The words landed like a match dropped onto silk.
“Mr. Brooks,” the investigator said again, his calm voice somehow louder than shouting, “before anyone leaves, we need to ask you a few important questions.”
My father stopped three feet away from me.
For the first time in my life, Richard Brooks looked small.
Not weak. Never weak. Weakness was something he hated in others and hunted in his family. But small, yes—his shoulders stiff under his tailored black jacket, his jaw locked, his eyes moving too quickly from the investigator to the champagne flute in Madison’s hand, then to me.
Madison laughed once.
It was a thin, broken sound.
“Dad?” she said. “What is this?”
He did not answer her.
That was when I knew.
All my life, Madison had been the sun in our house. I had believed she received every warm thing my father was capable of giving. The attention. The praise. The tenderness. The careful hand on her shoulder in family photographs. The proud laugh when she entered a room.
But in that moment, when she needed him to say one clear, simple sentence—Madison, you’re safe—he gave her nothing.
My mother, Elaine, crossed the ballroom so fast her heels nearly slipped on the polished floor. “Madison, give me the glass.”
Madison’s fingers tightened around it.
“Mom,” she whispered, and then her face changed.
Not dramatically. Not like in movies. Her smile simply vanished, and a strange confusion clouded her eyes. She blinked at the lights above us as though they had suddenly become too bright.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Someone call an ambulance,” I said.
“I already did,” the investigator replied, without looking away from my father.
A murmur ran through the room. Someone cried out. Someone else cursed under their breath. Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked as guests pushed them away as if every golden bubble had turned dangerous.
Richard lifted both hands, showing his palms to the room.
