Page 88 of The Bridesmaid
‘You’d better come see this,’ he says grimly, looking through.
I take a breath, preparing myself for what he has found. The other side of the door is the last thing I expect to see.
It’s an office. The strangest office I’ve ever seen. A thick-legged table and plain wooden chair function as a rudimentary desk. A large computer screen is hooked up to a laptop, which whirrs away, powered by a remote power pack.
The screen has a number of wedding mock-ups open. One shows the floristry tower which Silky would have orchestrated. Thegiant K. It’s made of scaffold, and something about that nudges me, but refuses to come together.
Blood on multiple scaffold poles. The tower… It won’t coalesce and I return my attention to the table.
I shift my mind away, concentrating on the desk. It’s stacked with neat documents. Press releases, I realize, lifting one.
My lips move slowly, as I read it:
Diva Tantrum. Adrianna Kensington demands fresh sheets HOURLY on her honeymoon.
There’s a picture attached. Adrianna walking on a beach in a crimson string bikini, head tossed back toward the camera, eyes lowered in a sultry gaze.
I turn to Fitzwilliam, confused. ‘This doesn’t make any sense. How would someone know what Adrianna is going to do on her honeymoon?’
‘The shot is from here,’ he says. ‘They did that shoot yesterday. I recognize the red bikini.’ He turns to me. ‘It looks as though someone is selling stories of Adrianna to the press.’
‘Or leaking stories to make her look bad,’ I say. ‘Who would do that?’
Fitzwilliam leans over to select another paper from the pile.
SPOILED BRAT SNACK. Live lobsters from Maine. Just one of Adrianna’s thousand-dollar beach snacks.
This time the picture shows the flame-lit beach bar.
‘That was from yesterday,’ I say. ‘There categorically wasnotlive lobster. I would remember.’
Adrianna and her bridesmaids are set in a semi-circle, beautiful in their designer beachwear. A platter of seafood has been placed dead center. They’re all draped over one another like they’re the best of friends, although their expressions are aloof.
This picture has a scrawled red mark-up:Rich bitches
I move to pick up another page, still turning over what we’ve discovered. My hand jogs the keyboard, and the large screen flashes to life.
The screensaver is of Adrianna, her arms slung around her sister Georgia. It’s an unusually natural shot. They’re both laughing, goofing around. For once, neither is drilling the camera lens with a pouty stare. It’s a cute picture. Two sisters hanging out.
A message pings into the top corner of the screen:
EXCLUSIVE: Adrianna Kensington cheats on her honeymoon.
‘Look at the sender,’ I breathe.
Fitzwilliam looks closer. ‘Georgia Kensington?’
‘Yes. But she’s sending it to her own account. Wait,’ I say. ‘Silky’s hut. I just assumed it was hers, because that’s where Georgia put her to rest. What if it wasn’t? What if the hut with the pictures of Adrianna was Georgia’s?’
‘So Georgia had a creepy pinchart with pictures of Adrianna and she’s leaking stories to the press,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Why?’
‘Surely she wouldn’t have been doing it for the money?’ I say.
The dark chapel is lit suddenly by a window of light. Someone has pulled back the curtain. I turn slowly to see an all-too-familiar figure. Tall, lean and perfectly made-up. Black cover-up thrown tastefully over her white bathing suit.
It’s Georgia Kensington.
She’s holding a gun and it’s pointed straight toward us. Her smooth face is drawn in annoyance.
