Ivy went home shortly after four in the morning.
Her sister, Naomi, collected her from the medical facility where she’d been examined.
Naomi worked nights as a nurse and had driven across the city after receiving Ivy’s call.
She helped Ivy into the passenger seat, fastened the seat belt carefully so it wouldn’t rub against her shoulder, and drove without turning on the radio.
For the first ten minutes, neither spoke.
Then Naomi asked, “Do you want to tell me?”
Ivy stared through the windshield.
“She hit me.”
Naomi gripped the steering wheel.
“I know.”
“With a riding crop.”
“I know that too.”
Ivy swallowed.
“I was standing in the middle of the ballroom, and nobody moved.”
Naomi glanced at her.
“Did you report it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I gave a statement. The medical staff documented the injury. The police spoke to Maya and several guests.”
Naomi nodded.
“Then we’ll make sure you have copies of your records.”
Ivy leaned back carefully.
“I’ve spent seven years working in that house.”
“I know.”
“I’ve polished those floors. Cleaned those windows. Worked holidays so they could host parties. I’ve stayed late when their guests refused to leave.”
Her voice broke.
“And she stood there telling me I should be grateful to be allowed inside.”
Naomi reached across the console and took her uninjured hand.
Ivy looked down.
“I kept thinking if I just stood still, she’d stop.”
