Page 19 of The Birthday Girl
“Beats me, but she's insisting on speaking with you and only you.” The woman gestured toward Shanice with a flick of her chin. “Wouldn't take no for an answer.”
Vega turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in the tight grip Shanice had on her bag strap and the tremor in her hands. When she noticed him watching, she rose to her feet to meet him.
“Come with me,” Vega ordered before leading Shanice through a maze of hallways, echoing with half-heard arguments and the cackle of a woman in holding.
Vega led Shanice into a cramped interview room, the cinderblock walls painted a dull gray. He gestured to a chair across the metal table.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Shanice eased into the seat, clutching her purse against her chest like it might vanish if she let go. Her son squirmed in her lap, whining softly until she hushed him. Vega sat opposite her, elbows braced on the table, expression unreadable.
“You said you only wanted to talk to me, so get to it,” he prompted.
Her throat tightened, and she gently set her son on the chair beside her, then fumbled with the zipper of her purse. For a second, she froze, unable to breathe, then she forced her hand inside and pulled out the little black box.
It looked almost delicate sitting there on the table, the satin bow slightly crumpled from the ride over.
Vega frowned. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” Shanice whispered, her voice breaking.
He hesitated, then peeled the lid back.
The moment the velvet lining came into view, his eyes cocked. The severed ear lay tilted in the white cushion, its diamond stud winking beneath the harsh light.
Shanice turned her face away, pressing her fist to her mouth to keep from gagging. Her son fussed at her side, reaching toward her dress, oblivious.
Vega shut the box with a snap that echoed off the walls, and his eyes cut to Shanice. “Where did you get this?”
Her voice shook. “It was sitting on the ground in front of my door when I came home from the club last night. I was drunk, so I didn’t open it until roughly thirty minutes ago.”
Vega leaned back slowly, his chair creaking under his weight. He didn’t move for a long moment, only studied her, as if trying to decide whether she was lying or telling him the first truth he’d heard in years.
Finally, he pushed the box aside with two fingers and folded his hands on the table. “Alright, Shanice. If what you’re saying is true, then you’ve got to walk me through everything thathappened in your life leading up to the box on your doorstep. Don’t leave anything out.”
7- Paparazzi Playa
Sunlight ricocheted off the Dallas skyline and through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows inside Tahlia's corner office. Thirty floors below, cars crawled through gridlock, and people scurried between buildings, all of them tiny, irrelevant specks from her vantage point.
The silence in her office felt absolute, sacred almost, interrupted only when she tapped her Montblanc pen against the blank legal pad. Midway through a financial report, her private line lit up, the one reserved for emergencies. Tahlia’s head whipped in its direction, and her brows met in the center of her forehead.
Lost in thought, she let the line buzz twice before answering. “Banks.”
“Good morning, Ms. Banks. It’s Ezra,” her crisis manager said.
Tahlia leaned back in her leather chair, eyes narrowing at the skyline. “Hi, Ezra. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Banks, I’ve got good and bad news.”
“Rip the bandage off. Start with the mess.”
“Since you insist.” His voice hardened. “One of your sister’s friends tried to sell footage from the baby shower, of you cracking Lawson over the head with a bottle.”
“Which one?” Tahlia shot upright, every nerve on alert.
“Give me a moment.” Papers shuffled in the background before Ezra cleared his throat. “Mercedes Johnson. She arranged a drop with a freelance photographer who supplies The Daily Lens. They offered twenty-five thousand upfront to lock down the video and five more once they were sure it was really you.”
“What did you offer?”
