Chapter 2
“Rough roads?” he asked, not waiting for an answer as he steered us toward the dining room.
Dinner was a masterclass in suffocating tension. The mahogany table could have comfortably seated a dozen guests, but it was just the four of us marooned at one end. My partner, Flora, had wisely stayed in Brooklyn, leaving me alone in this theater of domestic bliss.
I noticed it immediately. Ella was standing beside her high-backed, heavily upholstered chair. She wasn’t sitting.
“Ella, take your seat,” Elia commanded. The sugary hostess voice was gone, replaced by a sharp, icy edge.
“The chair hurts me, Mommy,” Ella whispered, her small shoulders pressing backward against the dining room wall.
My investigative instincts, honed by years of analyzing micro-expressions and body language, flared to life. The child was favoring her left side. She stood with the careful, agonizing stiffness of someone trying not to aggravate a hidden wound. A cold dread coiled in my gut.
“She’s just being dramatic,” Cortez sneered, meticulously slicing into his prime rib. “It is a chair. Sit down, Ella.”
Elia stood up, her jaw tight, and physically forced the little girl down onto the cushion. The moment Ella’s weight settled, her small face crumpled. She didn’t wail. She wept with the silent, broken desperation of a creature who already knew that screaming was pointless.
My fork clattered onto my plate. “Maybe she’s actually hurt, Cortez. Let her stand.”
“She is fine.” Cortez’s eyes met mine, flat and dead, carrying a silent, violent warning. “She does this for attention. Ever since we started implementing structure. Five is old enough to obey the rules.” He shot a glance at Elia—a dark, unspoken telegraph passing between them.
I tasted nothing for the rest of the meal. My eyes remained locked on my niece. She sat rigidly, refusing to move even a fraction of an inch, the tears continuously tracking down her pale cheeks.
An hour later, I excused myself to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Then, I heard the whisper of tiny footsteps on the marble floor.
I turned. Ella was standing in the doorway, constantly looking over her shoulder toward the dining room.
“Uncle Mike,” she breathed, rushing forward to grab my fingers. Her hands were ice-cold. “I need to tell you a secret.”
I dropped to one knee, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What is it, butterfly? I’m right here.”