before at my feet.

"There. Happy birthday. Now, where is she? Why is the house a mess?"

I didn't answer. I just pointed to the spot on the floor where the beanbag had been.

"Mommy bled a lot."

He scoffed, but then he saw it—a dark, brownish stain on the expensive hardwood where the fluids had pooled and seeped. He jumped back, his face contorting.

"Stop it, Daisy. You probably spilled some juice or used some animal blood to freak me out. Your mother is fine. Tiffany told me she bought a standard beanbag. It’s impossible to suffocate in one of those."

He knew. He knew what it was, and he had still sewn her in.

I stared at the stain. I remembered the detectives using words like "excruciating" and "asphyxiation." I felt a sudden, sharp heat in my chest. I lunged at him, hitting his legs with my small fists.

"Bad daddy! Give her back! Give Mommy back!"

He had never had patience for me. He snarled, swinging his arm to shove me away.

"Knock it off!"

The force of his strike sent me flying. I crashed into someone entering the house behind him.

A woman shrieked, clutching her stomach as she stumbled. It was Tiffany. She looked at my father with watery, manipulative eyes.

"David... I’m pregnant. I came back to tell you. Are you really going to throw me away?"

The fury on my father's face vanished, replaced by a look of manic joy. He kicked me aside to get to her, hovering over her stomach.

"Why didn't you tell me? I’ve been miserable all night."

Tiffany gave a demure smile, but then she winced, pressing her hand harder against her belly.

"The doctor said the first trimester is fragile. When Daisy hit me just now... it really hurt, David."

Without a word, my father turned and backhanded me. Stars exploded in my vision. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine.

Tiffany pretended to look concerned, but the corners of her mouth were twitching upward.

I remembered that smile. It was the same smile she wore the day they sewed Mommy in. She had leaned down and whispered in my ear: “Your mother can’t win against me. And neither can you.”

I forced myself to stand, staring at her. She let out another tiny whimper.

"David, maybe this is a mistake. Look at the way she’s looking at me. I’m scared of what she’ll do to our baby."

My father’s face turned purple. He unbuckled his leather belt.

The belt lashed across my arms and legs. I screamed, begging for him to stop.

But the more I screamed, the harder he swung. He started yelling toward the second floor:

"Claire! Do you hear this? If you don't come out right now, I’m going to beat this brat half to death!"

But Mommy couldn't answer him.

He raised the belt again, but a thunderous voice shattered the air from the doorway.

"Stop! Drop that belt right now!"