"Are you finished?" I asked.
My voice wasn't loud. It didn't tremble. It fell into the room like a sheet of ice.
Ethan’s smirk wavered, if only for a fraction of a second. "Look, Colonel—or whatever we're supposed to call you—Emily ran out of the house like a lunatic because we had a disagreement about our anniversary plans. She tripped on the cobblestone driveway. I tried to catch her. That’s how she got the bruises on her arms."
"He lied," Emily whispered behind me, her small hand clutching the back of my dress jacket so tightly her knuckles were white. "Mom, he threw me against the wall. His brother held my arms so I couldn't reach my purse, and his mother took my phone and told me that if I called the police, she would make sure I lost my job at the museum."
Margaret let out a polished, melodic laugh—the kind of laugh designed to diminish people in public settings. "Oh, Emily, darling. You’re hysterical. My sons would never touch you. You come from a background that doesn't understand the pressures of our social circle. You simply couldn't adapt."