“Okay, slow down.” Genesis raises one hand. “First of all, why are you in charge of this? Where’s the event coordinator?”
“There isn’t one. Elizabeth Wainwright prides herself on planning the whole thing personally. She works on it all year.”
“Not by herself, surely,” Genesis says. “Doesn’t she have an assistant, or something?”
“Yeah. Julia. But she got called away two hours ago to help Mrs. Wainwright call important people—congressmen, or something—to try to get Holden out of jail.”
Neda snorts. “And they left you in charge?”
I shrug miserably. “I figured most of the work was already done, so I might have given them the impression that I was up to the challenge, having chaired the prom committee for the past two years.”
“You chaired the prom committee?” Penelope looks doubtful.
“No! I lied, okay?” I’m not even sure I’m going to prom. “I had no idea what planning this thing would entail, but if I hadn’t stepped up, they were going to cancel the benefit. It didn’t seem fair for two different charities to lose out on all that money just because Holden Wainwright is a lying, drug-dealing asshole. So can you help me?”
“Yes.” Genesis plucks the clipboard from me and turns to her friends. “Neda, you go sort out the place settings.” She flips through the papers. “If they’re actually missing the dessert spoons and fish knives, let me know. I’ve got the service number.”
“Luke is back there digging through boxes,” I tell Neda. “But I don’t think he knows what a fish knife is either.”
Neda rolls her eyes on her way toward the kitchen door at the back of the ballroom. “You guys would be so lost without me.”
Genesis pulls a page from the clipboard and hands it to Penelope. “Call the dance floor people. Tell them that if they’re not here in half an hour, the Wainwright Foundation will take its business elsewhere and blacklist them all over the state.”
Penelope nods and takes the paper, then retreats into a quiet corner with her marching orders.
Genesis turns to me with a smug smile, and I decide to let her get away with it because we’ve both had a rough week and she’s digging me out of a hole. “What’s next?”
“Julia ordered two different colors of tablecloth, and I don’t know which one she actually intended to use.”
“Okay.” Genesis says. “Let’s go sort this out.”
It turns out that the different-colored tablecloths are for layering. There are also coordinating and contrasting cloth napkins already being folded into fancy shapes by a staff of women in a room off the kitchen, as well as table runners, and thick, lacy sashes to be tied around the backs of the chairs.
This benefit is like prom on steroids. Not that I would actually know.
Indiana arrives with pizza and we take a short break to eat. Two hours later, the tablecloths are layered, the dessert spoons and fish knives have been found, and there’s an entire army of napkins folded into the “napkin crown” shape, which looks like a tall column with a point on one side.
The tables don’t actually get set until a couple of hours before the banquet, which means we don’t have to worry about that tonight. “Okay, what’s left?” Luke asks, glancing around the banquet hall, where forty-five round tables have been arranged to face the long head table, elevated on a platform. Around the edges of the room, four empty bars wait to be manned and stocked tomorrow night.
“Um . . .” I glance at the list Julia gave me. “The sound guys will set up in the morning, so I guess that just leaves the balloons.”
“What balloons?” Genesis asks. “They’ve never had balloons at the benefit before.”
“They’re a last-minute addition. To be dropped from a net at the end of the dinner. I found a huge box of them in the back room, along with a note saying we have to blow them up ourselves, because the company that mounts them in the net will only blow them up if we use their balloons.”
“Why aren’t we using their balloons?” Pen asks.
I shrug. “I think it has something to do with the giveaway. One of the balloons has a ticket in it, and whoever pops that one wins some kind of prize. But I assume someone’s bringing that one tomorrow, because they didn’t leave me the ticket.”
“A prize?” Luke snorts. “This thing is fifty thousand dollars a plate. What kind of prize could people with that kind of money possibly want?”
“For your information, there are plenty of things money can’t buy,” Neda informs us.
“Yeah, but how do you fit personality, talent, and a sense of humor into a balloon?” Indiana asks with a grin.
Neda sticks her tongue out at him. “It’s nearly eight.” She glances at her phone screen. “I am not spending all night blowing up balloons.”
“You don’t blow them up with your mouth,” I say as I lead them toward the room in the back. “There are a couple of pressurized tanks. We just have to inflate them and clip them closed. Tomorrow morning the crew comes to load them into the net and set the rest of it up.”
“Come on.” Genesis links her arm through Neda’s and drags her across the ballroom. “It’ll be fun. Don’t you remember your birthday party in third grade? You asked for a room knee-deep in balloons, and your mom made it happen. We can reenact that.”
“Do not pop them!” I call as I follow. “We only have thirteen hundred, and in a room this big, we’ll need all of them.”
“Can we turn on the TV while we work?” Luke asks as he catches up to me. “I could watch Holden get arrested all day long.”
“That makes two of us.”
I turn on the television while Luke shows us how to work the tanks, because he’s the only one who got the tutorial from the guy who delivered them.
“Why didn’t you get helium?” Neda says as she claims the second tank. “We could all be singing Mickey Mouse karaoke right now.”
“Helium balloons don’t fall when you drop them,” Indiana points out with a smile.
