I looked at him, at the perfect line of his pressed suit and the cool indifference in his eyes.
“The child is burning,” I said.
“And we are hosting the county’s largest charitable board,” Thatcher replied, his voice remaining level, almost pleasant. “Your timing, Vivian, is remarkably selfish.”
I rubbed the silver watch again, calculating the time it would take to drive to the pediatric emergency room in Highland Park. Fifteen minutes if the traffic on Green Bay Road was clear.
“I am taking her,” I said.
“You will do no such thing,” he said, finally looking up from the table. “My mother has spent three months organizing this evening, and you will not ruin it.”
“She cannot breathe properly, Thatcher.”
“Then carry her to her bed and let her sleep,” he said, his voice dropping unacking. “I will not discuss this further.”
I walked past him without answering, the silk of my sleeves rustling against the dark paneling of the hallway.
