“We are leaving, Graham,” I said.

I helped Hazel slip her arms into her cardigan.

Her little shoulders were tense, her eyes fixed on the black-and-white marble tiles of the floor.

“You’re embarrassing me,” Graham whispered, stepping closer.

He reached for my arm, but I stepped back, placing myself between him and our daughters.

“Do not touch me,” I said.

My voice was quiet, but it had a weight that made him hesitate.

“I will see you at home,” he said, trying to regain his authority. “Go cool off. But you will apologize to her tomorrow.”

“We are going to a hotel,” I said.

I opened the heavy mahogany front door.

The humid Dallas night air hit my face, carrying the scent of cut grass and damp concrete.

“A hotel?” Graham let out a sharp, nervous laugh. “With what money, Jocelyn? Your little consulting projects?”

I didn’t answer him.

I ushered Ruby and Hazel out onto the porch.

The grand stone columns of the mansion cast long, dark shadows across the driveway.

We walked down the steps toward my Volvo SUV, parked at the edge of the circular drive.