Neda sticks her tongue out at him again and fills the first glossy silver balloon.
The rest of us take turns using the other tank, while everyone else seals the full balloons with little white clips, but Neda claims she can’t handle the clips because of her long manicure, so we leave her on the tank.
“Nooooo . . . ,” Genesis cries a few minutes later, and it’s the agonized sound of her voice more than the word itself that captures my attention. I follow her gaze to the TV screen, where the news network is showing a live image of Holden and his parents on the steps of the courthouse, surrounded by men and women in suits, who can only be attorneys. “Turn that up!”
I grab the remote and punch the up arrow several times.
“. . . live at the courthouse, where Holden Wainwright has just been released from custody, after the Miami-Dade State Attorney declined to prosecute him on charges rumored to have included possession and distribution of a Schedule I substance.”
Genesis inhales sharply. “Son of a bitch!”
13 HOURS EARLIER
I’m not ashamed.
GENESIS
“We knew prison was a long shot, but we thought he’d at least have to stand trial,” Indiana says, and I freeze in the hall outside the kitchen, so I can listen. “Any idea what went wrong?”
I’m not ashamed of eavesdropping. When spies do it, they’re called national heroes.
“They didn’t find anything illegal on Holden or in his house,” my father says, accompanied by the sound of pouring liquid. “My lead counsel said the State’s Attorney was probably afraid that Neda’s tape would be declared inadmissible. Without that, they have nothing left but witnesses who won’t testify for fear of incriminating themselves.”
“I’m guessing all those witnesses also have teams of lawyers waiting to tear into the prosecutor?” Indiana says.
“That would be my guess as well.”
“The Wainwrights paid someone.” I step into the kitchen to find my father leaning ag
ainst the long kitchen island holding a glass of orange juice. Indiana sits at one of the bar stools in front of a bowl of cereal, as comfortable around my father as if they’ve known each other his whole life. “All the rest of that may be true, but the real reason they dropped the charges is money.”
My dad arches one eyebrow at me, and I know what he’s thinking. People with money—including us—have always gotten away with things and it’s never bothered me before. But it bothers me now.
What can I say? It’s personal now. I won’t deny that that makes me a hypocrite.
“Speaking of people getting away with things . . .” My father takes my favorite mug from the cabinet and pours coffee into it. “I have good news. Holden’s interview didn’t change anything at Homeland Security. They’re not going to charge you either, Genesis, as long as you uphold the NDA.”
Relief washes over me like warmth from the sun. No charges. No jail. Then his phrasing sinks in and I frown. “I’d hardly call that getting away with something,” I snap at him. “Other than the coincidental timing, my case and Holden’s have nothing in common.”
“I know, princesa.” My father pushes my mug toward me, trying to catch my gaze. “I was joking. Trying to make you smile.”
“Did they say why?”
“Because in addition to Moreno, they’re still hoping to catch David and Silvana, and if they can get them extradited to the US, they want us both to testify against them.”
I glance at Indiana, silently asking for his opinion, and he gives me an encouraging shrug. So I exhale. “They won’t have to extradite Silvana. She’s already here.”
“What?” My dad turns to Indiana for confirmation.
“I haven’t seen her, but I believe Genesis,” he says.
My dad frowns. “Why haven’t you said anything about this?”
“Because no one else has seen her, and Holden was already threatening to tell the world I was suffering from PTSD-related hallucinations. I figured everyone would agree with him.”
His gaze narrows on me in concern. “Genesis, where did you see her?”
“At school—across the street. And outside the television studio.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No, and she disappeared as soon as I’d seen her. But I know it was her.”
“Okay.” My father nods as if he’s made a big decision. “I’ll have our attorneys pass that along to Homeland Security. They’ll probably want to talk to you again, and this time I’m staying in the room.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Are you okay with testifying? They promised we’d get round-the-clock protection.”
I nod slowly. The fact that we’d need protection is scary, but the truth is that we’re in danger from Moreno whether or not we testify against him, because of my father. “Yeah. I’ll do it. But I can only testify to what I saw and heard.”
“Of course,” my father agrees. “That’s how it works.”
I glance at the clock over the microwave as I accept the mug. “You haven’t had breakfast yet, but you’ve already spoken to your attorney about Homeland Security not charging me?”
“No, he told me last night, but you never answered your phone. Nor did you wake me up to say goodnight when you got home.”
“My phone was on ‘do not disturb’ all night,” I tell him. But the truth is that we’ve hardly spoken since the argument in my bedroom. I’m not sorry for what I said, so I can’t bring myself to apologize. And I don’t know how to move forward. How to talk to him.
He’s still my father. He’s still running Genesis Shipping. We’re still living in the same house. But none of it feels normal anymore.
“I need a new number. I’m getting sixty calls a day from the press.”
“Me too. I’ll take care of it.” My dad sighs, and when he pats my shoulder, I don’t shrug him off. And I call that progress.
Indiana smiles over the milk-filled spoon he’s lifting toward his mouth. “Once again, I tout the advantages of anonymity,” he says. Then he crunches into a bite of cornflakes.
