Part 2
This time she offered nothing.
Dr. Kern approached her carefully. “May I look at your cheek?”
She nodded.
Julian took one step around the table.
The security officers moved at once, not quickly, but enough to block the path between him and Elena.
His face tightened.
“I wasn’t going near her.”
Neither officer replied.
“This is insane,” he said. “All of you standing here like I’m dangerous.”
Beatrice’s eyes went to the broken glass.
Julian followed her gaze. “I didn’t hit her.”
Elena’s fingertips pressed harder against the napkin.
Marianne removed a sealed envelope from her case and set it beside Julian’s plate.
“This contains notice of your suspension, revocation of your access to company systems, and a temporary restriction on your authority over trust-controlled property. Your personal attorney has received electronic copies.”
“You contacted David?”
“At eleven fifty-three.”
“He works for me.”
“He works for the company.”
Julian looked at Thomas. “And you? You let strangers into my house?”
Thomas had served as estate director at Briarwood for twenty-six years. He had coordinated funerals, weddings, political fundraisers, hurricane evacuations, roof repairs, and one disastrous Christmas when the heating system failed while thirty-two guests were sleeping upstairs. He rarely raised his voice because he rarely needed to.
“This is Mrs. Vale’s house,” he said.
Julian’s expression changed, not dramatically, but enough for Elena to see the injury beneath the anger.
Briarwood had belonged to Beatrice since her husband’s death. Julian spoke of it as his because everyone had expected it eventually would be.
Expectation, in the Vale family, was treated as a form of ownership.
Dr. Kern leaned toward Elena under the chandelier light. “The cut is shallow. There may be a small fragment near the lower edge. I’d prefer to clean it somewhere with better light.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know. I’d still prefer to clean it.”
She stood slowly. The skirt of her ivory gown brushed against scattered crystal. Thomas moved toward her, but she lifted a hand before he could help.
She wanted to stand without assistance.
Her knees held.
Julian watched her.
For a moment he looked like the man she had first met at a museum dinner in Richmond seven years earlier: polished, attentive, slightly amused by his own ability to move through a room. He had known the names of three artists she admired and confessed ignorance about a fourth. Later she learned he had researched the guest list.
At the time, she had mistaken preparation for curiosity.
“Elena,” he said.
She turned toward Dr. Kern.
Julian tried again. “I didn’t mean to cut you.”
The apology contained no acknowledgment that he had meant to frighten her.
She walked out of the conservatory.
Dr. Kern followed, carrying his medical bag. Thomas remained near the doors. Beatrice stayed seated.
Marianne opened the envelope and removed several documents.
Julian looked down at his place setting. His champagne glass was gone. He seemed surprised by that fact.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?” he asked.
Beatrice’s gold ring clicked against the tabletop as she folded her hands.
“Tonight?” she said. “Nothing. Tonight you accused yourself.”
The cut required no stitches. In the downstairs morning room, Dr. Kern used tweezers to remove a crystal splinter so small that Elena could barely see it on the gauze. He cleaned the wound, applied a narrow adhesive strip, and asked whether she felt dizzy.
“No.”
“Nauseated?”
“No.”
“Any trouble seeing?”
“No.”
He waited.
She knew what he was doing. “He didn’t strike my head.”
“I’m asking about shock.”
“I’m not in shock.”
Her voice sounded formal even to her.
Dr. Kern disposed of the gauze. “You may be right.”
The morning room had once been blue, but Beatrice had redecorated it in shades of cream after her husband died. A fire burned beneath the carved mantel despite the warm September night. Someone had placed a tea tray on the low table. The water in the silver pot had not yet boiled.
Elena sat on the edge of a sofa and watched a thin line of steam begin to rise from the spout.
She had believed composure was the opposite of shock. She had imagined shock as collapse, shaking, incoherent speech. She had not known it could look like noticing the tea water.
Dr. Kern closed his bag. “Has he thrown things before?”
She glanced toward him.
He did not soften the question.
“Not at me.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
She looked at the fire.
A year earlier, Julian had thrown his phone against the bedroom wall after a lender refused to extend a deadline. Six months after that, he swept a tray of drinks from a table during an argument with his cousin. In June, he had broken a cabinet door in their apartment in Washington. Each incident had been followed by gifts, humor, or a period of unusual tenderness.
“He has broken things,” she said.
“Near you?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever struck you?”
“No.”
“Restrained you?”
Her silence lasted too long.
Dr. Kern sat in the chair opposite her. He did not take out a notebook. “Elena.”
“Once. My wrist. It bruised, but he said he hadn’t realized how hard he was holding it.”
“When?”
“February.”
“Did anyone see?”
“No.”
“Did you photograph it?”
She rubbed the place on her wrist, though the bruises had vanished months earlier. “Yes.”
“Where are the photographs?”
“In an account he can’t access.”
“Good.”
The word startled her.
Dr. Kern looked toward the closed doors. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you not to delete them.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He nodded. “Do you have somewhere safe to sleep tonight?”
She almost laughed. Briarwood contained twenty-three bedrooms, a staff wing, a gatehouse, two cottages, and a restored carriage house. Safety should have been the easiest thing to find there.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“That’s a more honest answer.”
A knock sounded. Thomas entered carrying a dark wool shawl.
May you like
“Mrs. Vale asked me to bring this.”
Elena accepted it. “Which Mrs. Vale?”
