Chapter 13 - The Service Hall Behind the Ballroom Lights
The ballroom smelled like hot butter and floor polish, and I wasn't supposed to be there. I kept my tray tight against my ribs and my eyes down. My black uniform with the white trim didn't look wrong among the catering crew, but my hands were wrong. They wouldn't stop shaking.
He'd gotten us in with a charity gala invitation, real paper, gold edge. He wore the black suit like he belonged under the chandeliers. He didn't look at me when we split at the service doors. He just breathed once and said, low, "Wait for my signal."
I stacked champagne glasses and listened to the ballroom murmur through the gap in the curtains. The executive was at Table One. I recognized his voice from the parking lot phone call I'd overheard weeks back, smooth and used to being obeyed. He laughed while the speaker talked about the foundation.
The service hall was narrow and loud with dishwashers and clattering racks. A busboy showed me where to dump empties. Behind the ice machine there was a locked office with a server tower blinking blue. He'd told me that was it. The building's private network. The catering manager kept the key on a lanyard.
I didn't have a plan until the manager set his jacket down to help lift a chafing dish. My fingers found the small keycard in his pocket. Emma from Chapter Twelve would have hesitated. I didn't. I palmed it and kept moving.
He found me by the soda guns ten minutes later. He leaned close like he was asking for extra napkins. "He's taking a donor to the private suite at nine fifteen," he said. His left wrist flashed, silver link watch catching the light. "That's when his laptop syncs."
My throat went dry. "And if someone walks in?"
"Then we leave," he said. "Proof first."
At nine twelve, the band got louder. The executive stood, buttoned his jacket, shook hands all around. He and two men headed toward the hallway with the gold sconces. He nodded to me on his way past without seeing me.
He waited by the service hall door and counted. When the hallway cleared, he tipped his head. We moved.
The office was cold. The server hummed. He pulled a thin drive from his inside pocket and knelt, plugging in. His hands were steady. Mine held the door cracked an inch, watching steam rise from the dish pit.
"Come on," he whispered. The blue light blinked faster. On his phone screen, file names scrolled. Maintenance logs. Dispatch overrides. Then one labeled with the highway mile marker and the date from three weeks ago.
He tapped it. A video window opened, grainy dash footage. Headlights. A black SUV forcing a sedan toward the guardrail. Sparks. My stomach dropped because I knew that curve. I knew the smell that came after.
"Copying," he said. "Thirty seconds."
Footsteps came down the service hall. Hard shoes, unhurried. My breathing stopped.
The executive pushed the door open before I could lock it. He looked at him on the floor, at the drive blinking, at me in my uniform. His face didn't change. That was the worst part.
He smiled at him like they were still friends. "You should have stayed in the car," he said.
He stood slowly, phone in his palm. "It's done. Forced crash. Your order."
The executive glanced at my name tag, then back at him. He pulled out his own phone. He didn't raise his voice. "Send the SUV to the sitter's address," he said to whoever answered. "Now. Bring the girl."
My tray hit the floor. Glass exploded across the tile. "No," I said. It came out thin.
The executive ended the call. "You wanted public accountability," he said. "Now you have a choice."
May you like
He stepped in front of me. "Emma, go. Call her. Warn her."
I already had my phone out, my hands slick, copying done, proof in his pocket, and his threat moving toward my daughter while the band played on the other side of the wall.
