Chapter 2 - The Blood on the Cuff
The heavy double oak doors swung open before my hand even reached the brass knocker.
Eleanor Sterling stood in the entryway, draped in lavender silk and smelling heavily of expensive French perfume.
Her silver hair was coiffed into perfection, not a single strand out of place despite the humid spring air.
Her eyes raked over my faded denim shirt and work boots with open disgust.
“What do you think you’re doing here, Thomas?” she demanded, stepping forward to block the entrance with her narrow frame.
“Where is my daughter, Eleanor?”
“This is a private gathering for donors and county officials,” she said, her voice dropping into a sharp hiss. “Turn around and go back to your lonely little house where you belong.”
She raised a manicured hand to push me toward the steps, her red fingernails grazing my chest.
I didn't flinch, and I didn't step back.
I caught her wrist in mid-air, gripping it just tight enough to freeze her in place without snapping bone.
The condescending smirk on her face evaporated instantly into sheer shock.
“Touch me again, Eleanor, and we will find out together how fast that security guard at the gate can run,” I said quietly.
I released her arm and pushed past her into the marble-floored foyer.
The house smelled of roasted ham, polished wood, and floral centerpieces.
Outside through the wide French doors leading to the rear terrace, twenty or thirty town elites were laughing over shrimp cocktails and chilled wine.
I turned toward the drawing room, guided by the muffled sound of low jazz coming from the sound system.
The sunroom door was slightly ajar.
I kicked it open with the sole of my boot.
Lily was lying curled on her side on the Persian rug beside a shattered glass side table.
Her left eye was swollen shut, a deep purplish contusion spreading down into her cheekbone.
A thin smear of dark crimson dried against the corner of her lips, and her pastel Easter dress was ripped at the collarbone.
Across the room, Richard Sterling stood by the wet bar, holding a crystal tumbler half-filled with bourbon.
His blonde hair was slightly disheveled, but his linen suit remained immaculate, save for three distinct spots of blood on his right cuff.
He looked at me, took a slow sip from his glass, and set it down on the granite counter with an easy clink.
“She fell,” Richard said, his tone casual, almost bored.
“You laid hands on her again,” I said, walking across the room to kneel beside my daughter.
Lily flinched violently when my shadow crossed over her, lifting an arm to protect her head before her right eye focused on my face.
“Dad…” she breathed, her hand reaching blindly for my sleeve.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, gently checking her pulse and running my fingers along the back of her skull to check for skull fractures.
There was a heavy lump behind her ear, warm and tender under the skin.
Around her throat, distinct finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against her pale skin, unmistakable choke marks that no accidental fall could ever produce.
Richard took two slow steps toward us, swirling the remaining ice in his glass.
“She’s hysterical, Thomas. She tripped on the rug while carrying an ice bucket.”
“Look at your cuff, Richard,” I said without looking up from my daughter’s face.
He glanced down at his sleeve, smiled thinly, and tucked his wrist into his trouser pocket.
“It’s red wine. And even if it weren’t, nobody outside will ever say otherwise.”
Under the corner of the low velvet sofa, a faint blue light caught my eye.
Lily’s smartphone was lying wedged between the wooden sofa leg and the skirting board, its voice-memo app glowing with an active red recording timer running at twenty-seven minutes.
I reached out under the edge of the fabric, slid the phone into my palm, and locked the screen before sliding it into my back pocket.
Richard noticed the movement, and the smug confidence in his blue eyes flickered for a fraction of a second.
“Give me that phone, old man,” he said, his voice dropping into a hard, threatening growl.
“You made your choice fifteen minutes ago,” I answered, sliding my arms under Lily’s shoulders and knees to lift her off the blood-stained rug.
She let out a sharp cry of agony as her ribs shifted, burying her face into the curve of my neck.
“You walk out of this house with her, and you won’t make it to the county line,” Richard sneered, stepping closer.
May you like
I turned to face him, carrying my daughter like I used to when she was five years old and afraid of thunderstorms.
“Try me,” I said.
