Page 20 of 4th Silence
“If Mary found out…” Mallory trails off. “Let me think about it, all right? Just, please, dig into the case for me, will you? There’s something not right about that family. I’ve always believed they know more than they’ve let on. Especially Mary. The matriarch of the Hartman clan knows everything. Every skeleton, every dirty secret.”
“Does she have some kind of blackmail on you?” Charlie asks. “Is that why you’re reluctant to talk to us?”
A soft chuckle that turns into a barely there sniffle. “She owns all of us.”
“Owns you how?” I ask.
The line goes dead.
It’s all I can do not to say something. To prod my sister. We have to attend that gala tonight and track down Mary Hartman.
Charlie starts the car and cranks up the heat. “I know what you’re going to say.”
I bite my lip. I know when to push and when to let Charlie’s inner compass do it.
She drives out of the lot, and we hit the highway. I’m practically vibrating with the words backing up in my throat.
Finally, she says, “Fine. We’re both going.”
“What about?—”
“JJ? I’ll figure it out, Meg. I always do.”
7
Charlie
* * *
The noise in the marble-floored foyer swallows our footsteps. Christmas joy is in the air, fueled by flowing liquor and vulture-like gossip.
My sister’s plain black boots look blasphemous among the designer heels on every woman in sight. Her tailored slacks are an act of war among three-thousand-dollar gowns.
A woman in ice-blue satin recoils as Meg adjusts her favorite tote that’s slung over her shoulder—the one carrying her sketchpad and latex gloves like her version of Santa’s sack.
I straighten my Burberry trench, the lining too thin for the winter night. At least I’m wearing a Stella McCartney dress. Sure, it’s so last season, as Haley pointed out, but gala events aren’t generally high on my priority list. All I need to do is blend in.
I’ve made up for it by choosing some killer heels—no one can fault me there. They make me feel more confident. “I maxed out my last credit card on these tickets.” The heels make me taller than her. “We better make this count.”
“We should have brought Matt,” she says.
“The two tickets for us were my limit.”
Checking our coats, I stop long enough to reapply lipstick. Meg fusses with her white shirt. “You look great,” I tell her.
She’s left her hair down to frame her face and worn makeup that highlights her cheekbones. “Thanks. Now that I’m in here, maybe I should have worn a dress. My act of rebellion backfired. I look like one of the wait staff.”
I wink. “The perfect undercover costume.”
The ballroom is packed. Crystal chandeliers with teardrop pendants fracture light into dozens of rainbow shards that dance across the faces of the crowd. A string quartet plays Vivaldi while socialites dissect each other with diamond-studded smiles. I clock twelve security earpieces before we reach the ice sculpture centerpiece—swan wings melting into puddles at its base.
As a waiter with a tray waltzes past, Meg helps herself to canapes. The next tray-toting server brings champagne. I arch a brow as she downs the food and drink.
“I’m hungry,” she says around a pastry tart.
At least she’s eating.
“Remember our plan.” I scan the nearest couple, but I need higher ground to locate our target. “No harassing. We get her alone and plead our case.”
