By eight o’clock, the patch of red had soaked through a second strip of my hem. Phoebe sat on the bottom step, her eyes half-closed, her head leaning heavily against my shoulder.
A sharp clatter echoed from the top of the stairs. The small iron slide on the door slot scraped open, letting in a thin wedge of yellow hallway light.
“Heather,” Russell said. His voice was muffled, coming through the narrow opening.
I stood up, leaving Phoebe on the step, and walked to the door. I had to look upward to face the small metal grate.
“Russell, she is still bleeding,” I said, keeping my voice low and level. “She needs a doctor. She needs stitches.”
I heard him shift his weight on the landing above. The faint smell of his expensive cologne, the cedar-infused woodsmoke scent he always wore, drifted through the slot.
“You will stay in this room until you learn how to apologize properly,” he said.
“This is not about me,” I said, pressing my palm flat against the cold iron of the door. “Phoebe fell. She hit her head on the corner of the table. She is five years old, Russell.”
“She is lying to protect you,” he said, his voice rising, fast and sharp. “Gwendolyn is upstairs in tears, with her gown ruined. You taught Phoebe to cover for you.”
I stared through the narrow horizontal slit, seeing only the bridge of his nose and his eyes, narrowed and dry.
“I am not asking for myself,” I said. “Call the pediatrician. Ask him to come to the back gate. You do not even have to let him in the main house.”
“Not until you apologize to her,” he said. “Not a word before then.”
“She had a tear in her dress before she came in,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, trying to reach the sensible part of him that surely still existed. “Phoebe was across the room. There were no scissors near her.”
“I saw the dress, Heather,” Russell snapped, his breath whistling slightly through the metal grate. “It is ruined. Six thousand dollars of French silk, shredded. Gwendolyn was sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.”
“And your daughter is bleeding on a concrete floor,” I said. “Does that carry any weight with you at all?”
He paused, and for a second, I heard the familiar clicking of his heavy gold bezel. He was checking his watch again, measuring his time against his impatience.
“The doctor will see her when you show some respect,” he said. “This family is going public in three weeks, Heather. Do you have any idea what the board would say if they saw you behaving like this? You are unstable.”
“You are keeping your own child hostage,” I said.
“I am teaching my wife how to behave,” he said.
The metal slide slammed shut with a sharp, heavy bang.
I walked back to the bottom step and sat beside my daughter. Her skin felt dry and slightly warm to the touch.
“My head hurts, Mommy,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying in the damp room.
“I know, baby. Let me see what else we have.”
I dragged my leather handbag toward me. It was the one luxury I had kept from my past, a plain black tote with brass buckles that I had carried for seven years.
I unzipped the main pocket and turned it over on the concrete floor. A comb, a half-used pack of tissues, three copper pennies, and my small travel jewelry box tumbled out.
The jewelry box was a green velvet case, no larger than a deck of cards. I unclasped the brass latch and opened it under the hanging bulb.
My mother’s small pearl earrings were there, wrapped in tissue paper. But the small velvet slot next to them was empty.
My breath went still as I stared at the empty gray indentation.
The silver Saint Christopher pendant was gone.
