Sunlight streamed through Camille Braxton’s dining room windows and reflected off the mahogany table, casting a glare across her pale, colorless face. Around the table were twelve matching Chippendale chairs with silk cushions that accented the color of the walls and highlighted the rich, dark luster of the tabletop. Camille sat with her chair turned to one side. Her left elbow rested on the table. Her legs were crossed.

 

She wore a white tennis outfit with green piping on the sleeves of the shirt and the hem of the skirt. Her white leather tennis shoes were spotless. Small round tufts on the back of her socks were perfectly positioned against the tendons behind each ankle. On her left wrist was a Yurman watch with a silver band. On the right, a diamond tennis bracelet. In her left hand she held a cordless telephone.

 

In her lap, dark brown splotches soaked through the front of her skirt. Drops of coffee dribbled a trail across the table to a cream colored saucer with a cup tilted at a precarious angle against the handle of a sterling silver spoon that rested there. Coffee filled the saucer to the rim.

 

A voice called from the phone.

 

“Camille! Camille! You there?”

 

Camille’s mouth was open but her lips were silent. Her eyes were fixed in a blank stare.

Bessie Lawson entered the room through the butler’s pantry.

 

“Miss Camille?”

 

There was no response. She tried again.

 

“Miss Camille?”

 

Bessie moved around the table.

 

“You all right?”

 

She took the phone from Camille’s hand and switched it off. Camille let her hand drop to the table and laid her head on her arm.

 

“He did it again.”

 

Bessie set the phone on the table. A frown wrinkled her forehead.

 

“Who you talking about?”

 

“Perry.”

 

Bessie looked concerned.

 

“Something happen to Mister Perry?”

 

Camille did not respond. Bessie picked up the cup and saucer.

 

“You made a mess with your coffee. Let me get a rag and wipe that up.”

 

Camille raised her head.

 

“That son of a —”

 

Bessie cut her off.

 

“Miss Camille.” Her voice had a parental tone. “Don’t talk like that.”

 

Camille wiped her eyes with her fingers and sat up. She glanced at the splotches on her skirt. Her face went cold with anger. She slapped the table and shouted.

 

“How could he do this to me?!”

 

Bessie jumped at the sound of her voice. The coffee cup rattled against the saucer.

 

Without warning, Camille flung her arm in a backhand swipe that struck the telephone and sent it sailing across the room. It bounced off the wall at the end of the table and fell to the floor.

 

Bessie’s eyes were wide. Her mouth gaped open.

 

“Miss Camille! What is wrong with you?”

 

Camille pushed herself away from the dining table.

 

“Come on.”

 

She started across the room toward the front hall. Bessie hesitated. Camille glared at her from the doorway.

 

“Don’t just stand there. Set that cup down and come on.”

 

Bessie set the cup and saucer on the table and followed her out of the dining room. They moved down the hall to the staircase. Camille started upstairs. Once again, Bessie hesitated.

 

“What’s wrong, Miss Camille? You ain’t acting like yourself.”

 

Camille was already halfway up the steps.

 

“That was Mitzi. She saw Perry last night.” She looked down at Bessie from the stairs. “He was coming out of one of those tanning salons on Airline Highway.”

 

Bessie frowned at her.

 

“A tanning salon? What’s wrong with that? Maybe he’s just working on his tan.”

 

Camille gave her a sarcastic look.

 

“It’s a whorehouse, Bessie.”

 

Bessie looked perplexed.

 

“A whorehouse?”

 

“A whorehouse. Hookers. Prostitutes. Sex.” Camille turned away and continued up the steps. “And who knows what else. Come on.”

 

Camille reached the top of the stairs and turned right. She called to Bessie as she disappeared down the hall.

 

“Come on, Bessie. I need your help.”

 

Bessie sighed and started up the steps.

 

The master bedroom was located on the left side of the hall, facing the back of the house. Camille strode across the room to the dresser and jerked open the top drawer. She stretched her arms wide apart, grabbed the drawer on either side, and slid it from the dresser frame. Holding it against her chest, she wheeled around and started toward the door.

 

Bessie stepped aside to let her pass. Camille scowled at her as she moved into the hall.

 

“Don’t just stand there. Grab the next one and come on.”

 

Perry’s study was across the hall on the front side of the house. His desk sat opposite the door. Behind it, two large windows afforded a view of the front yard below. Camille carried the drawer into the study and set it on the desktop. She moved around the desk to the first window and raised it as high as it would go. Bessie entered the room with the second drawer as the window banged against the top of the frame.

 

“Just set it there.” Camille nodded toward the desk. “Go get the next one.”

 

She steadied herself against the window frame and kicked the screen with her foot. Bessie gasped as the screen ripped loose on one side.

 

“Miss Camille!”

 

Camille kicked again. The screen tore free. She leaned out the window and watched as it fluttered to the ground below. A smile spread across her face as she took the drawer from Bessie.

 

“Go get the other one.”

 

In one quick motion, she turned aside and tossed the drawer out the open window. It crashed to the ground outside and splintered into pieces. She lifted the other drawer from the desktop and shoved it out the window. Bessie leaned around her and watched as it landed on the growing pile in the yard below.

 

Camille nudged her aside.

 

“Get the other drawer, now. Hurry up.”

 

Bessie turned away and started back to the bedroom.

 

When the last of the dresser drawers was gone, they took all of Perry’s clothes from the closet. Shoes, suits, whatever belonged to him went out the window. Swept up by the relief of finally doing something, of taking control, of hitting back, they tore the mirror from the dresser and threw it out. Somehow, they managed to push the dresser frame out with it. The Suburban turned into the driveway. Camille rested her hands on the window sill and watched.

 

The Suburban moved a few feet up the driveway, then stopped. From the second floor, she could see him behind the steering wheel, staring at the mess, then looking up at her, his eyes wide with amazement and disbelief. In a defiant gesture, she thrust her fist out the second story window and pointed with her index finger toward the street. A moment later the truck backed away.