Page 22 of 4th Silence
A server edges closer. I consider grabbing a flute, but Mary gives him a scowl that sends him scurrying off. I hold onto my patience. “I assure you, I’m only interested in putting a killer behind bars.”
“You’re a vulture who confuses her hero complex with entertainment.”
Ouch.
Someone gasps. I glance around to find we have an audience. Phones emerge like weapons drawn.
JJ is going to kill me. Bury me where no one can find my body.
“Leave.” Mary’s voice rises, as does her chin. She’s playing for the cameras now. “Before I have you arrested for harassment.”
“Arrest me.” I let the words ride the room. “I’m only trying to uncover the truth. It seems to me that if you were interested in that, you’d be more than happy for the Schock Sisters to take on this case.” Mary isn’t the only one who can play to the cameras, although I’m partial to my mother’s more straightforward, less drama-queen style. “As I said, we’re good at our job, and I’m offering to do it free of charge. What do you have to lose?”
Murmurs. Nods.
Her mask slips. “Filthy little climber. You’re here to spotlight my grief and leverage my standing in this community. Your mother’s obsession is tragic. Don’t be like her.” Her voice rises. “Helen Schock couldn’t distinguish real journalism from hysterical fanfiction if a serial killer walked up and confessed every secret he had.”
“My mother has brought closure to multiple families. Her heart is in the right place.”
A champagne flute shatters.
Alex Hartman barrels through the crowd, tuxedo perfect, fury barely contained. He plants himself between Mary and the cameras. “What are you doing, Charlie?”
Mary grips his sleeve and turns pleading eyes on him. “This gutter snipe is harassing me. I told the mayor I wanted protection from the Schocks, and she shows up anyway, trying to ruin everything.” Her bottom lip wobbles, and her voice cracks.
Oh, she’s good.
Alex’s gaze locks on mine. “I said I’d help you, but you had to leave my mother out of it. JJ told you she was off limits. Congratulations, you’ve just made me your enemy.”
The ballroom tilts. I steady my breathing. My voice drops to glacial. “I’m not afraid of you or your mother. But if anyone in your family is hiding something, you should be afraid of me. Because if I find anything, I will take it to the world. I will find Tiffany’s murderer and bring him”—I glance at Mary—“or her, to justice.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Leave. Or I call security.”
I count three heartbeats. Five. Let the silence stretch until the guests begin murmuring. Then I smile—wide and bright for the audience. “Enjoy your night, Mrs. Hartman.”
I walk away. Slowly. Deliberately. A hundred cameras on me.
By the coat check, I finally unclench my fists and text Meg to tell her to meet me there. Four half-moon wounds glisten on my left palm.
Already? she replies. Did you get the dirt?
I start to type something, delete it. JJ is going to hate me. My mother will be disappointed. Crashed and burned. Wait ’til she sees the footage on social media. It was spectacular.
Good for you. Hitting the bathroom. Meet you in the lobby.
Grabbing our coats, I start composing my apology to JJ in my head. I’m going to need it. And wine.
Lots of wine.
8
Meg
* * *
Sticking to the outer wall of the ballroom, I bypass the throngs of people—and the overwhelming mass of energy that comes with them—and head to the last set of double doors in search of the bathroom.
It’s not hot in here, but I feel a furnace blast inside me and sweat beads on my upper lip. It all feels…close. Stuffy.
