Chapter 1 - The Slap
The baby was screaming. My sister was pointing at my wife. And before I asked a single question, I hit the only person who had tried to save my daughter.
That is the part of the story I would give anything to erase.
I came home just after four on a rainy Thursday. Emma's stroller lay on its side beside the grand staircase. One wheel kept spinning. Clara stood three feet away with our eight-month-old daughter pressed to her chest. Blood ran down Clara's wrist, and Emma was crying so hard she could barely catch her breath.
My sister Vanessa rushed toward me, sobbing. "Adrian, thank God. Clara pushed the stroller. I tried to stop her."
"What?" I heard myself say.
"She's been acting strange all week. She pushed Emma toward the stairs."
Clara shook her head. "That's not what happened. Adrian, please, she's lying."
The stroller sat inches from the first step. My mind filled the space between the tipped wheels and the marble floor below. I took Emma from Clara. She reached for the baby, and panic twisted into fury. My open palm struck her cheek.
The sound was small. That made it worse.
Clara staggered into the console table. Her wedding ring scraped the wood. She didn't raise a hand in return. She just looked at me as if I were a stranger who knew exactly where to hurt her.
"I was saving her," she whispered.
From the upstairs landing came a voice I'd never heard from my fourteen-year-old daughter before. "Dad. You just hit the wrong person."
Olivia, my daughter from my first marriage, stood gripping her phone. She had been filming a school project.
May you like
"Watch," she said. "And don't you dare look away."
She connected her phone to the living-room television. A shaky image appeared: our hallway, the stroller, the staircase, and Vanessa stepping into view. Then Olivia hit play.
