Chapter 1 - The Man Holding the Remote
“Checking whether we’re still doing the proposal,” Mickey said.
Nicholas stared at him.
I stared at Nicholas.
Somewhere behind us, a champagne glass touched the floor with a tiny, expensive crack.
“The what?” I asked.
Mickey held up his remote. “The midnight presentation. Your grandmother approved the photographs.”
Nicholas looked toward the elderly woman beside the windows.
She was watching us with the satisfied expression of someone who had set a kitchen fire and already blamed the toaster.
“Nonna.”
“What?” she said. “You said you were bringing someone.”
“I said I was bringing someone from the zoning commission.”
“That sounded depressing. I made improvements.”
Under different circumstances, I might have admired her initiative.
Unfortunately, two men near the bar were discussing assassination, and apparently I had wandered into a surprise engagement.
Nicholas leaned toward Mickey.
“Cancel everything. Quietly. Find Elias and tell him I need him.”
Mickey’s cheerful expression changed immediately.
He glanced at me, then at Nicholas.
“Understood.”
He disappeared through a side door.
Nicholas lowered his hand from my waist.
“Would you prefer somewhere quieter?”
“Would somewhere quieter have fewer murder waiters?”
“That’s the goal.”
Before we moved, he spoke softly into the cuff of his jacket. A man standing near the Christmas tree touched his ear and turned away.
No shouting. No dramatic rush.
That frightened me more than either would have.
Nicholas offered his arm.
I took it because my knees had started having independent opinions.
His grandmother rolled alongside us.
“I’m Lucia,” she told me. “You have excellent timing.”
“I’ve been told the opposite.”
“And a festive sweater.”
“The nose lights up.”
“Does it?”
“Only when my life isn’t falling apart.”
Nicholas made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
We entered a small sitting room connected to the ballroom. There were windows, two doors, and an oil painting of a horse that looked wealthier than my entire family.
A woman in a dark suit stood inside.
“Elias is securing the service corridor,” she told Nicholas. “Police liaison has been contacted. Nobody approaches the terrace.”
She looked at me.
“Vivian Shaw. Security director.”
“Audrey Keane. Accidental guest.”
“Those are frequently the useful ones.”
Nicholas explained what I had seen.
Vivian asked precise questions. Where had the men stood? Had either covered his mouth? Which words was I certain about?
I appreciated that she didn’t ask me to perform miracles.
“Midnight and terrace,” I said. “Fireworks was clear. The last phrase looked like ‘one shot.’ I could be wrong about context.”
“We’ll verify,” she said.
My phone vibrated again.
Tessa had sent six messages.
The last included a photograph of my ex-boyfriend Colin standing beside a woman wearing the earrings he had once claimed he couldn’t afford to buy me.
Under ordinary circumstances, that would have ruined my night.
At the moment, it felt refreshingly manageable.
I typed: WRONG BALLROOM. SAFE. LONG STORY.
Then another message appeared.
Unknown number.
Nice sweater. Leave the room, and your mother gets a visitor.
There was a photograph attached.
My mother’s apartment door.
Taken from the hallway.
The little ceramic bluebird beside her number was unmistakable.
My hands went cold.
Nicholas noticed before I could speak.
“What happened?”
I held out my phone.
His expression emptied.
Not hardened. Emptied.
Somehow that was worse.
Vivian immediately photographed the message with a secure device and stepped aside to make a call.
“Your mother’s name?” Nicholas asked.
“Marianne. She’s deaf. She won’t hear somebody knocking.”
“Does she have a video doorbell?”
“Yes.”
“Call her.”
My thumb missed the screen twice before the video connected.
Mom appeared wearing reading glasses and an expression of mild annoyance.
I signed quickly.
Don’t open your door. Lock it. Someone may be outside.
Her face changed.
Then she looked past her phone toward the hallway.
A shadow moved beneath her apartment door.
I forgot how to breathe.
Nicholas stayed close enough that I could feel the warmth of him without being touched.
“Tell her help is coming,” he said.
I signed it.
Mom nodded once.
Then, with the calm determination that had raised me, she picked up the heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on her stove.
Under any other circumstances, I would have laughed.
May you like
Instead, I watched that shadow stop outside her door.
And the handle began to move.
