Chapter 75:


    Grayson looked down. He saw the coffee dripping onto his trousers.


    “Dammit!” he barked into the phone. “Belle, hold on.” He looked at Effie, his face twisted in annoyance. “Watch where you’re going! This suit is custom Zegna. It’s twenty thousand dors!”


    Isolde dropped the suitcase. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. She moved faster than thought.


    She reached Effie in a single stride, already seeing the angry red skin blistering along her arm and shin.


    She shoved Grayson. Hard.


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    “Get away from her!” she screamed.


    Grayson stumbled back, stunned. “You pushed me? She ran into me!”


    Mrs. Higgins came rushing from the kitchen, gasping when she took in the scene.


    Isolde scooped Effie up, ignoring the coffee soaking through her own white shirt. She ran for the kitchen. “Cold water! I need cold water!”


    Grayson stood in the foyer, dabbing at his trousers with a handkerchief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered into the phone. “The kid is a menace. She ruined my suit.”


    In the kitchen, Isolde thrust Effie’s burning arm and shin under the tap and sted the cold water. Effie was sobbing, her whole body shaking.


    “It burns, Mommy! It burns!”


    “I know, baby, I know,” Isolde wept, holding her tight. “I’ve got you.”


    Beatrice appeared at the kitchen doorway, her wheelchair motor whirring softly. She had heard everything from the hallway.


    She looked at Grayson, who had followed them in stillining. “Mom, look at this.” He gestured at his leg. “Effie is out of control.”


    Beatrice didn’t speak. She lifted her cane.


    She swung it with surprising force. The heavy wood cracked against Grayson’s shin.


    “You animal,” Beatrice hissed. “That is your own flesh and blood screaming in there, and you worry about wool?”


    Grayson yelped and clutched his leg. “Grandmother!”


    “Get out,” Beatrice said, her voice trembling with rage. “Get out of my sight.”


    Grayson rubbed his shin, looking from his grandmother to his weeping daughter.


    “You’re all hysterical,” he said, his voice rising. “It’s just a little hot water. She’s fine.”


    Isolde turned off the tap. She wrapped Effie’s arm and leg in clean, wet dish towels, then turned to face Grayson. Her expression was a mask of absolute hatred.


    “Keys,” she said. “Now.”


    “My driver can take you to a clinic if you’re so worried,” Grayson sneered.


    “Give her the keys!” Beatrice roared.


    She grabbed a porcin bowl from the counter and hurled it. It smashed at Grayson’s feet, shards skittering across the tile.


    Grayson jumped back. He looked at his grandmother with something close to genuine fear. He reached into his pocket and threw the Volvo keys onto the ind.


    “Fine! Go! But remember, we have to stop at the school. Belle is waiting for an apology for the other day.”


    Isolde went still. She stared at him. “What?”


    “Belle is at St. Jude’s,” Grayson said, as though it were self-evident. “You embarrassed her. You need to apologize before we move on.”


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