Chapter 7 - The Final Point
David knelt back down on the rug.
He ignored the damp patch of sparkling wine soaking through the knee of his trousers. He reached out with both hands, his movements extraordinarily gentle, and cupped Noah’s small, flushed face between his large palms. He used his thumb to wipe away the tear that had spilled onto the boy’s cheek, his touch steady, grounding, and completely devoid of the panic that was suffocating the rest of the room.
"Hey," David whispered, his voice softening into that low, paternal cadence that had soothed Noah through ear infections and thunderstorms. "It's okay, buddy. You're not in trouble. Nobody is mad at you. Daddy just needs you to tell me the truth. Okay?"
Noah nodded sniffling, his small hands reaching up to grasp his father’s wrists. "Mommy yelled at me."
"Mommy was startled," David lied smoothly, his eyes never leaving his son's face, though a muscle in his cheek was twitching in violent, rhythmic spasms. "Look at me, Noah. Just look at Daddy. What caterpillars?"
Amber let out a strangled, breathless sob from the floor beside them, covering her mouth with both hands, her head rocking back and forth in frantic denial. "David, don't do this... not here... not in front of everyone... please, God, David..."
David did not look at her. He kept his hazel eyes locked onto his son’s, waiting for the axe to fall.
Noah turned his head slightly. He looked past his father’s broad shoulder, past the broken champagne glass, past the tiered birthday cake with its thirty-two spun-sugar flowers.
He raised his arm again.
He didn't point at Marcus Vance this time.
Noah pointed toward the grand, curving staircase in the corner of the foyer—the stairs that led up to the second floor, past the guest room, past his own brightly decorated playroom, and straight to the double doors of the master bedroom suite.
"They're the ones he keeps in his pockets, Daddy," Noah said, his voice dropping into a quiet, innocent hush, as though sharing a grand secret that had suddenly become very important. "The fuzzy black things he puts over Mommy's eyes when they play the tickle game."
A collective, sickening shudder ran through the twenty people standing in the room. Two women near the entry covered their faces. A corporate partner who had known David for ten years turned his back entirely, staring out the window into the driveway, unable to watch the horror unfold.
Noah looked back into his father’s wide, hollow eyes, completely puzzled by the terrifying expression taking root on the man’s face.
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He leaned in closer, his small voice dropping to a final, devastating whisper that echoed off the high ceiling like a gunshot:
"He took them out on Tuesday. But Daddy... they're still in her bedroom."
