Chapter 1
The chandelier hit the sequins on my dress and threw light straight into my eyes. I was flat on the cream damask couch with my arm hanging off the side, mouth open, breathing too shallow. Three men stood behind the couch looking down at me like they'd been waiting. I didn't remember lying down. I didn't remember deciding to close my eyes. The crystal lamp on the side table burned warm and too bright next to the vase of white roses, and the gold mirror on the far wall reflected the whole tableau back at me — me on the tufted couch, them lined up behind it. I opened my eyes and looked up. My breath caught and fogged just enough to see it. The older man's arms were crossed. The blond man's hands were in his pockets. The man in the black suit stood closest on the left. None of them moved when I woke up.
My name is Sarah and that night I'd worn this white sequined halter dress for his foundation gala.
We'd checked into the private dressing suite at four. I'd zipped the dress myself because he was already downstairs shaking hands in the ballroom. The teardrop crystal earring swung when I turned my head and the chandelier downstairs had been the same warm gold as the one in this living room. I remembered the photographer asking us to step closer together. I remembered the older man — his father — adjusting his white pocket square before the group photo and his large square silver ring catching the flash, black onyx in the center. After that the evening narrowed. A glass of champagne I hadn't finished. A hallway that was too quiet. Then the couch. The couch shouldn't have been part of the gala at all. That was the first contradiction I couldn't smooth over, and even with my chest tight I could feel how peak and polished they all looked above me while I was the one sprawled and ruined on display.
Tears started before I could stop them. They slipped down both cheeks hot and silent and my eyes stayed wide on the ceiling. I tried to breathe without making a sound and couldn't. Behind me, out of focus, a hand hovered near my head. I saw the blur of silver and black stone and knew it was his. The older man's ring. His left hand was raised now, no longer crossed over his chest, fingers near his chin like he was studying me. The teardrop earring stuck to my wet cheek. My chest rose and fell and every inhale shook the sequins. I wanted to sit up but my body wouldn't. The couch held me. The warm light held me. Their stares held me.
"Why did you do this?" My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. It scraped my throat.
The man in the black suit leaned forward over the back of the couch. His fist rested on the damask right by my shoulder and his face came into clear view, close enough I could see the crease between his eyebrows. He'd been standing on the left since I opened my eyes. Now his weight was on the couch and the fabric dipped.
"You misunderstand everything," he said. His mouth moved like he wanted it to sound calm. It didn't.
It was a lie by how smooth it was. Too quick. Too practiced.
I held his look and didn't wipe my tears. "You said you wouldn't," I said, quiet.
He didn't answer that. His eyes flicked to the older man and back to me.
I turned my head a fraction toward the side table. The black smartphone sat there on the wood beside the lamp, screen dark. It hadn't been there when we'd left for photos, or maybe it had and I hadn't noticed. Now it was the only thing in the room that wasn't watching me. The older man hadn't moved except for that hand with the ring. The blond man in the light gray suit hadn't taken his hands from his pockets the whole time. They were letting the man in the black suit do the talking.
My hand twitched at my side. I told myself to wait one breath. Then another.
"I heard every word," I said. I meant it to be steady. It almost was.
Something changed in the man in the black suit's face after that. Not guilt. Calculation. The older man's arms crossed again and the ring disappeared from my sightline. The blond man shifted his weight but didn't speak. For a second the only sound was the faint hum of the chandelier and my own breathing.
May you like
I reached. It was a short distance to the side table but it felt like I had to drag my arm through something thick. My fingers closed around the black smartphone. It was warm from the lamp. I lifted it with my right hand and held it up between me and the ceiling, screen still dark, my thumb hovering over the side button. I looked at the glass like it could tell me if the recording was still there, if the call was still connected, if anyone on the other end had stayed long enough to hear what I'd heard. The three men remained standing behind the couch. None of them reached for me. None of them stopped me. They just watched, and the watching got heavier the higher I held the phone.
Before I could press the button, the hallway door behind them clicked.
