Part 14
Marc had called it the memory locket. He had bought it during his first round of chemotherapy after discovering that ordinary silver lockets could be fitted with miniature recorders. The device was not elegant. Its button was too small, the battery unreliable, and the red light bright enough to betray it in darkness. He had used it to leave Lila short messages when his voice began to weaken.
Camille had hated it at first. It made death seem scheduled.
After Marc died, Lila had listened to the messages under her blanket. Camille had eventually taught her how to make new recordings. She told herself it gave the child ownership over the object instead of allowing grief to own her.
Torres pointed to the broken edge. “How did it crack?”
Lila looked toward the closed door.
“I stepped out. Mrs. Vane saw the light. She said, ‘Give me that.’ I said no. She held my wrist and pulled it. It hit the table.”
“Did Mr. Cross see?”
“He came around the corner.”
“And then?”
“He said, ‘Odette, let her go.’”
Camille looked at Torres. “He told me he was nearby.”
“People often become more precise after they understand the question,” Torres said.
Lila rubbed her thumb across the bent lid.
“Mrs. Vane said Daddy stole money from children and Mommy paid it back because she knew. She said if I loved Mommy, I would give her the locket and forget. I tried to go away. She held tighter.”
“Did she threaten to hurt you?”
Lila shook her head. “She said people would laugh at Mommy.”
That landed harder than a threat of violence. Odette knew the particular fears of adults who lived in public. She had translated one into a child’s language.
Torres asked for the locket. Lila’s hands closed around it.
“No.”
“It’s important that we preserve the recording.”
“No.”
Camille moved beside her. “May I?”
Lila’s eyes filled again. “Daddy’s voice is in it.”
The detective’s expression changed slightly.
Camille understood. If the locket were damaged during examination, they might lose more than evidence.
“Can you copy the file without taking it away?” Camille asked.
“I’ll have to speak with our digital unit. For now, I need to document its condition and place it in an evidence bag.”
Lila pressed the locket against her chest.
Camille had promised Marc that she would not teach their daughter to confuse possessions with people. In the months after his death, she had failed repeatedly. She preserved his shoes, his handwriting on the kitchen calendar, a half-used bottle of cedar cologne. She had once stood in his closet at two in the morning holding a dry-cleaning receipt because it carried a date from when he was alive.
“Lila,” she said, “the messages have already been copied to my computer. Remember?”
“Not the new one.”
“No. Not the new one.”
“What if they lose him?”
“They will not lose him.”
“You don’t know.”
Camille almost said that she did. She stopped herself.
“No,” she said. “I don’t know. But I will stay with it until they seal it, and Detective Torres will write down where it goes.”
Torres nodded. “You can watch me.”
Lila surrendered the locket one finger at a time.
When it rested in the clear evidence pouch, the tiny red light was still glowing.
By midnight, the gala’s winter auction had been canceled, the conservatory had been cleared, and three different videos of Camille’s slap were circulating online.
None showed Lila’s wrist.
One began half a second before Camille’s hand made contact and ended on Odette’s stunned face. Another had been slowed down and set to music before the platform removed it. A third included Camille lifting the locket and speaking, but the person filming had been too far away to capture the words.
The foundation issued a statement expressing concern for everyone involved. It did not mention Lila.
Julian signed the statement.
Camille learned this while sitting in the back of a police car with her daughter asleep against her shoulder.
She had not been handcuffed. Torres had taken a formal statement and told her the district attorney would decide how to proceed on the assault complaint. Odette had declined an ambulance, though she allowed a private physician who attended the gala to examine her cheek.
Lila’s wrist had been photographed beside a measurement scale. A paramedic advised ice and said the skin did not appear seriously damaged. Camille had thanked him because she knew polite words, even when every other word had deserted her.
Her driver, Henry, waited outside the precinct. He had worked for the family since before Lila was born and had never asked Camille a personal question.
That night, as he opened the car door, he said, “Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
Henry looked at the sleeping child.
“That was not what I asked.”
Camille met his eyes. “No.”
He nodded once and drove them home.
Their townhouse stood on a quiet block where winter trees had been wrapped in white lights by residents who employed other people to climb ladders. A cluster of reporters waited at the corner. Henry entered through the service garage.
Inside, the housekeeper had left soup warming on the stove. Camille turned it off without tasting it.
She carried Lila upstairs, though the child had become too heavy for this to feel graceful. Halfway up, Lila woke and said she could walk. Camille continued carrying her anyway.
In the bedroom, the pale blue dress had to be peeled carefully over Lila’s wrist. Camille found a soft cotton nightgown and helped her into it. The red marks remained visible.
“Will Mrs. Vane come here?” Lila asked.
“No.”
“Will she send somebody?”
“No.”
“You said you don’t know things you don’t know.”
Camille sat on the edge of the bed.
“You’re right. I don’t believe she will come here. We have security. Henry is downstairs. The alarm is on.”
May you like
Lila pulled the blanket to her chin. “Did Daddy steal money?”
The question had existed in the house for more than a year without ever being asked directly.
