Chapter Fifty-Seven. Melanie
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
MELANIE
One Day Before the Pageant
The Amenity Center smells of perfume and fresh flowers.
Down the hall, the girls are fussing in the bridal suite they’ve claimed for a dressing room—a gilded vanity piled with brushes and glitter, racks of gowns and sequined jackets, an Instagram-ready chaise lounge and a full-length mirror catching every sparkle.
They’re doing run-throughs for tomorrow, nerves buzzing loud enough to fill the whole wing.
The Events Hall is full of mothers wrestling with bows and balloons, straightening chair rows, stacking programs on the welcome table, and Kennedy Claire is everywhere at once, barking orders.
Across the room, Mark has pulled in a few men from the construction crew to deal with the mess from last night’s collapse.
They’re clearing debris into wheelbarrows, sweeping up broken glass and twisted metal.
A half-built skeleton of replacement scaffolding rises on the stage, sturdier this time.
Magnuson is still crouched at the edge of the platform, elbow-deep in cables, testing a light fixture and muttering to himself.
He swears he’ll have the rigging finished in time for the pageant tomorrow.
“Those tablecloths go on the rectangles, Melanie. Not the rounds.” She doesn’t even look up from her clipboard when she says it.
“Oh, sorry.” I tug the cloth free, moving to the judges’ table at the foot of the stage.
Outside, the sky hangs low and bruised. On the news, officials are warning that temperatures will plummet tonight, urging people to fill bathtubs in case of overnight outages and to avoid travel tomorrow unless absolutely necessary.
A light drizzle has been falling all morning, and I worry that it will flash-freeze by nightfall.
I would ask Kennedy Claire if we should postpone the pageant, but she’s already been biting off the heads of anyone who suggests such a thing, like she’s the queen from Alice in Wonderland, so I keep my mouth shut.
I’m just getting the tablecloth straight when the glass doors swing open with a knife-edge gust of cold air. Cat strides in, hair damp from the mist, eyes blazing.
“Honey, are you all—” I start, but she blows past me and goes directly for Kennedy Claire.
“I need to talk to you,” she says, voice low and dangerous.
Magnuson, crouched at the edge of the stage with a light fixture, glances over, but then returns his attention to the wires.
She folds the clipboard to her chest and smiles tightly. “How can I help you, Cat?” Her tone is falsely honeyed.
“I have security footage from that party the kids threw in The Hollow,” she says.
At the words, Magnuson’s head lifts, his hands stilling on the rigging.
“I have videos of your underage daughter drinking, doing drugs, skinny-dipping. Videos that I know you wouldn’t want getting out, posted online, emailed to pageant judges and college admissions boards.”
Kennedy Claire’s eyes flare, but the rest of her face freezes into marble.
I drop the stack of folded tablecloths and hurry forward, slipping between them. “All right, okay, let’s … let’s all take a breath here.”
My nerves prickle, remembering Cat’s late-night call about the scaffolding collapse. She’s convinced herself that Kennedy Claire was behind it, but I’m not so sure. That seems a step too far, even for her, and Cat’s been in one of those moods, seeing shadows everywhere.
“Are you threatening me?” Kennedy Claire asks at last, her calm so steady it lifts goose bumps along my arm.
Cat doesn’t blink. “I’m warning you. Stay away from Olivia.”