It was sharp, flat, and horribly clean, followed by the scrape of chair legs across tile and the small, sickening thud of a child hitting the floor.
Lily had been sitting beside him at Claudia Whitmore’s dining table with her napkin folded neatly across her knees.
Ten years old, small for her age, with freckles over her nose and a gap in her smile she still loved because her dentist had told her it meant her grown-up teeth were coming in brave.
She had spent the first half of dinner trying harder than any child should have had to try.
She said please.
She said thank you.
She smiled when Claudia criticized the way Sarah had dressed her.
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