The faucet was still dripping.
Water covered the counter.
Emma’s damp footprints led from the kitchen toward the door.
Richard placed his mug on the side table beside the fireplace.
“You’ve always made everything bigger than it is,” he said.
I stared at him.
“You told her to use it.”
“I told her it was cream.”
“You picked it out.”
His eyes hardened for half a second.
“Be careful what you accuse people of.”
He spoke like I was the dangerous person in the room.
I wanted to grab the jar and throw the entire set into a grocery bag.
I wanted to drive after Daniel and Emma.
Instead, I forced myself to slow down.
I took pictures of everything exactly where it had fallen.
The red velvet ribbon.
The silver wrapping paper.
The open lid.
The smear of pink cream along the edge of the jar.
The damp marks on the floor.
