Chapter 4
I tried to sit up.
It was a simple movement and my body wouldn't do it. The sequins caught on the damask of the couch and pulled. The halter cut tight across the back of my neck. My left hand slipped on the cushion and my head swam hard enough that the chandelier smeared into a warm blur. I caught myself on my elbow and breathed.
The man in the black suit was already there.
His hand closed around my upper arm. Not hard. Careful. The kind of careful people use when someone else is watching.
"Easy," he said. "You don't need to get up."
His fingers steadied me, then stayed. His fist had been on the back of the couch a minute before. Now his palm was on my arm, holding me in place while making it look like he was helping me. I felt the heat of his hand through my skin and the sequins digging into my side where the dress had bunched.
"I can sit," I said. My voice was lower than I wanted it to be.
"You should rest," he said. He eased me back down with a little pressure that didn't give me a choice. "Just rest."
Behind him, the older man hadn't moved. His arms were still crossed, the white pocket square sharp against his dark suit. I saw the square silver ring with the black onyx catch the light from the lamp when he shifted his weight. He was watching the way my dress had ridden up, the way my hair had fallen, not my face. Like he was checking that everything was still arranged.
I let my head fall back against the couch arm. The room tilted and then settled.
I understood then that standing would make it worse. If I got to my feet, the dress would cling, my knees would shake, and they would have a reason to close in. The blond man had done it earlier, a half step forward when I'd lifted the phone. The older man would step between me and the hallway. The man in the black suit would put both hands on my shoulders and guide me back down and call it concern. Staying reclined kept the phone in my right hand and kept their distance where I could see it. Reclined looked compliant. Reclined let me keep my hand hidden.
So I stayed.
My right hand was curled against the couch cushion, the black smartphone flat under my palm. The crystal lamp on the side table was closer now that I was back down. I stared at it to keep the dizziness from taking me again. That's when I saw it.
The lamp base was turned a quarter inch off its felt pad. The vase with the white roses next to it was not centered. One rose had bent at the stem, its head tipped against the shade. The framed photo on the side table, the one I'd seen from the doorway, was pushed back, its glass reflecting the chandelier at the wrong angle. Someone had bumped that table. Hard. Not a casual brush. The kind of bump that happens when a hand reaches fast or when someone stumbles back against it.
I remembered the pressure in my shoulders from earlier, before my eyes had closed. The way the couch had seemed too soft to push up from.
The older man cleared his throat.
"You're making this dramatic," he said. Quiet, even. "Nobody needs to be on that phone."
The man in the black suit didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on me, his hand still light on my arm.
"She's just holding it," he said. "Let her hold it."
I turned my head a little to the right. My hair fell forward, dark and wavy, over my cheek and over my ear where the teardrop crystal earring hung. The movement covered my right hand completely. Under that curtain of hair, I could see the faint glow of the screen against my palm.
My thumb found the button on the side. I pressed it without lifting the phone. The screen lit. No sound. I'd turned the ringer off an hour before the gala started because the older man hated interruptions during toasts.
I opened messages with my thumb. I didn't look directly down. I looked past the men, at the gold-framed mirror on the far wall, and used the reflection to see where my thumb was. It was slow, clumsy. The sequins scratched against the couch every time I shifted.
I found the name I needed. Maya. She'd been my roommate the year I moved downtown, before the foundation dinners and the private dressing suites and the charity galas. She still kept the same number.
I typed without looking, by feel, the way I'd typed under desks in high school.
Still in living room. 3 men here won't let me leave. Need you to keep phone on. Don't call. Text only.
I hit send. The little blue arrow lifted. Delivered showed under it, then nothing else. Battery was at twenty-four percent. I turned the brightness all the way down until the screen was almost black.
Maya started to type. Three dots appeared. Then stopped. Then one word came in.
Here.
I locked the phone again. One press. Black screen. I let my hand go slack against the couch so the phone looked forgotten there, not hidden.
The man in the black suit finally lifted his hand from my arm. He rested his fist back on the couch behind my head, leaning over me again, his face close enough that I could smell his cologne.
"Better?" he asked softly, for the older man to hear.
May you like
I nodded. My hair moved with the nod and covered the phone again. I kept my breathing even. The lamp light was warm on my face. The roses were still tipped at that wrong angle, and the older man's ring caught the light every time he flexed his left hand.
I wasn't getting up. Not until that recording was off this phone and somewhere he couldn't erase it.
