Chương 7
He stopped when he saw my father standing beside the table.
Howard pointed to the chair farthest from me.
"Sit."
Brandon looked at me instead.
"Can I talk to you alone?"
"No."
His eyes moved toward Officer Ramirez.
"This is personal."
"So was the slap."
He flinched and sat.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The conference room's wall clock ticked loudly enough to become irritating.
Brandon took his phone from his pocket and placed it face down on the table.
My father folded his arms.
"If this is another apology, save it."
Brandon looked at him.
"It's not for you."
"Good."
"Dad."
I said it quietly.
My father looked away.
Brandon rubbed both hands over his face.
He looked younger without the ballroom lighting and the expensive posture he wore around his family.
Not innocent.
Just tired.
"I need to explain something before you watch this."
Howard leaned forward.
"Then whatever is on the phone may require context."
"It does."
"That's usually not encouraging."
Brandon ignored him.
He looked at me.
"My mother didn't meet you tonight for the first time."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"Not exactly."
A different kind of silence settled over the room.
Officer Ramirez picked up her notebook again.
Brandon noticed.
"This isn't about the assault."
"That depends on what you say," she replied.
He swallowed.
"She knew who Emma was."
My father straightened.
I felt nothing at first.
The sentence seemed too simple to fit anywhere.
"Who I was?"
Brandon nodded.
"That you're William Harrison's daughter."
Howard's expression changed before my father's did.
"How long?" I asked.
Brandon looked down.
"About three weeks."
The room seemed to narrow.
I thought about Clarissa lifting my wrist under the chandelier.
No bracelet.
No proper ring.
Girls like you.
Security will escort you out.
None of it made sense anymore.
"Three weeks," I repeated.
"Yes."
"How?"
He unlocked his phone.
"I don't know the whole thing."
My father gave a short, humorless laugh.
"You seem remarkably uninformed about your own family."
Brandon's face tightened.
"Believe me, I'm aware."
He opened a message thread.
"Natasha found out first."
"How?"
"She recognized Howard."
Howard blinked.
"Me?"
"You picked Emma up outside my building once."
I looked at Howard.
He frowned.
"When?"
"The day my car was in the shop."
A memory surfaced.
Rain.
Howard complaining about double parking.
Brandon watching from the lobby doors while I climbed into a black sedan.
I had told him Howard was an old family friend.
It had seemed harmless.
Brandon continued.
"Natasha saw security footage from the building."
"Why would she have access to your building security footage?" Officer Ramirez asked.
Brandon hesitated.
"She didn't."
Howard leaned back.
"Excellent."
"She asked the property manager for a screenshot."
"Why?"
"Because she wanted to know who Emma was."
My father looked at me.
"You said they hadn't met."
"They hadn't."
Brandon rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone.
"Natasha thought Emma was hiding something because she didn't post much online."
Howard's expression hardened.
"So your sister conducted an amateur investigation into your girlfriend because she had privacy settings."
"When you say it like that—"
"How else should I say it?"
Brandon had no answer.
I pointed at the phone.
"Keep going."
He opened a screenshot.
It showed a grainy image of Howard beside the sedan outside Brandon's building.
Someone had circled Howard's face in red.
Beneath it, Natasha had written, I KNOW THAT GUY.
A second screenshot showed a business article from five years earlier.
My father stood at a technology conference podium.
Howard was visible several feet behind him.
A third image showed my mother.
I stopped breathing for a second.
She was leaving a museum fundraiser beside my father, one hand lifted against camera flashes.
I stood between them.
Twenty-three years old.
Hair longer.
Face thinner.
But obviously me if someone already knew what they were looking for.
I reached for the phone.
Brandon handed it over.
Natasha's message beneath the photograph read, HOLY SHIT.
Another message followed.
THAT'S HIS GIRLFRIEND.
Then, SHE'S HARRISON.
I looked at the timestamp.
Nineteen days earlier.
Brandon watched me reading.
"I didn't see those messages then."
"Why not?"
"She sent them to Mom."
I looked up.
"How do you have them?"
He hesitated.
"My mother's iPad is linked to her messages."
Howard closed his eyes.
"Of course it is."
Brandon pushed on.
"She left it in the bridal suite upstairs."
"Why were you looking through it?"
"I wasn't."
Nobody believed him.
He looked at me.
"Okay, I was."
"Why?"
"Because after your father came in, my mother kept saying something wasn't supposed to happen yet."
My father uncrossed his arms.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
Brandon's voice rose.
"I said I don't know."
Officer Ramirez tapped her pen once.
"Lower your voice."
He did.
I scrolled farther.
Clarissa's replies were not shocked.
They were brief.
Are you certain?
Natasha answered with links.
Then Clarissa wrote, DO NOT TELL BRANDON.
My stomach tightened.
A minute later, another message appeared.
THIS MAY ACTUALLY BE USEFUL.
I read it twice.
My father stepped closer.
"Give me the phone."
I did not.
I kept scrolling.
Most of the following messages were logistical.
Guest list changes.
Seating arrangements.
Questions about whether I had been added to the formal program.
Then one message from Clarissa stopped me.
WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE'S SERIOUS ABOUT HIM OR PLAYING AT BEING POOR.
Natasha replied with a laughing emoji.
Then, HOW?
Clarissa wrote, LET HER SHOW US.
My fingers went cold.
"What does that mean?"
Brandon stared at the table.
"I think tonight was supposed to be some kind of test."
I looked at him.
He looked sick.
"What kind of test?"
"I don't know exactly."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I don't."
His eyes flashed.
"I found this ten minutes ago."
Howard held out his hand.
"May I?"
I gave him the phone.
He read in silence.
May you like
My father moved behind him.
Officer Ramirez did not try to look over anyone's shoulder.
