Gwendolyn Fairchild stood in the threshold, her breathing shallow and quick. She was wearing a cream silk gown, but the left sleeve was torn completely away at the shoulder, dangling by a few loose threads against the pale fabric. Her face was flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth.
In her right hand, Gwendolyn held a pair of small, sharp sewing scissors she must have taken from the vanity downstairs.
“Look at what your daughter did to my dress,” Gwendolyn said, her voice rising in a high, breathless pitch.
She twisted a long, blonde lock of her hair around her index finger, her blue eyes wide as she looked at Phoebe.
“Phoebe has been sitting right here with me for twenty minutes, Gwendolyn,” I said, keeping my voice low and even.
“She crept into my room while you were not looking,” Gwendolyn said, stepping closer, her heels clicking on the hardwood border of the room. “She had these scissors. She said she hated the color of my dress because it looked like a wedding gown.”
Phoebe shrank back against my side, tucking her stuffed rabbit under her arm and burying her face in the crook of my elbow.
“That is a lie,” I said, my hand resting on my collarbone as I stood up to place myself between Gwendolyn and my daughter.
“Russell is already downstairs with the board members,” Gwendolyn said, a small, sharp smile flitting across her face before she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a soft, theatrical sob.
She dropped the sewing scissors onto the small wooden side table next to the door. They landed with a sharp metallic clatter, right beside my purse.
“He will want to know why his guest of honor is standing here in ruins,” Gwendolyn whispered, wiping an imaginary tear from her cheek with her fingertips.
I guided Phoebe out of the dressing suite and into the narrow, wood-paneled hallway that led to the main ballroom. The muffled sound of a cello tuning up drifted through the floorboards, a low, repetitive vibration under our feet that made the wood feel cold.
Russell was walking toward us, his gold watch catching the light of the sconces as he checked the time for the third time in two minutes. His face was flushed, his tie pulled tight against his collar, his movements hurried and impatient.
“What is going on here?” Russell asked, his words fast and sharp, cutting off my attempt to speak before I could begin.
Gwendolyn ran to his side, her torn sleeve fluttering as she buried her face in his chest.
“Phoebe took the scissors from the vanity,” Gwendolyn cried, her voice muffled against his lapel. “She ruined the dress you bought me for the presentation tonight, Russell. She just tore it apart.”
“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.
