Chapter 2 - EIRA’S CHEEK
The urgent-care doctor found no serious injury.
Eira’s cheek was swollen.
Her elbow was bruised where she hit the floor.
No fracture.
No concussion.
No eye injury.
I asked the doctor twice.
Then a third time.
“She’s okay?”
“Yes.”
My daughter sat on the examination table holding the broken locket.
She refused to let me put it in my pocket.
“Mommy’s.”
“I know.”
“Can fix?”
“Yes.”
I had no idea whether that was true.
I said it anyway.
Then corrected myself.
“We’ll try.”
Better.
A child-protection social worker came because the doctor had documented intentional striking by an adult caregiver figure.
Police followed.
I told them everything.
Including my slap.
Detective Mara Ellis looked at me across the consultation room.
“Did Ms. Wexley—”
“She’s not Wexley yet.”
The correction came too fast.
“Ainsley,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Did Ainsley strike you?”
“No.”
“Threaten you physically?”
“No.”
“Did you believe she was about to strike Eira again when you hit her?”
I thought.
“No.”
That answer tasted terrible.
“I was furious.”
The detective nodded.
“You understand that may constitute assault separately from what she did?”
“Yes.”
I did.
No heroic-father exception.
No emotional loophole.
I had hit an adult who was no longer physically attacking my child at that moment.
I would face whatever came.
Then Detective Ellis spoke with Eira through a child interviewer.
I stayed behind glass.
The interviewer asked:
“What happened with the locket?”
Eira held the stuffed rabbit the clinic had given her.
“I wanted Mommy necklace.”
“Where was it?”
“Box.”
“Did Ainsley say anything?”
“She said no Mommy things.”
“What happened next?”
“She took it.”
“And then?”
“She hit me.”
“Why?”
Eira’s lower lip trembled.
“Because I don’t call her Mommy.”
My body went cold.
The interviewer did not react.
“Has she asked you to call her Mommy?”
Eira nodded.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your dad know?”
“No.”
That word hurt.
Then:
“Has Ainsley taken other things that belonged to your mother?”
Eira thought.
“Pictures.”
“What happened to them?”
“Boxes.”
“Anything else?”
“Mommy blue bracelet.”
My heart stopped.
“What bracelet?”
The interviewer gently redirected.
I had to wait.
Eira said:
“Ainsley said lady took it.”
Lady.
What lady?
After the interview I called my sister, Brynn.
“Do you remember the blue bracelet?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
My late wife had owned a sapphire bracelet from her grandmother.
Not priceless.
Valuable.
Sentimental.
It was supposed to go to Eira eventually.
“Do you know where it is?”
“I thought you did.”
I drove home with Naomi Price, my attorney, meeting us there.
Ainsley had already left.
Police had told both of us to avoid contact.
Good.
The engagement dinner guests were gone.
Broken social evening.
Broken wedding.
Broken locket.
Naomi photographed the keepsake box before we touched anything.
The inventory sheet listed twenty-seven items.
Eight marked:
REMOVED.
Three:
APPRAISAL COMPLETE.
One:
CONSIGNMENT PENDING.
My stomach turned.
“Consignment?”
Naomi looked at me.
“Did you authorize sale of your late wife’s belongings?”
“No.”
“Could Ainsley reasonably believe you did?”
“I told her she could help organize storage.”
“That is not the same question.”
I thought back.
Three months earlier I had signed something from the estate-storage company.
Ainsley had said:
This lets me handle pickups so you don’t have to keep leaving work.
I signed.
Without reading every page.
My chest tightened.
“I might have given her access.”
Naomi’s face became serious.
“Access is not necessarily authority to sell.”
“Can we find out?”
“Yes.”
She pulled the full inventory from the box.
At the bottom was a company name.
MERRITT ESTATE & FINE GOODS.
Naomi called.
Their office was closed.
Website showed appointment-only estate appraisal and luxury consignment.
Then I saw a handwritten number beside the sapphire bracelet.
$18,400.
May you like
Eira’s mother’s bracelet had been appraised.
And whatever Ainsley had been planning, she knew exactly what my daughter’s memories were worth in dollars.
