Page 21 of The Bridesmaid
‘Dri?’
‘Oh. Hey, baby.’ My voice softens. It’s Mark.
‘Listen, Dri,’ his voice sounds urgent. ‘Are you with anyone else right now?’
‘No. Why?’
He hesitates. ‘Could one of your bridesmaids have had something to do with Simone’s death?’
‘What?’ I am straight up furious. ‘Why would you say that? Dad and Georgia picked the bridesmaids. Of course they aren’t involved in Simone’s death!’
‘I was just with the police. They think Simone’s body was moved from a room that only your bridesmaids could get into. Some kind of storage room.’
‘You’ve been speaking to NYPD?’ I rub my temples with myspare hand. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Mark? Didn’t Iwarnyou? This isjustwhat the cops do. Every time. Did it occur to youwhythey are hounding our bridesmaids, instead of trying to catch the actual killer?’
‘I just thought … Your bridesmaids were all at your twenty-first birthday party on Elysium, right?’
‘Mark, stop! The last time I trusted NYPD, a cop sold pictures of my underwear drawer. Can’t you see what they’re doing? One picture of me is worth more than a cop gets paid in a lifetime. You can’t trust them.’
‘Can you trust your bridesmaids? I know Ophelia is a friend, but you never see Silky anymore.’
‘My dad hired all of the bridesmaids exactly because theycanbe trusted. Each one of them stands to benefit in a big way from our wedding, and they all have links to the family that go way back. There is absolutely no way any of them would try to sabotage that. And in any case, my bridesmaids are all Kensington Manor School girls.’
‘Which means what, exactly?’
‘Loyalty runs deep. I wouldn’t expect you to understand it.’
There’s a pause, and I can sense his annoyance.
‘Look,’ I reposition a brunette curl. ‘Whoever killed Simone is a sick, sick person who wants to stop us getting married. We’re not going to let them win, right?’
‘Dri …’
‘Right?’
‘Right. It’s just … I’m worried about you, Dri. I think you should help the police any way you can …’
‘No. One hundred percent no, Mark. We’ve talked about this. In our family, you don’t call the cops. Ever. You call my dad.’ Myvoice softens. ‘Dad will find out more than the NYPD can. Just let him do his thing.’
I look down at the picture in my hand. Me, standing smiling with all my bridesmaids. We’re lined up in matching beachwear, holding giant-sized frozen margaritas with Coney Island behind us. It was cold that day, I remember. They had to edit out our goosebumps. We tipped the iced drinks on the sand.
‘I am so mad the police are wasting their time suspecting my bridesmaids,’ I say. My voice sounds strange, even to me. ‘Can you imagine, one of them holding me captive in a room for three days?’ I try to laugh but it comes out wrong. Because weirdly, when I say it aloud, I kind of can.
‘I don’t know,’ says Mark, picking up on my shaky tone. ‘Could you? The kidnapper wore a mask to cover their face and a cloak, right? They could have been female …’
‘I’d have known,’ I tell him in a very definite tone. ‘Three days in a room. If it was someone I knew, I’d have known.’
‘Dri.’ He hesitates. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to cancel the wedding?’
‘For some crazy stalker?’ My jaw hardens. ‘Mark, do you know how many death and rape threats I get every day? It just comes with the territory of being a woman in the public eye. I take a walk on a beach. Someone threatens to kill me. I look out of a window in Paris. Someone threatens to kill me. So naturally. Of course. I’m getting married and someone is threatening to kill me.’
There’s a pause. ‘I love you,’ he says finally. ‘Keep your security high.’
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, wondering whether I should text Dad this latest evidence of police incompetence. He’ll be making his own inquiries. Always does.
I open my phone, adjust my face to contain a self-satisfied smile, and snap a picture.
Not bad. I take a breath. Add some text.
