I Wore My Red Dress And Diamonds While He Said Don't Touch Her Again...

I didn't pick her up the way you're supposed to. I just got down to where she was and gathered her against the red of my dress, my knees finding the hard kitchen tile. The pendant light over the island hummed faintly, that same warm bokeh I'd seen from the hallway glowing against the white walls.

Richard's study door had clicked shut. I could hear the low murmur of his voice starting a call. Daniel stayed where I'd left him, in the hallway entrance, his back half to us so he could watch the door.

"Hey, sweet pea," I whispered to Lily. "Let me see your arm."

She was in the light blue outfit I'd laid out that morning, the little cotton top with the ruffled collar and the soft pants. She'd been so proud of it for the photos. Now one sleeve was pushed up and bunched.

She didn't pull away when I touched her wrist. Her breathing was shallow and fast. I eased the sleeve up gently, past her elbow.

There was a mark. Not a bruise, not yet. A faint, mottled redness in the shape of fingers around her small upper arm, just below the shoulder. Four ovals, pale in the center. My stomach dropped.

"Does this hurt when I touch here?" I asked, barely pressing with my thumb.

She shook her head. "No. He just held me."

"Who held you, baby?"

"Grandpa," she said, her voice thin. "He told me to sit still for the pictures and not wiggle. I wiggled. Then I went on the floor behind you and hid."

That was why she'd been down there in the last shot. Not playing. Hiding. I remembered how Richard had snapped when the photographer called to confirm at two, how he'd said Lily needed to look perfect for the foundation website, how he'd kept telling her to sit up straight, smile right, hands in her lap. She was five.

I smoothed her hair back. She'd been with us six months. Since my daughter, Claire, died in February. Car accident on Route 33, on her way home from work. Lily's father wasn't in the picture, had never been. The papers had come through in March — temporary guardianship, Richard and me. Richard had been the one to insist we take her. He'd said it was our duty, our image, our legacy. He'd said a child needed structure.

I hadn't realized structure meant fear.

"You're okay," I told her. I wasn't sure if I was telling her or myself. I pressed my cheek to the top of her head. She smelled like baby shampoo and apple juice.

Daniel shifted his weight in the doorway. I looked up. He gave me a small, tight nod.

I reached for my phone where I'd left it on the island counter that morning beside my makeup bag. My hand was shaking and the diamonds at my throat caught the light when I moved. The clasp had left a faint imprint on my skin.

"I want to take a picture of your arm, okay? Just so we remember how it looks. Is that okay?"

Lily looked at the phone, then at me. "Will you get in trouble?"

That question knocked the air out of me.

"No, honey. You won't be in trouble."

I took the photo. One, quick, with the flash off so it wouldn't scare her. The red marks showed up clearly against her pale skin, the blue sleeve pushed up. I heard the soft shutter sound and then immediately felt sick for having done it.

I knelt there with the phone in my hand. My first instinct was to text my sister. Or to send it to myself for safekeeping. But Daniel was already moving closer, his gray suit jacket brushing the counter. He crouched down so he was at our level, keeping his voice low.

"Margaret," he said quietly. He didn't look at Lily, he looked at me. "He checks your phone."

I stared at him.

"After the last time you tried to call Dr. Patel about your sleep? He told me he pays the phone bill and sees everything that comes through the cloud."

My throat tightened. He was right. Richard had asked me just last week why I'd been looking up therapists in Columbus. I'd told him it was for a friend.

Daniel glanced over his shoulder toward the study, then back. "If you keep it in your camera roll, he'll see it. He'll delete it. Or worse."

My thumb hovered over the screen. Lily was watching my face, her eyes wide.

I deleted the photo from the main roll and then went into the Recently Deleted folder and left it there. One copy, hidden where a casual swipe wouldn't find it, but still retrievable if I needed it. It wasn't much. It felt like nothing and like everything.

I set the phone face-down.

"Let me get you some juice," I said to Lily, standing on unsteady legs. The red dress felt suddenly too bright, too tight, too much like a costume.

I poured apple juice into her little plastic cup with the lid, the one with the straw. My hands steadied as I did it. She took it with both hands and drank, and some color came back into her cheeks. She leaned against the cabinet where she could see both me and Daniel, and that seemed to calm her.

The clock on the microwave said 3:22. The photographer was due at six. Hair and makeup were supposed to come at four-thirty. Richard had said Lily will be present, as if it were already decided.

I looked down at the dress, at the diamonds that were supposed to photograph so well, at Lily's faint mark, at Daniel's tattooed hands resting on his knees as he kept watch.