“You okay, Robin?” I asked. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t admit it. Not in front of Owen, at least. She’d never really taken to him, though I couldn’t understand why. She claimed it was because he was possessive and controlling—the same two adjectives used again and again, but did anyone really know what they meant? My husband liked to spend time with me. Why make such a fuss about it? Why turn it into something so villainous? And yet sometimes it felt wrong to me too. One morning I’d wake up adoring him. Another morning I’d wake up abhorring him. It was marital Stockholm syndrome.

“Sure. I think I’m just getting tired. Wine does that to me.” She grinned but I could tell it was fake.

“Maybe it’s time we head home, huh, Owen?” I glanced at him, expecting a fervent yes. He’d been ready to leave the dinner party the moment he chewed his last bite of orange duck with au gratin potatoes and grilled asparagus. Privately he’d confided to me he thought dinner tasted like warmed-over shit. His sour mood alone was already giving me a headache, which wouldn’t be enough of an excuse to avoid his drunken, grabby hands tonight.

“I’m ready when you are,” he said, getting up with a little groan. “Dinner was superb, Robin,” he added unctuously.

I knew it was bullshit. We all tasted the same overcooked meat and burned veggies.

“Glad you enjoyed it, Owen. You don’t want to stay for coffee or tea?” Robin held up a rose gold carafe that she’d just carried out with a cute matching sugar and cream set. Only Robin would place such importance on the presentation details for coffee.

“That sounds tempting, Rob,” I said, “but we’ve got an early morning tomorrow—school and work and all. I’ll go get Aria.”

Thick wool carpet muted the sound of my footsteps as I descended into the basement where the stairs led into an open-floor game room. Wood paneling insulated the space, giving it a cozy warmth. As my feet hit the bottom step, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but it couldn’t be what my eyes were transmitting to my brain.

It just couldn’t be.

My innocent daughter, sprawled out on the floor with Ryan thrusting away on top of her. His jeans hung below his bare butt. My baby’s shirt was pulled up and her bra undone, exposing her budding breasts. She still had her underwear on, but just barely. She looked totally wasted.

“Aria?” I asked, my voice hardly audible.

They hadn’t heard me.

“Aria!” My voice returned with force, startling Ryan upright. “Get the hell off of my daughter!” I screamed, crossing the room.

Ryan rolled off Aria, a genuine look of fear and panic in his eyes as he hurriedly pulled his pants up. “Mrs. Fischer, I—”