My 4-year-old daughter pointed at my husband’s boss’s wife and called her “the woman who bites,” but her next sentence made the entire party go silent.

"She bit me," May said, cheerful as if she were telling us the color of the sky. "Right here. On my arm. It hurt a lot."

She pushed up her sleeve.

There it was. The faint, half-moon scar on her upper arm. The one I'd spent six months believing came from a fall off the jungle gym.

The table went silent.

I heard a glass shatter somewhere behind me. I didn't turn around. I couldn't look away from that scar.

Vanessa's face had gone the color of milk. For one second, the mask slipped. I saw something raw and furious flash in her eyes. Then she laughed — a bright, perfect laugh.

"Children and their imaginations," she said, waving a hand. "Darling, I've never even been alone with your little girl."

But Richard wasn't looking at his wife. He was looking at May's arm. His face had gone gray.

I felt Daniel's hand clamp down on my shoulder. His grip was so tight it hurt.

"We're leaving," he said into my ear. "Now."

I didn't argue. I lifted May into my arms. She rested her head on my shoulder, completely unaware of the storm she'd just started.

As we walked out, I glanced back.

Vanessa was smiling at the guests, making some joke to smooth it over. But her eyes followed us to the door. And they were cold.

The car ride home was silent.

May fell asleep in her car seat. Daniel gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.

"Daniel," I said quietly. "Six months ago. The kids' Christmas party at their house. Remember? May came home crying. She had that mark on her arm. She said she fell."

He didn't answer.

"Daniel. She didn't fall, did she."

"She's four," he said, his voice hollow. "She could have gotten that mark anywhere. We don't know—"

"She named her, Daniel. She looked at Vanessa Hale and called her the woman who bites. A four-year-old doesn't invent that."

He didn't say anything else the whole drive.

When we got home, I carried May to bed. I changed her into pajamas while she slept. I looked at the scar on her arm under the bedroom light.

It was teeth marks. I could see it now, clear as day. Two rows. Small, even, human.

I sat on the edge of her bed and cried silently into my hands.

Daniel stood in the doorway. I heard his breath catch. Then he came and sat beside me. He put his arm around me, and for a long time, neither of us spoke.

"We don't know what happened," he said finally. "But we're going to find out."