Chương 5
I looked at the ballroom.
At the phones.
At Brandon.
At Clarissa.
At my father, who had flown across the city ready to do whatever I asked and perhaps several things I did not.
"Yes," I said.
Clarissa stepped forward.
"This is ridiculous."
The younger officer moved between us.
"Ma'am, please stay where you are."
Her face tightened with disbelief.
I turned toward the doors.
Brandon caught my elbow.
He released it almost instantly, but not before my whole body jerked away.
The younger officer looked at him.
Brandon raised both hands.
"I was just trying to talk to my girlfriend."
I met his eyes.
"Don't call me that."
Something in his face collapsed.
I walked out of the ballroom with my father's jacket around my shoulders and the police officer beside me.
Behind us, Clarissa began arguing again.
This time Brandon did not tell her to stop.
This time, nobody listened to her.
The hotel director led us into a conference room two floors below the ballroom, where the air-conditioning was too cold and a tray of untouched pastries sat beneath plastic wrap.
The older officer introduced herself as Officer Ramirez and asked whether I wanted anyone present while I gave my statement.
"My father can stay."
Howard started toward the door.
"You too."
He looked surprised, then nodded once.
My father pulled out a chair for me but did not tell me to sit.
I sat anyway.
The jacket slipped from one shoulder, and I caught it before the torn side of my dress showed.
Officer Ramirez noticed.
"Would you like us to get you something to change into?"
"Yes."
The hotel director cleared his throat.
"We can have something sent immediately."
"Something simple," I said.
He blinked, perhaps expecting a designer gown to materialize now that my surname had become expensive.
"Of course."
Howard sat across from me and placed the black folder on the table.
My father remained standing.
Officer Ramirez looked at him.
"Sir, if you're going to stay, I need you not to answer for her."
"I won't."
She held his gaze another second.
"Good."
It was probably the first time that evening anyone had spoken to him without calculating the consequences.
He seemed to appreciate it.
She took out a small notebook.
"Start wherever makes sense."
So I did.
I told her about Clarissa refusing my hand.
About Natasha's comments.
About Jessica recording.
About the grabbing.
About the dress.
About the slap.
I did not make it prettier.
I did not make myself braver.
When I reached the moment I caught Clarissa's wrist, I said that too.
Officer Ramirez stopped writing.
"You grabbed her wrist?"
"Yes."
"Before she struck you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She was reaching for me again."
"How long did you hold her?"
"Maybe a second."
"Did you hurt her?"
"I don't think so."
My father shifted behind me.
Officer Ramirez glanced at him.
He became still.
I almost smiled.
She continued.
"Did you threaten her?"
"No."
"Did she tell you to release her?"
"No."
"What happened after?"
"I let go, then her daughter grabbed my sleeve."
The officer wrote something down.
The process was slow and unglamorous.
That helped.
The ballroom had turned everything into spectacle.
This was just details.
Sequence.
Hands.
Fabric.
Words.
Who stood where.
Who touched whom first.
Facts were smaller than humiliation, but easier to hold.
The younger officer came in carrying a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a strip of pale yellow fabric.
"We found this near the center of the ballroom."
I stared at it.
A loose thread curled against the plastic like a tiny yellow vein.
"That's mine."
Officer Ramirez labeled the bag.
My father looked away.
Howard did not.
He watched the evidence as though memorizing it.
The hotel director returned ten minutes later with a black wrap dress from the gift boutique downstairs.
It still had a price tag hanging from the sleeve.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
He looked toward the door.
"For how our staff handled the situation."
The answer sounded rehearsed, but his face did not.
"We should have intervened sooner."
"Yes."
He swallowed.
"We will be reviewing that."
My father started to speak.
I looked at him.
He stopped.
That was becoming our pattern for the night.
The hotel director gave me the dress and showed me to a small restroom beside the conference room.
Under fluorescent light, my cheek looked worse.
A red handprint had begun fading into a broad swelling along the left side of my face.
My lower lip was split inside.
There was a bruise forming on my upper arm where Natasha had grabbed me.
I removed Howard's jacket and looked at the ruined yellow dress in the mirror.
For some stupid reason, that was when I started crying.
Not during the laughter.
Not when Clarissa slapped me.
Not when Brandon stood there.
In a beige hotel restroom with cheap soap and a motion-sensor paper towel dispenser that kept spitting towels whenever I moved.
I laughed once through the tears.
The dispenser produced another towel.
"Perfect," I muttered.
Someone knocked softly.
"Emma?"
My father.
"I'm changing."
"I know."
I waited.
He did not say anything else.
I pulled the black dress over my head and sat on the closed toilet lid for a minute because my legs had started shaking again.
When I came out, he was leaning against the opposite wall.
He straightened immediately.
"Better?"
"The dress or me?"
"The question was poorly designed."
"You've been spending too much time with Howard."
"Impossible."
I handed him the torn yellow dress.
He took it carefully.
"I can replace it."
"I know."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"No."
His mouth tightened.
He looked down at the fabric.
"Your mother would have known what to say."
The mention of her landed softly and painfully.
"She would've said the color washed me out anyway."
He gave a short laugh.
"She hated yellow."
"She hated beige."
"She hated most colors."
"She liked blue."
May you like
"On herself."
We stood there in the hallway talking about my dead mother's opinions on clothing while police officers waited fifteen feet away.
