Chương 8
I caught fragments.
Preservation.
Devices.
Consent.
Warrant.
Richard’s attorney raised both hands.
“No one is consenting to anything.”
“That is your client’s right.”
“Then why are we still here?”
“Because we’re determining what property belongs to whom and what may lawfully leave.”
The lawyer glanced around.
“This is a hotel ballroom.”
“Yes.”
“There are five hundred people.”
“Closer to four hundred now.”
He was right.
Guests had begun leaving in clusters.
The ballroom was emptying through the east doors.
Some people moved quickly.
Others lingered near the lobby, pretending to locate coats while watching for developments.
A few had abandoned plates mid-course.
The band remained seated.
One violinist was eating a dinner roll.
It made me absurdly happy to see that.
Preston walked toward the head table.
He bent down.
For a moment, I thought he was looking for something.
Then I saw the hundred-dollar bill.
He picked it up.
He stared at it.
My mother went very still.
Preston crossed the carpet toward her.
He held the bill between two fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
Mom looked at him.
He waited.
She did not take it.
“You should be,” she said.
He nodded.
His face reddened.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you did.”
He looked down.
“You were raised by people who made you think embarrassment was a kind of discipline.”
Caroline inhaled sharply.
“Diane.”
Mom ignored her.
“And maybe they taught you that if you gave somebody enough nice things afterward, it canceled out the bad part.”
Preston’s eyes stayed on the bill.
“But you’re old enough to know better.”
“Yes.”
“You humiliated my daughter too.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
“You don’t get points for knowing it after federal agents arrive.”
“I know.”
Mom sighed.
“You keep saying that.”
He gave a small, broken laugh.
“Apparently it’s all I have.”
She looked at the bill again.
“Give it to the waiter.”
Preston turned.
The waiter was still nearby.
He approached him and held out the hundred.
The waiter hesitated.
Preston said, “For you.”
The waiter looked toward my mother.
She nodded once.
Only then did he accept it.
“Thank you, sir.”
Preston winced at the title.
The waiter tucked the bill into his apron and disappeared toward the service doors.
Nothing was repaired.
That mattered.
No applause followed.
No one treated it as redemption.
It was just one action that should have happened differently the first time.
My phone vibrated.
I looked down.
Thirty-seven unread messages.
Three missed calls.
One voicemail from my attorney.
Several texts from people who were currently standing in the same room as me.
My bridesmaid Tessa had sent, I AM SO SORRY, in capital letters.
Someone from college whom I had not spoken to in four years had written, ARE YOU SAFE???
A number I did not recognize had asked whether I was willing to speak on record.
That was fast.
Too fast.
I looked around.
Near the lobby doors, a woman in a silver dress was holding her phone horizontally.
Recording.
Another man appeared to be livestreaming.
“Mom.”
She followed my gaze.
“Oh.”
The word came out quietly.
I walked toward the lead agent.
“People are posting this.”
He nodded.
“They will.”
“Can that hurt the investigation?”
“Potentially.”
“What should I do?”
“Do not discuss evidence publicly.”
“I already put spreadsheets on a twelve-foot screen.”
“Yes.”
He did not smile.
I appreciated that.
“From this point forward, do not characterize documents you haven’t authenticated, do not accuse specific people of specific crimes, and do not interfere with records or devices.”
“What about the presentation?”
“Turn it off.”
I looked toward the screen.
The collateral schedule still filled it.
I pressed the remote.
The screen went black.
Somehow that made the ballroom feel emptier.
The flowers looked too large now.
The cake looked ridiculous.
Every decorative decision Caroline had obsessed over for eleven months suddenly seemed stranded in a room that no longer needed it.
A hotel manager approached me.
He had been invisible most of the evening, which probably meant he was excellent at his job.
“Ms. Mercer.”
“Yes?”
“I’m very sorry, but I need to understand whether the reception is continuing.”
I stared at him.
He looked mortified.
“Not socially.”
“I understand.”
“I mean operationally.”
Behind him, servers stood waiting beside carts of untouched desserts.
A woman held a tray of tiny lemon tarts with the solemnity of a pallbearer.
I rubbed my forehead again.
The makeup.
Right.
I stopped.
“What happens if we end it?”
“We stop service and secure the remaining food.”
“Do staff still get paid?”
“Yes.”
“Tips?”
“Service charges are already included.”
I looked at my mother.
She understood before I said anything.
“Send the food somewhere.”
The manager hesitated.
“We can coordinate donation where permitted, but prepared food has restrictions.”
“Then staff can take what they’re allowed to take.”
“We can arrange that.”
“Do it.”
He nodded.
“And the cake?”
I looked at the six-tier monument covered in sugar flowers.
My mother had argued for chocolate.
Caroline had insisted on almond because chocolate photographed poorly.
“Cut it.”
The manager blinked.
“All of it?”
“Give everybody cake.”
He almost smiled.
“I can do that.”
“Especially the staff.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Preston was watching from several feet away.
He looked at the cake.
“Our ceremony.”
The words were so quiet I nearly missed them.
I turned toward him.
“What about it?”
“It never happened.”
“No.”
He looked down at his suit.
A boutonniere still sat perfectly pinned to his lapel.
“This is the stupidest thing to notice.”
“What?”
“I’m still wearing this.”
He pulled the flower free.
For a second, I expected him to throw it.
Instead, he set it carefully on the table.
“I spent forty minutes arguing with the florist because I didn’t want roses.”
Despite everything, I remembered.
“You said roses were funeral flowers.”
“My grandmother hated them.”
“She also hated your beard.”
“She hated most things after lunch.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
He smiled.
May you like
Then the smile disappeared.
That was our problem reduced to one unbearable moment.
