Patricia held court at the center of a long mahogany table, her sunglasses perched on her silver bob, a wall of shopping bags stacked around her chair.

My sister-in-law, Claire, was admiring the lining of a new trench coat. The other three cousins were working through a plate of truffle fries. Not one adult at that table looked remotely concerned about a missing child.

Then Patricia’s eyes landed on the bundle in my arms, and her smile flattened into irritation.

I walked to the head of the table, my boots loud enough to stop the nearest conversation, and set Mia in the empty chair beside me, keeping the coat wrapped around her shoulders.

Then I took out my phone, opened the camera, hit record, and set it face-up on the polished wood.

“Patricia.” My voice came out level enough to cut glass. “Please explain to this table your reasoning for leaving my six-year-old alone in an underground parking garage for five hours.”