Chapter 3 - Someone Up There
The dust didn't lift all at once. It hung in the warm wall light and made everything look smeared, like I was seeing the room through a dirty glass. My ears were ringing from the crash. Somewhere to my left a woman was crying, and a chair scraped hard against the wood floor as staff tried to push people back from the table.
I couldn't stop coughing. My shirt was gray at the sleeves. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and tasted plaster and candle smoke.
The table was gone. Not tipped over, gone. The white cloth was buried under a heap of crystal and bent metal, and the flowers stuck out sideways, crushed flat. Glasses glittered everywhere, broken at the stems. The chandelier candles were out, but a couple of little flames still moved down near the wreckage until one of the busboys smothered them with a damp napkin.
I should have kept looking at the table. That's what everyone else was doing. Instead I looked up.
Above the dust, the ceiling chain swayed empty. The round dark mark where the chandelier had hung seemed too small for what had just come down. My eyes moved on their own to the balcony.
The railing was mostly empty now. A few guests were still pressed against it, hands over their mouths. The spot where he'd stood was clear, but I could still see him there in my head. Marcus Hale in his dark suit, pocket square bright against his chest, leaning over the rail with his arm stuck out. Come with me. Move. He'd been shouting it right before it fell, like he was trying to take charge of the room.
Only he hadn't been looking at the table. He'd been looking along the balcony.
"Hey." Harlan Voss grabbed my elbow. His bow tie was crooked and there was dust on his tuxedo shoulders. "You okay?"
I nodded because I didn't trust my voice. He was alive. That was the part my brain kept circling back to. Two feet to the left and he'd have been under that crystal.
Staff were moving in now with their arms out, herding people toward the far doors. "Everyone back, please. Back from the table, please." My manager, Teresa, had a napkin pressed to her forehead. She caught my eye and mouthed, you good? I nodded again.
Marcus came down the side stairs fast, taking them two at a time. Up close his tie was loosened and his face was damp. He went straight to Harlan, not to the table.
"Mr. Voss, are you hurt? Let's get you to the lobby. We'll have paramedics check you out."
"I'm fine," Harlan said. "That girl pulled me out."
Marcus finally looked at me. Just for a second. "Good work," he said, flat. He was already turning, already lifting his radio. "I need maintenance up here now. Nobody touches that rig until the inspector sees it."
That word stuck. Maintenance.
I followed him a few steps toward the edge of the room, near the bottom of the balcony stairs. My legs felt shaky and too light. A security guy had his arm across the stairwell, waving people off.
"Mr. Hale?" My voice came out hoarse.
He glanced back, impatient. "Not now. We need head counts."
I looked past him, up the stairs to the balcony door. It was closed. A second ago I'd thought I saw someone slip through it, a dark shape moving quick, but the dust made it hard to be sure.
I remembered his arm extended. The way he'd shouted. Not surprised. Directing.
I stepped closer so Harlan and the guard wouldn't hear. My throat burned.
"You knew someone was up there."
Marcus went still. He didn't look up at the balcony. He looked at me.
"What?" he said.
I swallowed. "Before it fell. You were shouting at the balcony, not at us."
For a moment something crossed his face that wasn't shock. It was calculation. Then he shook his head and put his hand up, like he was calming a guest over a wrong order.
"No," he said, low. "I had my maintenance crew checking the lights up there all night. Nobody extra. You heard me trying to clear the floor."
That wasn't right. I'd worked three galas in that room. Maintenance never stood on the guest balcony during dinner. They used the back ladder.
I wanted to say that. I opened my mouth and Teresa called my name from behind the wreckage. "Elena! I need you over here!"
Marcus nodded toward her, relieved. "Go help your team."
I didn't move right away. He held my eyes a half second longer, then turned and started talking into his radio about insurance and access logs, his voice steady again.
Harlan touched my shoulder. "Come on," he muttered. "Let them handle it."
I let him steer me back toward the guests. But I kept glancing at those stairs, at the closed door at the top and the security guard who hadn't been there before dinner. If it was just maintenance, why lock it down now?
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The dust was settling into the carpet and my shoes. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed them against my apron and told myself to stay quiet, to do my job. But one question wouldn't leave me alone.
Who had he been talking to up there?
