Chapter 4
Arthur knew he had seconds before Elena completely lost consciousness. He shifted newborn Leo higher against his chest, tucking the infant securely against his shoulder to free up his right arm.
"Hold on to me, Elena. I've got you," Arthur whispered fiercely.
With a surge of adrenaline, Arthur slipped his right arm under Elena’s back, right beneath her shoulders, and his left arm, still supporting the baby, managed to hook under her knees. He grunted with the sheer physical effort, the fabric of his expensive business suit straining at the seams as he deadlifted his wife off the Persian rug. She was dead weight, her head falling limply against his chest right next to where Leo was nestled.
He turned toward the large, open double doors that led from the dining room to the front hallway. He needed to get her to the car. He needed to get her to an emergency room immediately.
But as he took his first heavy step forward, a figure stepped directly into his path, blocking the exit entirely.
It was Margaret.
She had moved with surprising speed for a sixty-four-year-old woman, abandoning her place at the head of the table. She stood squarely in the doorway, her sensible flats planted firmly on the hardwood floor. She was still holding the silver carving knife in her right hand. She didn't point it at him, but the way it gleamed in the bright, cheerful light of the room sent a cold shiver down Arthur's spine.
"Move out of my way, Mother," Arthur commanded. His voice was a low, vibrating growl of pure menace.
Margaret did not flinch. Her face, usually so composed and aristocratic, hardened into a mask of pure, ugly entitlement. Her blue eyes locked onto the small bundle of the onesie clutched against Arthur's chest.
"You can take that ungrateful, dramatic woman wherever you like," Margaret said, her voice sharp and vibrating with a possessive, territorial rage. She raised her left hand, pointing a perfectly manicured finger directly at the crying newborn. “But you are not taking my grandson anywhere.”
"Are you out of your mind?" Arthur yelled, incredulous. "He needs his mother! He needs to be fed!"
"His mother is clearly unfit!" Margaret shouted back, her American accent losing its refined polish, revealing the venomous control freak beneath. "Look at her! She can't even stand up! She is weak, Arthur. I told you not to marry her. I will not allow my bloodline, my grandson, to be dragged to some filthy emergency room because this woman can't handle a simple dinner party. Give him to me. I will raise him correctly."
The relatives behind Arthur began to murmur loudly.
"Margaret, let him pass," an aunt finally spoke up, her voice trembling. "She looks really bad. They need a doctor."
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"Shut up, Susan!" Margaret snapped without breaking eye contact with Arthur. "Arthur, I am your mother. I brought you into this world, and I built this family. You will hand that boy over to me right this instant, or I swear to God, I will call the police and tell them Elena neglected him."
Arthur stared at the woman standing in front of him. The cardigan, the pearls, the fair, rosy skin—it was a flawless costume of the perfect American grandmother, hiding a sociopathic monster who had just tortured his wife for sport.
