Chapter Nine
Passing through the Marquise Hotel’s revolving doors feels like traveling back in time to just a few weeks ago, when I was a stellar employee who would never be associated with murder.
The hotel lobby is teeming with Ryser employees in their stiff and shiny business formal best, filling the space with chatter.
My gaze bounces around the room, from one familiar face to another, drinking in these figures from my other life at the DC office.
The fast-talking guy in IT, the sales exec who speaks only in clichés, the—
A force from behind pushes into me, making me stumble forward in my heels. A hand steadies me, gripping my arm until I regain my balance.
“Why would you stand still in front of a revolving door?” Marina snaps once she lets go of me.
“Sorry.” I step to the side and glance behind me at the pileup I’ve caused.
Tessa’s rubbing her shoulder while Arun raises his palms in innocence; behind them, Jen stands trapped in the revolving door, her hands pressed against the glass like a forlorn mime.
And Randy has skipped past the mess entirely to enter through the side door next to it.
After we make enough room to release Jen from her prison, I motion for them to follow me somewhere less obvious to regroup.
I lead us past the RYSER INSPIRE signs, down the hall, and around the corner.
At the entrance to Ballroom A, a figure stands in front of a high-top table, a piece of paper in hand.
“That’s who we need to give our names to,” I say, keeping my voice low. I stop at a cushioned bench by a window and turn to face my group. “Does everyone remember who you’re supposed to be?”
It hit me yesterday evening that assuming identities might be the best way to sneak everyone in.
I’ve been to enough of these things to know who shows up and who doesn’t.
And if we’re already racking up crimes, between my alleged murder attempt and Marina’s arson, then we may as well add identity theft to our collective transgressions.
If nothing else, our group looks transformed.
My blouse and dress pants are nothing new, and Marina’s plum-colored wrap dress is similar enough to the outfit she wore yesterday.
But the Ryser Cares team has made an effort to step out of their casual comfort zone.
Arun’s blue button-down is tucked neatly into the waist of his gray dress pants.
Tessa’s in heels and a striped blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, Jen’s sporting a sparkly black cardigan and slacks, Randy’s in a jacket and tie.
They all look the part. They just need to play their roles.
“I’ve got it down,” Tessa says, assuming a silky voice and pretending to tuck her hair behind her ears. “My name is Selma Blackwell.”
I’d texted Selma last night to ask if she’d be attending the awards tonight, and she’d replied to say she was skipping it because it wouldn’t be fun without me there.
Her response tugged at my heart, made me feel guilty for not reaching out to her since my demotion.
I’d always thought of us as nothing more than work friends by default, people who got along well and enjoyed grabbing the occasional lunch together but would never hang out outside of work.
Besides, we may work for the same problematic company, but Selma makes up for it in ways I don’t.
She’s a vegan. She volunteers at a hospitality house.
She donates to food banks. All the good she does cancels out the questionable things we do at Ryser.
While I, with my love of pork gyoza, my staunch avoidance of social interactions, and my hoarding every penny for early retirement, am nothing more than questionable.
Selma’s text gave me an impulse to reciprocate, tell her she made the awards more fun too, fill her in on life in Greenstead and my absurd plan to sneak the Ryser Cares office into the awards event.
But, deciding that might be too much, I responded with a heart emoji and told myself I’d text her later.
At least I could count on Selma to not show up and throw off our plan. The other names we’re using are less of a sure thing, however.
Randy clears his throat. “I’m Dan, uh. Gorland. Dan Gorland.”
Just hearing the name sends a spike of annoyance through me.
But as much as he’s thrown my life off course recently, I think I can count on him to not show up tonight.
Amanda has talked before about how Dan hates going to Ryser’s awards events, opting to skip them whenever he can.
Though using his name comes with a risk: he’s the most senior of the identities we’re faking tonight, which means the young woman at the door might know Randy’s lying.
But she doesn’t look like anyone I recognize—which could, I hope, mean she’s new.
“Sharon Bhatt; how do you do?” says Jen. She holds out her hand, palm down, like this is something out of Bridgerton . Arun plays along, taking her hand with a formal bow, and I have to glance around to make sure no one’s staring at us.
