Once Sarah carefully navigated Audrey up the curving staircase and out of sight, I turned my full, unbridled attention back to the two women standing in the ruins of my living room. The massive flat-screen television was still broadcasting a daytime drama, the melodramatic dialogue filling the suffocating void. I snatched the remote from the glass table and killed the power.
The resulting silence was predatory.
“I want the unvarnished truth,” I said.
Helen crossed her arms tightly over her starched white blouse, a final, desperate grasp at authority. “The truth, sir, is that your wife is mentally unstable.”
A laugh clawed its way up my throat. It sounded like tearing metal.
“No,” I countered, stepping menacingly into her personal space. “The truth is that I came home early to find my pregnant wife scrubbing her flesh off her bones on the floor, while you lounged in my chair, overseeing her humiliation.”
“She required firm correction!” Helen snapped, losing her temper.
I stared at her. Then, I slowly shifted my gaze to my mother.
And suddenly, the optical illusion shattered. I didn’t see innocence or the confusion of an oblivious bystander. I saw the distinct, rigid terror of a master tactician watching her grand strategy collapse in real time.
“You hired her,” I said softly, the horrific puzzle pieces clicking together.
My mother stiffened, her spine turning to steel. “I beg your pardon?”
“You told me she came with impeccable references. You relentlessly pushed for her employment. You lectured me that Audrey needed someone seasoned, someone older, someone firm.” I took a slow, deliberate step toward the woman who raised me. “What exactly did you hire this mercenary to execute?”
