Chapter 1 - The Water on the Marble
The first thing eight-year-old Naomi Bennett heard was the bucket hitting the floor. The second was her stepmother saying, “Get down.”
Soapy water swept across the white marble foyer of the Bennett house in Dallas, soaking Naomi’s faded yellow school dress and the socks she had already worn through at the heels. Her knees struck the tile. The sponge slid out of her red, chapped fingers.
It was eleven in the morning, three days before Christmas. Beyond the towering windows, a gardener was hanging red bows on the gate. Inside, a twelve-foot tree sparkled beside a staircase wide enough for three people to walk abreast. The house smelled of cinnamon and the roast Mrs. Bell was preparing for the family dinner. Naomi had eaten half a banana at six.
“Look what you made me do,” said Camille Bennett, standing above her in cream trousers and a spotless cashmere sweater. “Now clean it.”
Naomi stared at the puddle. “I didn't touch the bucket.”
Camille lifted the handle of a black fireplace tool from the umbrella stand. It was an iron poker with a polished brass knob. She struck the marble beside Naomi's hand. The crack rang through the foyer.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Naomi flinched so hard she hit her elbow against the bottom stair. She folded her hands beneath her chest. “No, ma'am.”
“Then work.”
Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, appeared at the kitchen entrance carrying a tray of rolls. She was a broad-shouldered Black woman in her sixties who had worked for Naomi's grandmother long before the mansion belonged to the Bennetts. She saw the poker, set down the tray, and moved toward the child.
“Mrs. Bennett, let me handle the floor.”
Camille turned. “I didn't hire you to raise her.”
“No,” Mrs. Bell said. “But somebody ought to.”
Camille's smile vanished. “One more word and you'll spend Christmas looking for another job.”
Naomi shook her head at Mrs. Bell. The housekeeper had a grandson who needed expensive hearing aids. Naomi knew why she couldn't afford to lose her job.
“It's okay,” Naomi whispered. “I can do it.”
She picked up the sponge and dragged it across the tile. Water ran into her sleeves. She had scrubbed the foyer since breakfast because Camille claimed a guest had seen fingerprints near the door. Now the same woman had emptied a bucket over an already clean floor.
A small square of marble beneath the Christmas tree rocked when Naomi leaned on it. She froze. Yesterday Mrs. Bell had warned her not to press that particular tile.
Camille noticed. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.”
“Then stop wasting my time. Your father is in London, and I will not have him come home to a filthy house.”
Naomi swallowed. Her father, Malcolm Bennett, had called from the airport the night before. He'd promised to be home on Christmas Eve. Camille had stood just outside Naomi's bedroom while they talked, tapping a fingernail against the door until Naomi said everything was fine.
A low engine sounded outside. Camille barely looked up. “Probably the florist.”
But the black SUV stopped directly in front of the double doors. A man stepped out without waiting for the driver. Tall, dark-skinned, wearing a charcoal coat over a wrinkled business shirt, Malcolm carried a small paper bag from the airport bakery. He had changed flights and come home early to surprise his daughter.
He saw the water first. Then the child on her knees. Then the iron poker in his wife's hand.
The bag slipped from his fingers. A gingerbread cookie broke on the doorstep.
“Naomi?”
His daughter looked up. For one wonderful second, she smiled.
“Daddy!”
She started to stand. Camille tapped the poker against the floor, and Naomi dropped back onto her knees as if a string had pulled her down.
“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I haven't finished.”
Malcolm did not move. He had seen his daughter frightened of thunderstorms, dentists, and the neighbor's enormous dog. He had never seen her frightened of standing up in her own home.
“Why are you cleaning?” he asked.
Naomi looked at Camille before answering. “Because I made a mess.”
“Did you?”
Camille gave a brittle laugh. “Malcolm, sweetheart, don't encourage the dramatics. She was being disrespectful.”
Malcolm crossed the foyer and knelt in the water, facing his daughter. He took the sponge from her stiff fingers. Her hands were raw around the knuckles. A small bruise darkened her elbow where she'd hit the stair.
“Baby,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “tell me what happened.”
Naomi's eyes filled. “She said if I told you, she'd send Mrs. Bell away.”
Mrs. Bell shut her eyes. Camille gripped the poker harder.
Malcolm stood, placing himself between Naomi and his wife. “Put that down.”
“Don't you order me around in my house.”
“Our house,” Malcolm said. “And she's my daughter.”
Camille set the poker against the wall with a sharp clatter. “You have no idea what she's been doing while you're gone.”
“No,” Malcolm said. “I don't. That's about to change.”
Mrs. Bell came close enough to slip a dry towel around Naomi's shoulders. Her gaze darted to the loose square of marble beneath the Christmas tree.
“Mr. Bennett,” she said so quietly Camille couldn't hear, “please don't let your wife touch that tile.”
Malcolm looked down. A narrow black thread protruded from the seam.
Camille followed his eyes. For the first time since he had arrived, she looked genuinely afraid.
May you like
“Everybody out of this foyer,” she said.
But Naomi was already reaching for her father's hand. “Daddy,” she whispered, “that's where Mommy left her Christmas present.”
