Chapter 9 - Follow the White Cuffs
Dessert service started with the lights dropping half a notch and the string quartet shifting into something sweeter. I felt it before I saw it, that small change in the air when plates came up from the kitchen and the servers found their lanes. I was standing near the donor board with a coffee I didn't want, smiling at the right times, when I caught the white cuffs.
He was moving along the east wall, fast for him. All night he'd stood too still, hands held up at his chest like he was waiting for a cue. Now he was walking with purpose toward the service hallway past the marble column, black fabric over his head catching the chandelier light and going dull again.
I set the coffee down on a bus tray. My husband's voice was still in my ear from the phone call outside, telling me to just enjoy the night. I told him everything was fine. I decided I was done letting other people move pieces around me.
I followed at a distance. The crowd was thick near the bar, women in long dresses laughing too loud, and I used that noise to slip through. I kept my eyes on those cuffs. White against black, flashing every time he moved his arms. Nobody else noticed him. That was the point, I realized. He was dressed to disappear.
He pushed through the hinged door into the kitchen hallway. The sound changed instantly. Tile under my heels, cold air, the clatter of racks and a dishwasher roaring behind a steel door. The warm bokeh of the ballroom was gone, replaced by fluorescents that made everything look washed out.
He stopped halfway down the hall by a stack of folded linens. He must have heard me because he turned, hands back up at his chest. Up close the face covering was just fabric, black cotton pulled tight, no eyeholes I could see. I wondered how he navigated.
"I need to ask you something," I said, keeping my voice low. A server with a tray of mousse cups brushed past us, eyes down.
He didn't answer. He reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand — the cuff white and crisp — and pulled out a small folded card. The kind they used for place cards. He held it out to me.
I hesitated, then took it. My fingers brushed his glove. He stepped back.
I unfolded it. Block letters in blue pen. MEET AFTER.
My throat went tight. "After what? After the gala? Who told you to give me this?"
He shook his head once. A clear no. Not to the question, but to speaking at all.
"Can you talk?" I asked. "Just nod or —"
Another shake. He lifted both hands a little higher at his chest, like a wall.
Down the hall a kitchen manager shouted for more decaf. The smell of burnt coffee and lemon sanitizer hung in the air. I leaned in. "Did Daniel tell you to stay silent? Is this from him?"
He didn't move. The fabric over where his mouth would be didn't shift. No breath I could hear. He just stood there, letting me look at him, refusing to give me anything else.
That refusal was its own answer. This wasn't a shy kid on a first catering job. This was a rule he was following.
I folded the card shut. "I can't meet after unless I know —"
The service door swung open behind me and Daniel was there. He wasn't out of breath, but his jaw was tight and the cross at his throat caught the fluorescent light. He looked from me to the server in one fast sweep.
"You followed him," he said. It wasn't a question.
"He gave me this." I held up the card.
Daniel stepped in and took it from my fingers before I could pull back. Fast, clean. His knuckles brushed mine. He glanced at the two words and slipped the card into his shirt pocket.
"Hey," I said. "That's mine. He handed it to me."
"You don't need it," Daniel said. His voice was low enough that the passing server with the water pitcher didn't turn. "This isn't the place."
The masked server had dropped his hands to his sides. He looked smaller with Daniel next to him. Daniel gave him a short nod toward the kitchen — go — and the server obeyed instantly, pushing through the double doors where the heat rolled out.
"You just proved it," I said. "You two are working together."
Daniel didn't deny it. He kept his body between me and the kitchen doors. "Keep your voice down. You're going to get him fired."
"He won't talk. He won't show his face. You take a note he just gave me. What am I supposed to think?"
He looked down the empty hallway, then back at me. The tattoos on his neck stood out hard under this light. "Think that I'm handling it. Go back out there, Elena. Smile for dessert. I'll explain after, without an audience."
He still had the card in his pocket. I could see the edge of it against the black fabric. I wanted to reach for it, but the door behind us opened again and two board members came in laughing, looking for the restroom.
May you like
I stepped back, smoothing my dress like I'd just been checking on service. My heart was hammering against the strapless top.
Daniel walked away down the hall, taking the card with him, and I understood exactly what had just happened. The server hadn't broken silence. Daniel had enforced it.