“You’re right.” I turn toward my father. “Which is why I’ve decided to withdraw from the public eye.”
His brow arches again, but this time he looks amused. “That sounds a bit melodramatic.”
“I’m hoping for the exact opposite. No drama. I can’t stop people from talking about me and I can’t control the conversation, thanks to the NDA preventing me from telling my side of the story. But I can let myself fade from the spotlight and refuse to step into it again. No more fashion shows. No premieres. No club openings. People will forget about me, right?”
My question sounds needy, but I don’t care. I just want them to agree that at some point, I’ll be able to live my life without hearing the word “murderer” whispered behind my back.
Indiana shrugs. “Eventually. Probably. Until they do a ‘Where Is She Now?’ exposé on some cable network.”
I elbow him, and he laughs when milk sloshes over his spoon.
“What about the benefit?” my father asks, and I can’t help noticing that he hasn’t answered my question. “I bought a whole table.”
Crap. “Okay, after tonight, no more appearances.”
“Princesa, I doubt anyone would blame you for backing out.”
“I know, but I’ve already committed, and Valencias never back down or back out.”
5 HOURS EARLIER
We have no doubt.
MADDIE
I’m strangely nervous as I ring the doorbell, in part because I didn’t think I’d ever wind up back here. And in part because of why I’m here.
Neda opens the heavy, iron front door and pulls me into her foyer, and the excited shine in her eyes dispels my sense of déjà vu. Neda Rahbar has never been thrilled to see me in her life.
“Maddie! Come on in. We’re all set up in my closet.”
Before I can ask why they’d be crowded into her closet, she tugs me through her marble-floored entryway and living room, then down the hall into an elegantly decorated bedroom approximately the size of my entire apartment.
“Hey, come on in,” Genesis says from the left-hand doorway on the back wall. Through the door on the right, I can see a huge bathroom with a modern freestanding tub and marble countertops, which means the door on the left can only be the closet.
Genesis is holding two champagne flutes full of what looks and smells like orange juice. “Mimosas,” she says as she hands me one and sips from the other. I sniff my glass as I follow her through the doorway.
“Your mom lets you drink champagne?”
Neda laughs. “My parents are out of town.”
“That’s why we’re doing this here.” Genesis ushers me into a closet that is literally bigger than my bedroom. And has a window. And a window seat.
“Are you sure about this? I was just supposed to help plan the benefit. Elizabeth never said anything about me attending.”
Genesis shrugs. “My dad bought a whole table. You and Luke are both coming. I insist.”
I do the math, then stumble backward. There are eight seats per table.
Penelope is already sorting through dress after dress on a high closet rod, her own mimosa held lightly in her left hand.
“Pen and I brought these.” Genesis gestures to a rolling clothing rack, where at least a dozen formal gowns are hanging. “I know it’s a slim selection. We both donated a bunch to charity last year. But with what Neda has, we’re bound to find something that looks good on you.”
My cousin clearly doesn’t understand the backhanded compliment she just gave me, so I decide to let it slide. Considering that I can’t afford even one dress like the dozens currently hanging in Neda’s closet.
Genesis and Penelope sit on a padded bench standing on a spotless, shaggy white rug in the center of the room, and I realize that they’re the judges in what I stupidly assumed would be a simple, half-hour dress hunt. Evidently it’s actually a fashion show, starring everyone’s le
ast fashionable charity case: me.
“Start with the Valentino!” Penelope says.
“No, the Dior,” Genesis insists.
Neda puts a halt to the argument with one raised hand. “We’re going to start with the Schiaparelli.” She pulls a black dress with a mostly sheer bodice from a rack of her own clothes, then throws open a door I’d mistaken for a cabinet.
It’s actually a dressing room.
Neda’s closet has a dressing room. Evidently just for events like this.
I lose track of the names and styles over the next hour as I try on dresses in every conceivable style and color, made of every possible fabric. My favorite is a sleek white pantsuit with a plunging V-shaped neckline, but Genesis doesn’t think I have the “stature” to pull it off, so we dive back into the dresses.
By the time I’ve tried on twenty of them, I can no longer remember which ones I liked, and the debate continues without me, while my cousin and her friends sip their third mimosas and argue over whether I should look powerful or delicate, and whether my complexion will look better with the green lace or the rose silk Marchesa.
“She looks like the Little Mermaid in the green!” Neda growls, and Genesis agrees.
“But she’s not packing enough in the back for the rose!” Penelope insists. And that’s when I realize that I might never have left Colombia at all. Maybe I died out there in the jungle, and this is hell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that my phone has lit up on the window seat. I penguin-walk around the arguing divas and sit as best I can in skintight silver satin, then pick up my phone. There’s a message from Holden.
Watch your back.
Chills pop up all over my bare arms. “Hey, guys?”
But the divas can’t hear me over their own bickering.
“Guys!” I shout, and they turn to me, startled. Penelope’s eyes look glazed over, and I realize she can’t hold her liquor. Neither can I, which is why I didn’t even finish my first mimosa. “Holden’s threatening me.”