Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Wolves
The grand dining room of the Dawson apartment looked like a scene from a luxury home magazine.
A high-end crystal chandelier hung over a dark mahogany table set with porcelain plates, silver cutlery, fresh pastries, and hot coffee. Sunlight poured through the large bay windows, making the polished hardwood floors gleam.
Margaret sat at the head of the table in a silk blouse, sipping her tea with an air of smug victory. Richard sat beside her reading the morning paper, while Lauren slumped in a chair near the end of the table, hungover, picking lazily at a croissant.
When the front door unlocked, Mark walked in carrying his suit bag.
"Mom!" Mark called out, setting his bag down in the entryway and rushing over to hug his mother. "I came straight from the airport."
Margaret immediately pulled out a handkerchief and began dabbing at her dry eyes. "Oh, Mark... my sweet boy. It was terrible last night. Absolutely terrible. Clara talked to your father like he was trash, snatched Emma, and ran out. I haven't slept a wink thinking about my mother's bracelet."
"Don't worry, Mom," Mark said, his face darkening as he adjusted his necktie. "Clara is on her way. She's bringing Emma. We're going to search everything."
Right on cue, the doorbell rang.
Mark marched over to the front door and threw it open.
I stood in the hallway holding Emma in my arms. Maya stood right behind me, carrying a large black duffel bag, her phone held up in her coat pocket recording everything.
Mark looked at me with cold disapproval. "It's about time. Come inside."
I walked into the apartment without saying a word. I set Emma down gently on her feet.
Margaret looked at us from the dining room table, a cold, condescending smirk gracing her lips. "So the runaway mother returns. I hope you've brought my mother's bracelet back, Clara."
"I didn't bring your bracelet, Margaret," I said clearly, walking into the center of the dining room. "Because my three-year-old daughter never took it."
Mark slammed his hand against the dining table. "Clara, stop lying! My mother searched the whole house! Emma was the only one near her dresser!"
"Mark," I said, turning to look at my husband. "Have you looked at your daughter yet today?"
Mark blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Look at your daughter," I demanded, my voice ringing across the silent apartment.
Mark looked down at Emma. The little girl was shrinking back against my legs, clutching her pink knit hat with trembling hands.
"Take off your hat, sweetie," I murmured softly to Emma.
Emma reached up with her tiny hands and slowly pulled off the pink knit hat.
The bright sunlight hit her completely bald, red, razor-scratched scalp.
Mark froze. The color instantly drained from his face. "What... what is that? Clara, what did you do to her hair?!"
"I didn't do that, Mark," I said, my voice dripping with cold fury as I pointed directly at Margaret. "Your mother did that. She held your three-year-old daughter down, shaved her head with a razor, and locked her barefoot on the balcony in freezing weather while you were flying back from New York."
Mark turned slowly to look at his mother, his jaw open in utter shock. "Mom... is that true?"
Margaret didn't even flinch. She set her porcelain tea cup down with a sharp clink.
"Of course it's true!" Margaret declared without a single shred of shame. "She stole from this family! Shaving a thief's head is a traditional lesson in shame! How else is she going to learn right from wrong when her mother clearly doesn't teach her?!"
Mark stood paralyzed, looking between his bald, trembling daughter and his mother. For a second, I thought he might finally wake up, might finally act like a father.
Instead, Mark let out a long breath and looked back at me.
"Look, Clara... Mom's methods might be a little old-fashioned," Mark muttered, his voice weak and pathetic. "Extreme, maybe. But if Emma really took the bracelet, Mom was just upset! You shouldn't have brought her back here empty-handed! Where is the bracelet?!"
I let out a dry, bitter laugh.
Old-fashioned. He had just excused the physical abuse of his own daughter to protect his mother's ego.
"You really are your mother's son, Mark," I said, pulling my leather briefcase onto the dining table. "Weak, cowardly, and completely blind."
"Hey! Don't talk to my brother like that!" Lauren shouted from the end of the table, standing up with a scowl. "You're just trying to turn this around because your brat got caught stealing!"
"Am I, Lauren?" I asked, looking directly at my sister-in-law.
I unzipped my briefcase and pulled out my tablet.
"What is that?" Richard asked, laying his newspaper down on the table, his brow furrowing.
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"This," I said, tapping the tablet screen, "is the footage from the 4K night-vision camera I installed on the top shelf of the living room bookcase six months ago."
Lauren's face instantly turned as pale as fresh snow.
