Chapter 5 - The Unraveling Thread
A muffled gasp tore through the rear of the parlor. One of the neighbors, an older woman with silver hair who lived three doors down, stepped back into the shadow of the ficus tree near the window, her hand flying to her throat in instinctive horror.
The air in the room grew instantly thin. It was the specific, horrifying sensation of an execution being carried out in broad daylight, surrounded by pastel balloons and spun-sugar roses.
Marcus Vance took half a step backward, his shoulder blades pressing hard against the cold limestone molding of the fireplace mantle. "David," Marcus began, his voice cracking on the first syllable before he managed to force it into a hollow, strained resonance that lacked all of his usual baritone authority. "I... I think the boy is confused. Perhaps he saw me when I dropped off the quarterly prospectus last month—"
"You didn't drop off the prospectus here, Marcus," David said.
The sentence was delivered without anger, without volume, but it dropped into the room like a block of pig iron. David did not turn his head to look at his boss. His eyes remained locked on his son, but his jaw had corded into an immovable knot of bone and tendon. David remembered that Tuesday six weeks ago. Marcus had claimed he had sent an intern via courier to deliver the paperwork. Amber had confirmed it.
Noah, unbothered by the adult dialogue happening over his head, furrowed his brow, frustrated that his father wasn't understanding something so ridiculously simple. He looked between David, who was kneeling before him, and Amber, who had begun to tremble so violently that the sparkling wine was splashing against the rim of her glass.
"No, Daddy," Noah explained, his tone patient, explanatory, and horrifyingly detailed. "The caterpillars. The ones he takes out when Mommy—"
"NOAH!"
The scream did not sound like Amber. It was a raw, jagged screech that tore from the depths of her lungs, an animalistic reflex that obliterated the last shred of dignity in the room.
The champagne flute slipped from her fingers.
The thin crystal shattered violently against the edge of the marble table, sending a starburst of sparkling wine, foam, and razor-sharp shards flying across the floor, splashing against the cuffs of David’s charcoal trousers and the hem of Noah’s blazer. Several guests jumped backward with sharp yelps, but David did not move an inch. He didn't even blink as a droplet of wine landed on the knuckle of his right hand.
Amber lunged forward.
May you like
Her movement was frantic, desperate, and completely uncontrolled. She dropped to her knees directly onto the hardwood floor, heedless of the broken glass that scattered around her, her silk-clad knees striking the oak boards with a sickening, heavy thud. She seized Noah by both shoulders, her manicured nails digging through the fabric of his little blazer, spinning the child toward her with such force that his clip-on bow tie swung crooked against his collar.
"Noah, that's enough!" she hissed, her voice vibrating with an agonizing, choked hysteria. "That is enough! You are being rude to our guests! You do not make up stories on Mommy's birthday!"
