Chapter 10: The Glove

The doctor came out at one in the morning and told Preston the baby was holding.

I heard it from the hall, with Denton's jacket over my bloody dress.

The bleeding had come from a small tear and a very bad week.

"She needs rest," the doctor said. "No stress, no stairs. Forty-eight hours of bed rest, at least."

Preston sank into a plastic chair and put his face in his hands.

He did not look at me.

At two, Denton took me home and washed the blood off my hands himself, one finger at a time.

At noon, the call came from the Ashworth house.

Preston's mother was holding her thirtieth anniversary dinner that night, just as planned.

"To show we are strong," she told Denton's assistant. "Both of you are expected."

"She wants an audience," I said.

"Then give her one," Denton said.

The Ashworth ballroom looked exactly as it had a week ago.

Same chandelier. Same marble.

Same two hundred people, in slightly different dresses.

Preston's mother stood at the top of the receiving line in diamonds that were not the Ashworth Star.

Her white hair was swept up, and her mouth was set.

She did not look at me when I took her hand.

"Mrs. Kane," she said coldly. "How good of you to come."

"I wouldn't have missed it."

I moved on into the room with Denton beside me.

I felt the eyes, and I held my head high.

At nine, a murmur ran along the far wall.

Preston came through the doors pushing a wheelchair.

Whitney sat in it with a blanket over her knees and her hair pulled back.

Her face was bare of makeup and drawn with pain.

Her right hand lay in her lap in a clean white bandage instead of a glove.

Margot hurried in behind them, fussing, then stopped short when she saw me.

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