Chapter 7 - The Suite Behind the Terrace Door
The service hallway still smelled like fryer oil and wet concrete. I stood with my back against the ice machine while my socks squelched inside my shoes. Water kept finding new places to drip from — off the hem of my blazer, off my ID badge, off the ends of my hair onto my collarbones.
Rosa came back without the tray. Behind her was a security guard I hadn't seen before, mid-forties, black suit, earpiece glowing faint.
"They want you upstairs," Rosa said. She didn't look at my face. She looked at the puddle spreading under me. "Suite B. Off the rooftop. Manager and the hosts."
I felt my stomach drop the way it had when I'd hit the pool water. "Now?"
The guard nodded once. "Now."
Rosa stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Leave your stuff here. Phone, whatever. Don't bring anything in there you don't want them to see."
That was the moment I made the choice. My black phone was heavy in my blazer pocket, the screen dark but warm from my hand. If I left it on the dry-storage shelf, anyone could pick it up. If I brought it, they'd ask for it. I slipped my hand into my pocket, palmed it, and tucked it under the folded catering apron Rosa had given me, pressing the bundle flat against my stomach under my blazer. The wet fabric clung to it.
"I don't have anything," I said.
Rosa pressed her lips together. She knew I was lying. She didn't stop me.
The guard led me out of the kitchen and to the staff elevator. It was mirrored inside, too bright. I watched myself the whole ride up — dark hair slicked back, light blue shirt transparent at the shoulders, gray blazer darkened almost black with water. My badge photo stared back at me, dry and smiling. The guard stared straight ahead.
The doors opened onto a short carpeted hall off the rooftop. The party noise was muffled here, just bass and glass clink through the walls. Suite B had a frosted glass door and a brass handle. The guard knocked twice, then opened it for me.
Cold air-conditioning hit my wet skin first. Then the light.
It wasn't a dressing room the way I'd pictured. It was a private suite with a low couch, a vanity mirror ringed with bulbs, a garment rack with two cover bags, and a high table pulled in from outside with three champagne glasses still on it. The city skyline filled the far window, lit and distant.
She was already there.
The blonde woman sat on the edge of the vanity chair, posture perfect. Up close her silver one-shoulder sequined dress was dry except for a few drops near the hem. Her dangling earrings caught the vanity light. Her makeup was fixed. Her hands were folded in her lap. She wasn't laughing anymore. She wasn't drunk the way she'd looked by the pool. She looked sober and composed, watching me the way you watch a screen before it loads.
The gray-haired man in the navy suit stood by the window with his champagne glass still in his hand. He hadn't drunk it. The event manager — a woman in her forties with a headset pushed up into her hair — closed the door behind me and stayed by it.
"Come in," the manager said. "Stand on the towel, please."
There was a white bath towel laid out in the middle of the carpet. I stepped onto it. Water sank out of my shoes into it immediately.
The older man's eyes stayed on my blazer, on the damp apron shape under it, on my badge.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Maya Ellis," I said. My voice sounded thin in the carpeted room.
"You work for the caterer?"
"Temp. Through the agency. Tonight only."
He nodded, like that confirmed something. "Do you know who she is?" He tipped his head toward the blonde woman.
"No," I said.
"Vanessa Hale," he said. "She chairs this gala. I'm Richard Hale, foundation board." He paused. "You were in the pool."
"Yes."
"And then you stood by that pool," he said, "and operated your phone with both hands while guests were watching."
The room went very still. The vanity bulbs hummed. Behind me I could hear the manager breathing.
Vanessa's fingers tightened in her lap, but her face didn't change. Composed. That was the word. Every sequin lay flat.
Richard took one step closer. "I want to ask you directly. What did you do on your phone?"
I felt the phone's edge against my stomach through the wet apron. My heart was beating so hard I thought the blazer might move with it. I looked down at the towel darkening under my shoes, then back up.
"I was checking the time," I said.
It landed flat. One evasive short answer. No one moved.
Richard glanced at Vanessa, then at the manager. The manager stepped forward.
"Maya, this is a private donor event," she said, her voice practiced and even. "There's been a disruption. If video or photos from the terrace get out tonight, it damages the foundation. So I need to ask you to hand over your phone. We'll delete anything from the rooftop and give it right back."
She held out her hand, palm up.
The air-conditioning made my wet shirt stick colder to my back. I could see the skyline over Richard's shoulder, the pool lights I knew were just beyond that wall, the city hum I couldn't hear from in here. My fingers found the phone shape under my blazer through the fabric.
I didn't move my feet off the towel. I didn't lift my hand.
"No," I said. "I can't do that."
May you like
Vanessa exhaled once through her nose. Richard's grip tightened on his champagne glass. The manager kept her hand out, waiting, like if she held it there long enough I'd change my mind.
I stayed standing on the towel, dripping, refusing, while the door stayed shut behind me.
