Chapter 1 - The Girl in the Rainbow DressThe sound of my daughter's body hitting the marble floor was louder than the music.
One second, four-year-old Rosie Mercer was standing beside a gold banquet chair, her little rainbow dress sparkling beneath the chandeliers.
The next, her aunt had grabbed her arm, yanked her backward, and sent her tumbling onto the cold floor.
"That's not your seat!" Celeste Whitcomb snapped.
Rosie landed hard, her pastel tulle spreading around her like a crushed flower.
For one terrible second, she didn't make a sound.
Then her face crumpled.
"Daddy!"
I was already running.
The Whitcomb mansion was packed with nearly two hundred guests celebrating the family's annual charity gala. Champagne glasses glittered. A string quartet played near the grand staircase. People wearing clothes worth more than my truck stood frozen around the dining tables.
None of them moved toward my daughter.
I dropped to my knees.
"Rosie. Baby, look at me."
Her light brown curls had fallen across her wet cheeks. One pink hair clip hung loose.
She reached for me with both hands.
"It hurts."
"Where, sweetheart?"
"My arm."
I lifted her carefully, checking the arm Celeste had grabbed before pulling Rosie against my chest.
My daughter buried her face in my neck.
I felt her trembling through my navy suit.
Then she raised one tiny finger.
"Her, Daddy."
She pointed directly at Celeste.
My wife's older sister stood beside her eight-year-old son, Oliver, whose face had gone pale.
Celeste wore a champagne-colored gown, diamonds at her throat, and the expression of someone annoyed that a child had interrupted dinner.
"Daniel, control your daughter," she said.
I stared at her.
"You just threw her onto the floor."
"Don't be ridiculous. She tripped."
"You had your hand around her arm."
"She's being dramatic. Just like her mother."
Everything inside me went cold.
My wife, Hannah, had been dead for eighteen months.
Celeste knew exactly what mentioning her would do to me.
Before I could answer, a man in a black suit stepped between us.
Victor Whitcomb.
Celeste's husband.
He was fifty, wealthy, and built like someone who paid other people to do his fighting.
"This is a private event," he said. "Take the child outside."
"This is her family's house."
Victor smiled.
"Not for much longer."
I barely had time to process those words before his hand clamped around my jacket.
He pulled me forward.
"Listen carefully, Mercer."
Rosie screamed.
I turned my shoulder, shielding her face from him.
"Take your hand off me."
Victor tightened his grip.
Behind him, a security guard hurried around a bronze statue standing on a white marble pedestal.
The guard stumbled against the gold rope barrier.
A heavy metallic crash exploded across the room.
The statue toppled.
Guests scattered.
Celeste stepped backward, caught her heel in the fallen barrier, and crashed across a dark leather sofa.
A floral arrangement shattered beside her.
I didn't touch her.
I was too busy keeping Rosie away from the falling objects.
Victor released my jacket.
The room went silent.
Rosie sobbed against my shoulder.
I looked directly at Celeste.
"You will never put your hands on my daughter again."
My voice was quiet.
That seemed to frighten her more than shouting would have.
Celeste slowly sat up.
A thin red scratch crossed her cheek.
She touched it with her diamond-covered fingers, staring at the blood as though she couldn't believe anything unpleasant could happen to her.
Then I saw her look past me.
Toward the head table.
Her father, Malcolm Whitcomb, sat motionless beneath an enormous oil portrait of his late wife.
He had watched everything.
And instead of looking concerned about his granddaughter, he was staring at Victor.
The two men exchanged a glance.
Victor gave a nearly invisible nod.
Something was wrong.
A woman carrying a silver tray approached me.
June Parker, the mansion's longtime housekeeper.
She didn't look at Celeste.
She looked at Rosie.
Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear.
"Mr. Mercer," she whispered, "please don't leave through the front entrance."
I frowned.
"Why?"
June's eyes flicked toward the security cameras.
"Because they were waiting for you to lose your temper."
My grip tightened around Rosie.
"Who was?"
June swallowed.
Before she could answer, Victor called across the room.
"Security! Don't let that man leave!"
Two guards moved toward the doors.
Rosie lifted her tear-streaked face.
"Daddy?"
"I'm here, baby."
She touched my cheek.
"Aunt Celeste said you'd get in trouble."
My heart stopped.
"What did she say?"
Rosie sniffled.
Her little voice was barely audible.
"She said if I sat in Mommy's chair, you'd get really, really mad."
I looked toward the gold banquet chair where she'd fallen.
A white place card lay underneath it.
Even from across the room, I could recognize the handwriting printed in gold.
HANNAH WHITCOMB MERCER — FAMILY RESERVED.
May you like
My dead wife's name.
And someone had deliberately placed my daughter beside it.
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