“Stop it, please. You’re breaking his arm.”
THE SCREAM IN THE MARBLE FOYER
Lily Carter’s scream tore through the marble foyer of the Blackwood mansion. Fourteen-month-old Ethan Blackwood lay on the polished stone floor, crying so hard his tiny body could barely pull in air. Serena Montigue had one hand locked around his wrist, dragging him across the floor as though he were a suitcase. His arm twisted at an unnatural angle. His face had gone from red to a frightening shade of purple.
Lily ran — bare feet, no hesitation — and threw herself between them. “Let him go!”
Serena released the baby only long enough to drive the pointed heel of her shoe into Lily’s stomach. Pain exploded through Lily’s body. She crashed backward, her head striking the floor. For one second the chandelier blurred above her. Then Ethan’s broken cry pulled her back. She rolled onto her side and began crawling toward him — one inch, then another.
Serena stepped on the hem of Lily’s uniform. “Touch him again,” she said calmly, “and you disappear.”
Lily looked up. Serena’s face was perfect — the same face printed beside charity headlines, the same woman Chicago society called elegant, the same woman who would marry Victor Blackwood in six weeks. “You think anyone will believe a cheap nanny over me?” Serena asked.
Then the lights near the west corridor flickered. A door opened somewhere in the dark. Slow footsteps crossed the stone — not rushed, not loud, heavy enough to stop every sound in the foyer. Victor Blackwood stepped from the shadows: black coat, no tie, rain on his shoulders, two men behind him. Nobody had heard his car. Nobody expected him home until morning.