Part 2
He had kissed her cheek then.
He had told her she looked beautiful.
She had believed him.
“Why did she have your phone?” Naomi asked.
Calder swallowed.
“It fell out of my pocket.”
“And then?”
“She picked it up.”
“And then?”
His gaze hardened for a fraction of a second.
The expression disappeared almost immediately, but Naomi saw it. She saw the impatience beneath the fear. She saw the calculation.
“She wouldn’t give it back,” he said.
Wren’s body went rigid in Naomi’s arms.
Naomi looked down at her daughter.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “did you have his phone?”
Wren nodded.
“Did he ask for it?”
Another nod.
“Did you give it back?”
The child did not answer.
Calder exhaled sharply. “She dropped it. She panicked. She stumbled backward into a chair.”
Naomi’s eyes went to the gold-framed banquet chairs standing in clean rows near the dance floor. One of them had been moved crookedly out of line.
A child could have hit her head on it.
A child could have stumbled.
A child could have been frightened into doing either thing.
Naomi’s gaze lifted without her meaning it to.
Past the chandelier.
Past the ornate molding.
Past the painted cherubs and warm wall sconces.
There, mounted near the ceiling above the central dance floor, was a white dome security camera. Its dark lens faced the ballroom. Beneath the lens, a tiny red indicator light blinked steadily.
Calder followed her eyes.
That was when his expression broke.
Not completely. Calder had always been too controlled for that. But the confidence left his face. His mouth parted. His shoulders went still. His eyes fixed on the camera as though it had become something alive.
Naomi felt Wren’s pulse flutter against her chest.
“You can’t hide behind her anymore,” Naomi said.
Calder looked back at her.
His voice was breathy now, but still clear. “Naomi, don’t do this.”
She held his gaze.
“Ben,” she said.
The ballroom manager stood near the tall double doors, his hands folded tightly in front of him. He had been the first person to offer Naomi a glass of water when she arrived that evening. He had complimented Wren’s dress. He looked sick now.
“Yes, Ms. Kerr?”
“Preserve every recording from this room,” Naomi said. “Right now.”
Calder took one step toward her.
“Naomi.”
She shifted Wren away from him.
The movement was small, instinctive, absolute.
“No,” she said.
The word carried farther than she expected.
It crossed the ballroom. It reached the guests in formal gowns and dark suits. It reached the donor tables, the auction display, the old family portraits in gilt frames along the far wall. It reached the musicians, who had stopped playing but still held their instruments in their laps.
Calder stared at her.
For the first time in the two years Naomi had known him, he looked like a man who had no idea what to say next.
Ben Harlow moved quickly after that, though not quickly enough to make the evening feel unreal. He asked one of the hotel attendants to bring a first-aid kit. He spoke into his phone in a low, urgent voice. He guided the nearest guests away from the center of the ballroom, not ordering them to leave but making it clear that they should create space.
Naomi did not let Wren out of her arms.
The child’s white formal dress was wrinkled against Naomi’s body. One strap had slipped down her shoulder. Her little silver shoes dangled above the parquet floor, one of them missing a bow.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?” Naomi asked.
Wren touched the side of her head, then her elbow.
“My head.”
“I know.”
“It feels hot.”
“I know, baby.”
Calder stood ten feet away now. He had not been told to stay there, but he remained where he was, as though the invisible line between them had become physical.
“I’m sorry she’s hurt,” he said.
Naomi looked at him.
The phrasing made her stomach turn.
Sorry she’s hurt.
Not sorry I frightened her.
Not sorry I grabbed her.
Not sorry I told her she was bad.
The hotel attendant arrived with gauze and a cold pack. Naomi lowered Wren onto a cream upholstered chair near the dance floor, keeping one hand on her back the entire time. Wren began to cry harder once she was sitting. The sound was thin and exhausted, and it seemed to pull something apart inside Naomi.
Calder crouched a few feet away.
“Wren,” he said gently. “I’m sorry you got scared.”
Naomi’s head came up.
Wren turned her face into Naomi’s side.
“You don’t speak to her,” Naomi said.
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“You are trying to make yourself feel better.”
His eyes flashed.
May you like
Then the expression was gone.
The people watching them were pretending not to watch. Naomi knew the performance. She had grown up around it. In families like hers, people did not gossip. They expressed concern. They did not take sides. They waited for more information. They told themselves restraint was the same thing as integrity.
