Sarah Pekkanen

House of Glass

Chapter One

Tuesdays at 4:30 p.m. That’s her routine.

I stand on a grimy square of sidewalk near the busy intersection of 16^th and K Streets, scanning the approaching pedestrians.

My new client will arrive in seven minutes.

I don’t even need to meet her today. All I have to do is visually assess her to see if I’ll be able to work with her. The thought makes my shoulders curl forward, as if I’m instinctively forming a version of the fetal position.

I could refuse to take on this client. I could claim it’s impossible for me to be neutral because the media frenzy surrounding the suspicious death of her family’s nanny has already shaped my perceptions.

But that would mean lying to Charles, who is the closest thing I have to a father.

You know I hate asking for favors, Stella, Charles said last week from across the booth in his favorite Italian restaurant. He unfolded his heavy white napkin with a flick of his wrist, the crisp snap punctuating his words.

Perhaps a reminder that in all the years I’ve known him, he has never asked me for a single one?

I’m not sure if I can help her, I’d told Charles.

You’re the only one who can. She needs you to be her voice, Stella.

Saying no to the man who gave me my career, walked me down the aisle, and has provided a shoulder during the dissolution of my marriage isn’t an option. So here I wait.

My new client won’t take any notice of me – a 38-year-old brunette in a black dress and knee-high boots, seemingly distracted by her phone, just like half the people in this power corridor of D.C.

Two minutes until she’s due to arrive.

As the weak October sun ducks behind a cloud, stealing the warmth from the air, a nasal-sounding horn blares behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin.

I whip around to glare at the driver and when I re-focus my attention, my client is rounding the corner a dozen yards away, her blue sweater buttoned up to her neck and her curly red hair spilling over her shoulders. Her expression is wooden.

She’s tiny; even smaller than I expected. She appears to be closer to seven years old than nine.

Her mother – tall, brittle-looking, and carrying a purse that costs more than some cars – holds my client’s hand as they approach their destination: A gray stone building with its address discreetly displayed on a brass plaque. Inside is the office of D.C.’s top child psychiatrist.

In another few moments, they’ll disappear through the doors and be swallowed up by the building.

She’s just a kid, I remind myself. One who has been through more in the past month than some people endure in a lifetime.

I’m good at my job. Maybe the systems and strategies I’ve developed will carry me through. I can put a favor in Charles’ bank for a change.

A few steps away from the entrance of her therapist’s building, little Rose Barclay stops. She pulls her hand out of her mother’s and points down to her shoe. Mrs. Barclay nods, busying herself by removing her oversized sunglasses and placing them in a case while Rose bends down.

I squint and crane my head forward.

People stream past Rose like water around a rock, but no one seems to notice what she’s doing.

Rose isn’t adjusting the buckle on her shiny black Mary James, as I’d assumed.

Her left hand is stretching out to the side. Seeking something.

I’m drawn forward. Closer to her.

It happens so quickly it’s almost over before I realize what she has done. If my angle had been off – if I’d been watching from across the street, or inside the building – I never would have noticed.

Rose straightens up, her left hand slipping into the pocket of her sweater as her right hand reaches up for her mother’s.

The evidence is gone now, tucked away.

But I saw it. I know what this shy-looking girl collected off the sidewalk and concealed to keep.

A shard of broken glass, shaped like a dagger, its end tapering to an evil-looking point.