Chapter 1 - The Bow Tie Under My Hand
The pleats of his shirt bunched under my fingers. I felt the stiff edge of his bow tie press into the back of my hand when I yanked, hard enough that the old man stumbled half a step sideways and his polished shoe squeaked on the wood floor. Around us the string quartet kept playing and somebody laughed at the far end of the main table, glasses clinking over the floral centerpiece like nothing was wrong while something overhead let out a low crystal creak.
Dust sifted down through the chandelier light and landed on the white tablecloth.
My name is Elena Ruiz. I was twenty-two and working the foundation gala with my hair pulled back and my white button shirt tucked tight.
It was just after eight and the room was at full dinner, warm from the wall sconces and bright under the big chandelier. I had been reaching to clear a water glass when I heard it first, not music, not voices, a metallic tick and then a sway in the candles up above. I looked up and the whole crystal mass was moving, just an inch, then back, throwing light across the ceiling in a slow arc. A fleck of plaster hit my cheek.
I didn't think. I grabbed Harlan Voss by the front of his tuxedo and pulled him clear of his chair mark. My mouth was open before I had a plan and the guests behind him were staring at me, forks stopped midair.
"Get out of the way!"
He jerked back against my grip, shoulders square, chin high the way donors stand for photos. His bow tie twisted under my fist and his other hand came up to clamp over my wrist. He was not a man used to being moved, not in that room, not in that suit.
"Wait. I didn't order to"
I never finished it. My eyes went past his shoulder to the light swinging harder now, the chain groaning, the candles blurring. Up on the balcony behind the railing a man in a dark suit leaned forward with his arm out, pocket square white against his chest, mouth wide.
"Come with me."
The room tilted toward him for half a second. Chairs scraped. Somebody stood. The chandelier swung out over the edge of the banquet table and the crystals threw wild light across the glasses and flowers, and then it swung back.
May you like
"Move."
I stood with Harlan's sleeve twisted in my hand and my neck craned up, unable to let go and unable to pull again, watching that weight hang and hesitate at the top of its arc directly above the white cloth.
