Chapter 2
The manager didn't look at me at first. He looked at the circle.
It had closed tight around us, that ring of tuxedos and gowns, and I could hear the chandelier buzzing overhead and my own breathing inside my chest. The polished floor was cold through my flats. Lauren was still on her knees for half a second longer, her sequined dress pooling around her, her hand flat on the white grout line like she needed it to keep from tipping over. Daniel had both hands on her shoulders and he wasn't lifting her so much as holding her in place.
Someone coughed. I realized I was still holding my hands clasped in front of my apron, knuckles white.
The manager was a thin man in a black vest I'd seen by the kitchen doors all night. Mr. Colson. He stepped into the circle and put a light hand on my elbow. Not on Lauren. On me.
"Emma, come with me," he said, quiet enough that only I heard it. His voice was even, practiced. "Let's step off the floor, okay?"
I nodded before I could think. I didn't look at Lauren. I felt Daniel's eyes flick to me as Colson guided me by the elbow, turning me away from the center. The crowd parted for us but not much, just enough to let my apron brush past a woman's skirt. Nobody parted for Lauren. She stayed where she was, on that glossy wood, with Daniel still kneeling beside her.
Behind me I heard Daniel say, "Honey, breathe, you're okay," and then, to me, over his shoulder, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, she's — she's my wife, she didn't mean —" His voice cracked on the last part. He didn't finish. Colson kept my arm and kept walking, and I understood in one quick drop in my stomach that this was her husband, that the man who'd looked stunned in the crowd was the same one now holding her cheek and trying to make her stand.
We crossed the dance floor toward the paneled wall. My flats squeaked once. I stared at the white grout lines so I wouldn't have to see anyone's face.
Near the edge, by the fireplace with the framed flag, a woman in a navy dress had her phone up. She wasn't hiding it. She held it horizontal, the red light on, and she kept it steady on us as we passed. I saw the screen reflect the chandelier. Right next to her, an older man in a bow tie leaned toward his wife and whispered, loud enough that it carried, "She came at her. The girl in the sequins came at her first, I saw it."
His wife shushed him with a hand on his arm and shook her head once, eyes on me.
Colson didn't slow down. He didn't say anything to the woman filming or the man whispering. He just kept his hand light on my elbow and pushed through the narrow service door beside the mantel, the one painted to match the wainscoting. The door clicked shut behind us and the ballroom murmur cut off like someone had turned the volume down.
The hallway was narrow and too bright. Fluorescent lights, no chandelier. A cart with folded linens sat against the cinderblock wall, and the air smelled like lemon cleaner and hot plates from the kitchen down the corridor. It was cooler in here. I could hear the ice machine humming.
Colson let go of my elbow. "Wait here," he said. His tone was still quiet, not unkind, but it wasn't comfort. It was procedure. "Head of housekeeping is on her way. Don't go back out there. Just wait right here, you understand?"
I nodded. My hands had found the edge of my apron and I was holding it, twisting the ruffle between my fingers. My breathing was shallow and I tried to make it slower.
"Yes, sir," I said. My voice came out thinner than I wanted.
He glanced at the service door, the one that led back to the ballroom. We could hear the muffled sound of the crowd again, a rise and fall as someone helped Lauren up. Laughter that wasn't really laughter, that nervous sound people make when they don't know what they're allowed to say.
"She'll be in the dressing suite," Colson said, almost to himself, then to me, "They've taken Mrs. Whitaker to the private dressing suite upstairs. You just wait for Ms. Rosa, okay?"
Mrs. Whitaker. So Lauren had a last name that mattered enough to say with the Mrs. in front.
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He pulled his radio off his belt and stepped further down the hall, turning his back to me to speak low into it. "Yeah, we've moved staff off floor. Guest is with family in suite A."
I stayed where he put me, against the linen cart, holding my apron, listening to the ice machine and to the faint thump of music starting up again in the ballroom like nothing had happened. My shoes were planted on the concrete floor. I didn't move. The service door stayed closed, and nobody came to check if I was okay. They just left me there to wait.
