Page 48 of The Bridesmaid
‘A lava tube? Someone paid attention in geography.’
‘If your parents throw enough money at your education, some of its bound to stick,’ he replies, a half smile on his square-jawed face.
‘OK.’ I take a breath of the burned sulfur air, and try to set my thoughts in order. ‘I’m too hungry to think straight,’ I tell him. ‘All my sugar-hits are in my luggage. I’d kill for a mini-muffin or a Ding Dong right now,’ I add wistfully.
‘Any snack named with an alliteration isn’t real food,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Nor is any product from the Hostess cupcake range.’
‘Essentially, my main food group. OK.’ I rub my temples, trying to ignore the gnawing in my belly. The vast interior of the reception is completely overwhelming.
‘Entry and exit points,’ I decide, calling to mind the first principles of crime scene analysis. My eyes drift to the reception desk. There’s a logbook, attached to the desk so as to face outward for visitors to sign in. I approach it, delving into my backpack for gloves.
Carefully I lift the cover. It’s filled in with names scrawled hastily in pen, with times in and out. None of which I recognize. Staff, presumably, or contractors.
On a hunch, I pull some fingerprint powder from my pack, and dust for prints.
‘Maybe Simone has left a clue like in the Plaza,’ I explain to Fitzwilliam. ‘Some shape, or word that shows up with forensictools. That would be exactly her style, for the TV show. Camera-friendly forensics.’
But as I sweep my brush, there’s nothing. At all.
‘Not a single fingerprint,’ I say.
‘Unfortunate.’ Fitzwilliam casts a nervous look toward the entrance.
‘More than that. It’s … strange. Look at all these people who signed in and out. You’d expect this page to be covered in prints. Paper can be a challenging surface to fingerprint, due to its absorbency, but still … You’d expectsomething.’
‘You’re sayinglackof evidence is meaningful.’
‘Absolutely. Every contact leaves a trace. Locard’s principle. The fact this page is completely free of oil or sweat transferred from hands means it’s been wiped clean.’ I think for a moment. ‘Simone won several big cases by proving forensic clean-up. What it signified.’
‘What does it signify?’
‘That you should take a long, hard look at what’s been cleaned.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ADRIANNA
Ophelia’s non-stop commentary hasn’t slowed. It seems to map my rising heartbeat. The smell of the old library room is so unexpectedly familiar, I actually stagger as I enter, putting a hand out to steady myself, on a deep shelf of old leather-bound books.
‘Ophelia,’ says Georgia, her gaze switching to me in concern, ‘please tell me you didn’t put a secret bar in the panic room, where Dri was held hostage?’
‘We needed something big for the fashion sponsor,’ I say. And because my voice doesn’t come out right, I do it again. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. Louder. Brighter.
‘Is yourentire wedding daynot enough for the fashion brand?’ Georgia sounds furious.
‘Every Kensington club has a secret bar,’ Ophelia explains. ‘Tantra has the Red Room, Prohibition has The Distillery and now …’ she pauses for effect. ‘Elysium has Selpulcrum. That’s Latin for “tomb”,’ she adds. ‘We got some great gothic branding for it.’
‘They’re paying ten million for exclusive pictures,’ I remind Georgia quietly. ‘Rich girls get married all the time, and I don’t do video, so …’ I let the obvious answer trail off.
‘They want to dig up your worst trauma for some magazine pictures,’ she says finally, a miserable look on her face. ‘Are you not even a person to them?’
‘You know I’m not,’ I say, meeting her eyes. ‘I’m a brand. A brand that makes us all a lot of money.’
‘You don’t actually have to go inside the room,’ Georgia confirms.
‘That’s … still open for discussion,’ I say.
Petra’s eyes cast about the room. ‘Where is the entrance?’ she asks. ‘How do you get in?’
