“If my daughter has been harmed, Eleanor, I expect every person involved to answer for what happened.”
She hung up without a goodbye.
Until that morning, I’d spent nearly nine years persuading myself the Whitcombs were merely difficult people, accustomed to privilege and intolerant of challenges to their decisions. But watching Preston adjust his cuffs while I waited for an ambulance, I finally recognized that their refined manners concealed something more disturbing than ordinary family arrogance.
At the hospital in Richmond, Virginia, doctors diagnosed two fractured ribs, a severely strained shoulder, and injuries requiring weeks of recovery. Yet my physical pain was hardly my greatest concern.
My seven-year-old daughter Lily had been upstairs when the argument started. I didn’t know whether anyone had explained the incident to her or whether Preston’s parents intended to keep her from me.
I worked part-time as a speech therapist at a local elementary school, earned enough to help support our household, and arranged my hours around Lily. Still, I knew how easily the Whitcombs could portray my ordinary life as inadequate compared with their mansion, expensive lawyers, and powerful connections.