Contrary to whatever Jen may have decided, Sharon Bhatt is not a Regency-era royal but a data engineer.
She’s usually working late, putting out fires.
Last year, she showed up halfway through the event because her team had to stay late to deploy a critical website update.
The fact that she always shows up eventually means we’ll have to make the most of our time tonight.
We’ll have to get in, talk to our targets, and leave before Sharon arrives.
“Colby Yates, charmed to make your acquaintance,” Arun says to Jen.
As a sales rep who’s worked for Ryser for less than a year, Colby doesn’t technically have a record of attending or skipping Ryser’s awards night.
But he didn’t show up to the Pi Day party in March despite signing up to bring a key lime pie, nor the holiday party last year, even though I got his name for Secret Santa.
I have to believe his streak of false promises will continue.
“Mary Forrester,” Marina says, sounding uncertain. “I…work for Ryser. I love…exploitation.”
“Perfect,” Tessa replies, making her smile. “So natural. No notes.”
I don’t know much about Mary, but I know she won an award last year for helping transition our ticketing system to a new platform, and I know she works under Sharon. I’m hoping that whatever keeps Sharon staying late keeps Mary busy, too.
“Okay,” I say. I glance toward the doors of Ballroom A, where a twentysomething woman with frizzy red hair is using a pen to check someone’s name off the list. I may not have seen her around the office before, but there’s a Ryser lanyard around her neck.
She must be the new HR admin they hired last month.
I watch as she gestures for the person to enter the ballroom.
I breathe in, summoning my courage. “Let’s go. ”
Randy and Marina exchange uneasy looks, but they join me in approaching the doors.
I linger behind, waiting to go last. If any issues arise, I should be the one to deal with them.
I am the only invited person here, after all.
Though I’m not sure what I’d do to handle said issues.
Just the thought is enough to make my palms sweat.
Tessa goes first. She steps up to the front and utters Selma’s name in that same honeyed voice.
The redhead runs a pen down her list, checks something off, and cheerfully tells her to have a good night.
Tessa tosses a quick glance over her shoulder at us before she glides into the room and disappears from view.
Jen and Marina go next. Jen stumbles over her fictitious last name, and Marina mumbles to her shoes and is asked to speak up before the redhead understands what she’s saying. But the names are crossed off, the redhead smiles, and they too pass through without issue.
Next up, Arun gives Colby’s name. As with the others, my breath halts in the agonizing moments as the woman runs her finger down the list. When she reaches the bottom and frowns, my pulse races.
Did Colby not RSVP? He really picked now to abandon his dependable undependability? No one likes inconsistency, Colby.
She flips to the next page, and the next, poring over each one. Arun gives me a worried look, and I vow to find Colby’s address and key-lime-pie his house for showing me up—but then, miraculously, the crease in her forehead disappears and a grin takes over her face.
“Colby Yates ,” she says victoriously, crossing it off with a flourish. “I’m sorry. I was thinking Gates for some reason.” She beams at Arun. “You’re all set. Have a great night.”
“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.” Arun winks at her on his way in. Randy and I share a look over his newfound swagger and stifle a laugh.
My breathing steadies. We’re almost home free.
I can practically taste the truffle risotto balls.
It’s just Randy and me to go now. True, Randy’s the biggest risk since he’s assuming the identity of one of Ryser’s highest-ranking executives, but the HR assistant seems easygoing enough.
If she was the one they hired last month, she wouldn’t have any reason to recognize Dan.
Randy seems to think so too, going by the way he puffs out his chest when he steps forward. “How’re you doing?” he asks, speaking an octave deeper than his usual voice.
Before the redhead can respond, a short, thin-faced woman I recognize as Janet, our head of HR, ducks out from the ballroom and taps her on the elbow. “I’m having trouble getting the laptop set up. Would you mind taking a look?”
Randy and I watch in horror as our perfect, friendly redhead excuses herself and flits into the ballroom.
“Sorry about that,” Janet says. “We’re still getting everything set up. I can never remember which cord plugs in where.”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Name, please?”
“Da—”