Patricia lunged toward Lily again. Not fast enough to scare me. Just fast enough to prove what she was. Her manicured hand shot forward, aimed for my stepdaughter’s arm, and the old instinct in that family rose up around us like steam off the wet pool deck. No one moved. No one shouted. No one said, “Stop.” They had watched Patricia humiliate waiters, drivers, assistants, young brides, divorced daughters-in-law, and anyone without the right last name for thirty years. Now she was doing it to an 8-year-old girl in a blue dress soaked with lemonade. And they were still pretending...
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