It was Thomas, Michael’s father. The old man walked up to the table. He didn’t look at Jennifer. He looked at the baby in my arms.
“You abandoned a helpless child,” Thomas said, his voice shaking with the fury of a patriarch whose lineage has been desecrated. “You have disgraced this family.”
“Miss Wilson,” the British head butler, a man who had likely seen everything in his forty years of service, stepped forward. He looked shaken. “Shall I… call the authorities?”
“I already did,” I said.
As if summoned by the justice of the universe, the double doors opened again. Two NYPD officers walked in. They looked out of place amidst the silk and flowers, their utility belts jarring against the decor.
“Mrs. Jennifer Brown?” the lead officer asked. “We received a report of child endangerment and abandonment. We have video evidence.”
Jennifer collapsed. She didn’t faint; she just folded, sinking to the floor in a pile of blue tulle, sobbing hysterically. It wasn’t a pretty cry. It was ugly, guttural, and pathetic.
The arrest was chaotic. The paparazzi, who had been waiting outside to catch photos of the “Happy Couple,” got the scoop of the century: The Golden Girl in handcuffs, being led into a squad car.
I stood on the sidewalk, the baby still strapped to me. Michael was sitting on the curb, his tuxedo jacket off, his head in his hands. He looked broken.
He looked up at me. “I didn’t know, Caroline. I swear to God. I travel so much… she said she gained weight from stress… I believed her.”
“I know,” I said softly. I believed him. He was guilty of negligence, maybe, but not malice.
“Can I…” He swallowed hard. “Can I hold her?”
