Chapter 5
I didn't turn the kitchen light on when I got home. I left my keys in the bowl by the door and stood there in my black dress with my apron folded over my arm, breathing in the smell of my apartment - laundry detergent and the leftover coffee from that morning.
My phone had been on silent all night. When I finally checked it, there were three texts from Maria and one missed call from my mom.
Maria: you okay??
Maria: people are talking in the parking lot
Maria: [Video] sent - dont forward this yet
I sat on the edge of my bed and pressed play.
It was shaky, shot vertical from somewhere near the edge of the dance floor. You could see the chandelier light shaking with someone's hand. For the first two seconds it was just legs and backs, tuxedos blocking the view. Then Lauren's champagne dress flashed into the frame. She was already down on one knee, one hand flat on that polished brown floor, her mouth open. Daniel was reaching for her shoulder. I was in the corner of the shot, just my black dress and white apron, my hands clasped. You couldn't see the slap. You couldn't even see my raised hand from the 3-second mark. It just looked like a woman had slipped or kneeled down and a maid was standing nearby.
I watched it three times. The audio was just wind and a muffled laugh from whoever was filming, plus the parking lot chatter Maria had mentioned - someone saying "oh my god" over and over.
I texted back: thank you. Does it show anything before?
Maria typed for a long time. Then: no. everyone's saying the blonde's dad is big donor. manager told us not to post anything.
My phone rang before I could answer. My mom.
"Emma? Honey, I saw the photos," she said. She sounded like she was trying not to sound worried. "Your shift was tonight, right? At the foundation gala?"
"Yeah," I said. I lay back on my quilt and stared at the ceiling. The water stain was still there in the corner.
"Are you alright? You sound tired."
I wanted to tell her. I had drafted it in my head on the bus ride home - how Lauren had gotten in my face on the dance floor, how I'd just lifted my hand because I thought she was going to bump into me with her wine, how the sound had gone dead for a second after. But my mom's voice was thin, and I knew she was at the kitchen table with the bill pile in front of her.
"I'm fine," I said. "It was just a long night. They sent us home early."
A pause. I could hear her breathing. "Did something happen? Maria's mom texted me something about a video?"
Maria's mom and my mom went to the same church. Of course it had already moved from the parking lot to their phones.
"There's a clip but it doesn't really show anything," I said. My throat felt tight. "It's blurry."
"Okay, honey. Just - don't get involved in anything, okay? You need that job."
"I know, Mom."
"I love you. Call me after you sleep."
After we hung up, I opened Instagram. The Whitmore Family Foundation had already posted. Ten photos, all warm light and smiling faces. Lauren in her sequined gown posing by the fireplace, the American flag framed perfectly behind her. Daniel with his arm around her, both of them laughing. The crowd on the dance floor, champagne glasses up. The chandelier glowing.
I swiped twice, three times. Not a single staff member in any of them. No black dresses, no aprons. It was like we hadn't been there at all, like the floor had polished itself and the tables had cleared themselves.
I went back to Maria's video and then to the foundation photos. Side by side on my small screen. One showed me as a blur on the edge, cropped out. The other showed me standing there while a woman kneeled, with no context at all.
That was when I realized what Maria had meant by "don't forward this yet." The video didn't protect me. If anything, someone could watch it and think I had done something to Lauren. Or that I'd just stood there and watched her fall. It didn't show the moment she'd come at me, or the way she'd been speaking right in my face, or my hand coming up palm-out because I didn't know what else to do.
It proved there was a moment, but not who had started it.
I sat up. My feet were sore inside my flats. On my dresser was the copy of the statement I'd rewritten in the manager's office, folded in half. My handwriting looked small and careful.
The ballroom had that chandelier camera. I remembered seeing the little black dome up near the crown molding when we were setting tables that afternoon. It would have seen everything from above - the whole dance floor, the approach, the space between us.
Maria's clip was just parking lot chatter. I needed the real footage. Not a phone from the crowd. The security feed.
I texted Maria: do you know who controls the cameras there?
May you like
She replied a minute later: I think building manager. but Emma be careful.
I turned my phone face-down and finally took off my dress. I needed to be at the foundation tower for my next scheduled shift tomorrow morning, and I wasn't going to ask for the video over text.
