Forty-Eight
MORALE IS PERILOUSLY LOW WHEN I RETURN TO THE TABLE.
I sit, apprehensive. “I know we’re not in an ideal position,” I start, “but we can figure this out. I can talk my way out of being searched. Cass is inside. She’ll be fine. I’ll… I’ll pass my clutch around and we’ll fit as many phones in it as possible,” I propose. “I’ll toss them with the catering trash.”
No one speaks. McCoy arranges the silverware on the finished dinner in front of him.
“I listened in on my security walkie,” he says hollowly. “They’re doing a complete search of the house, prepared for the suspect to have hidden items inside. Everyone will be physically searched before leaving unless they object. If they object, they’ll be added to a list of names to be passed to the police for the formal report and investigation.”
I do not enjoy the feeling rising from my stomach. The cold in my cheeks. The devastating effects of this unwelcome role reversal. I entered this wedding more huntress than heiress. Now I’m the hunted.
I’m the prize.
“Hey, Rook,” Tom says hollowly. “I got the autograph you wanted. The Walker Harris guy.” He slides Deonte a cocktail napkin. “I just went up to him.”
Deonte’s gaze is fixed forward, presumably on our collapsing futures. “Great. I’ll mail it to my brother,” he says. “From prison.”
Even Tom’s wry glimmer has gone out. He gives no sharp or snappy reply.
“But seriously,” Deonte says, with softer genuineness, “I appreciate it.” He offers and receives a half-hearted fist bump from Tom.
It cracks me. They’re not coworkers. They’re good people, kind people, people with whole lives and families they’ve entrusted to my failed plan.
No. I refuse. Olivia Owens doesn’t retreat.“I don’t care if security is closing in. Whatever,” I reply, hating its frustrated insufficiency. “I’ll try anyway. The guards don’t know this house like I do. I’ll—I’ll find a way.”
Tom meets my eyes, somber.
“And if you don’t?” he asks.
The dark quiet of his words unnerves me like it wouldn’t coming from any other member of my crew. I’m used to voices of reason, even doubt, from everyone else. When Tom Pham feels like the fun has run out… I force myself not to waver, holding his gaze. “Have I let you down yet?” I return levelly.
His face falls, his reaction almost pitying. “You can’t do everything, Olivia,” he says softly.
“Hey,” Jackson cuts in. “Don’t underestimate her.”
Tom’s head swivels. He regards Jackson with distant surprise. I watch the instant it happens—when, with failure’s weight pressing down on us, he decides against good grace. “I’m sorry,” he replies, his sneer lethal. “When did we start listening to cheaters—?”
“I never—” Jackson rises from his seat, the chic folding chair wobbling under him precariously.
“Jackson,” I hiss, grabbing him and wrenching him down. I’m about to reprimand them when movement across the dance floor catches my eye. It’s cousin Finn, his stature and flaxen hair unmissable even in the chaotic scene. Interesting. He’s arguing with a security guard, and the commotion has started to attract stares like mine.
Or like mine except in one important respect. Mine has come with an idea.
I face my crew. “Phones in my bag,” I order. “Now.”
No one hesitates, not when my urgency sounds like hope.
I pass my clutch to Deonte under the table, where the linens conceal it. He covertly removes his phone from his pocket and slides it in, then passes the clutch on to McCoy. Kevin is next. Everyone is quick, coordinated.
“Another phone isn’t going to fit,” Kevin informs us quietly.
“It won’t need to,” I reply. “Tom, you’re coming with me. Jackson”—I look to my ex, his eyes expectant—“I need you to play groomsman. Distract that security guard with bridal party concerns. Ask him… whether it’s going to be a problem if substances are found in the study where the groomsmen were partying.”
Jackson doesn’t question me or critique the morality of my plan. He nods and gets up, heading for the guard cousin Finn is confronting.
I wait, then follow him at a distance with Tom. While I notice occasional eyes on me, it looks as if the security presence has largely distracted guests from my necklace stunt.
Next to me, Tom does not look encouraged. “You’re seriously back together with him?” he asks. His voice is unreadable, which for him, is unusual in itself.
I dart him a glance, surprised. “I’m not sure. Do you care? I thought you were just here for a job,” I comment. If it’s coy he wants, it’s coy he’ll get.
“I am,” he says. “I don’t care.”
His delivery is convincing, but of course it is.
In front of us, Jackson nears his mark. Unable to fight my curiosity, I indulge the opportunity to press Tom. “If you did care, would you say anything?”
He looks at me now, gaze narrowed.
“I don’t know if you would,” I go on calmly. “If you’re capable of it. I think you’re like me. We keep secrets from everyone. Most of all, ourselves.” I face forward, finding my newest co-conspirator’s figure in the crowd. “Jackson… is different,” I finish.
“You sure about that?” Tom asks.
I’m not expecting the certainty of the reply I hear come out of me. “Yeah. I am.”
When Tom nods once, the gesture is quiet confirmation. He understands. He knows I’m right. We could never risk ourselves with each other.
While we watch, Jackson moves in on the guard. He engages him while the man is already dealing with Finn, understandably overwhelming the officer, who calls for backup. More Millennium Security personnel congregate, offering our window of opportunity. In the commotion, we steal past the guards.
The boathouse waits in the distance. It’s not far, really. Just one dark runway separating us from salvation. Once we get inside, we can drop our phones in the ocean.
I pick up my pace down the incline. Tom understands our objective intuitively. After reaching the waterfront outpost, we duck inside. I unzip my clutch as I approach the dock. Far from the party, it’s hushed in here except for the gentle ripple of the water in the night. It’s kind of nice, honestly. I feel like I can breathe.
Until the door opens behind us.
Mia enters, her eyes falling directly on the phones.