“Russell, Phoebe was with me the entire time,” I said, my voice deliberate and quiet. “She did not touch any scissors. Gwendolyn is not telling you the truth.”
Russell did not look at our daughter, who was trembling behind my skirt, her small hand clutching my skirt so hard her knuckles were white. He looked at Gwendolyn’s torn sleeve, then stepped forward and struck my cheek with the back of his hand.
The impact forced me back against the mahogany wall, my shoulder hitting a framed landscape painting that rattled against the wood. My vision blurred for a second, the taste of copper rising in my mouth as I touched my jaw.
“You have poisoned our daughter against the people who actually support this family,” Russell said, his voice carrying down the empty hall.
“She is five years old, Russell,” I said, the skin on my cheek hot and stinging. “You know she did not do this. If you would just think for one second—”
“I know what I see,” Russell said, interrupting me before I could finish the sentence.
He turned to the two private security guards standing near the ballroom entrance, their grey uniforms dark against the white trim of the doors.
“Take them both back to the Lake Forest estate,” Russell ordered. “Lock them in the basement until the dinner is over and I can deal with this properly.”
“Russell, please,” I said, but the guards were already stepping forward, their heavy boots loud on the hardwood.
One of them reached for my arm, his grip firm and unyielding as he turned us toward the service exit that led to the parking lot.
The basement of our Lake Forest home was cold, smelling of old concrete and the expensive cedar trunks Russell used to store his winter suits. The single bulb hanging from the low ceiling cast long, weak shadows across the concrete floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the cold air that leaked from the high vents.
Phoebe sat on a wooden crate in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, her small fingers clutching her stuffed rabbit. She was shivering, her breath forming tiny plumes of mist in the damp room, her small shoulders shaking.
The heavy door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and Russell descended, followed closely by Gwendolyn, who had pinned her torn sleeve back together with a silver safety pin she had found somewhere downstairs.
In Russell’s hand was the five-dollar spool of pink silk ribbon I had left on the kitchen counter earlier that afternoon.
