Chapter Sixty. Ingrid
CHAPTER SIXTY
INGRID
The Day of the Pageant
The sky is a low ceiling of pewter, and last night’s sleety rain has crusted into slick patches across the parking lot of the Sherman Ranch Amenity Center. Dad and I guide Mom in, one of us steadying each of her arms.
“For heaven’s sake, I can still walk,” she says, though I don’t miss the faint wince when her boot slips on the icy curb.
Inside, the room is a flurry of mothers adjusting hair and sashes, fathers clutching bouquets, little brothers and sisters weaving between rows of chairs.
The heat from so many bodies fogs the glass doors behind us, and for a moment all I can think about are the germs, the coughs, the sneezes.
Mom’s first round of chemo has stripped her defenses thinner than she’ll admit.
But she was determined to come. It’s my big day, she said with a girlish giggle. And who was I to try to steal that from her?
Just inside the entrance, Magnuson appears, flashing that easy smile. “Mrs. Whitmore,” he says, warmly. “You look absolutely radiant. No wonder they crowned you Miss Lone Star.”
Mom actually blushes, placing a hand lightly to her chest. “Oh my,” she murmurs, then leans toward me as Travis offers her his arm. “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?” she whispers.
I laugh under my breath. “That’s one word for him.”
Travis escorts her toward the front row, fussing over her in all the right ways—steadying her elbow, clearing the way as if she’s royalty.
Dad trails behind them with a thermos of cocoa, smiling and shaking his head.
He unscrews the lid once they reach her seat of honor and passes it to her, steam curling between them as she cups the hot drink in both hands.
I slip my camera strap around my neck, tucking the bag beneath the welcome table, the familiar weight grounding me.
Through my lens, I spot Kennedy Claire, sweeping through the crowd in her heels, hugging, smiling, sprinkling sweetie and honey like confetti. When she spots me, she hurries over and enfolds me in a perfume-scented hug.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been trying to call you.” Her voice is pitched low, meant for just the two of us. “How have you been holding up?”
I’ve been ignoring her since Izzy’s body was found, unsure how to untangle our shared grief from the things I’ve found out, the broken high heel still tucked away in my back seat, the message she maybe didn’t deliver from Ben.
“The decorations look great,” I say instead.
She gives my arm a squeeze, sadness flickering in her eyes before she masks it with another smile. “Isn’t it perfect? Make sure you get pictures of all the little details.” She taps my camera with a painted nail. “I have a million things I need to be doing, but we’ll catch up, okay? I promise.”
She drifts away, and I let the camera become my shield as I weave through the room.
Girls squeal and compliment, air-kissing like they’re not in direct competition.
I focus my lens, waiting for the cracks in the veneer—the palms wiped on a skirt, the pleading glance toward a mother.
I know the game. I remember it well, the petty rivalries.
They laughed at the newbies for not knowing better, sneered at the veterans for knowing too much.
Like so much of girlhood, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
And, of course, the sabotage. Costume props gone missing. Makeup kits tampered with. The day of Miss Lone Star Princess, I came to my station in the dressing room to find my favorite red lipstick missing, and I knew without a doubt another contestant had swiped it just to throw me off.
I should have known when my shoe broke that it had been Kennedy Claire.
She wanted so badly to win. Miss Lone Star meant more than just a crown to her.
But it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Because she’d been my friend.
Because when it happened, she’d shrieked and dropped to her knees beside me, acting shocked.
Acting.
I end up at the refreshments table and fill a plate with cucumber sandwiches and cheese cubes. Two mothers hover nearby.
“I’m amazed they got it back up,” the short brunette says, glancing toward the stage. “It looks great.”
“I was terrified,” the blond says.
“What happened?” I ask, taking a bite of the sandwich.
“Oh gosh, didn’t you hear?” The blond puts a manicured hand to her chest. “When we were setting up the venue the other night. The whole backdrop collapsed. Nearly landed right on top of poor Olivia. I mean, she jumped out of the way just in time.”
The brunette leans in, eyes bright and whispering conspiratorially. “You know, Cat came in yesterday, mad as all get-out, accusing Kennedy Claire of having something to do with it.”
The blond gasps.
But the brunette cocks an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t trust anything Cat says. I mean, you know her.” She sticks out her thumb and pinky, miming a bottle, which she tips into her mouth.
I keep my face neutral, but a cool trickle slides down my spine. I look to the glittering backdrop, to the lattice of steel pipes holding it up, the heavy stage lights. That isn’t lipstick gone missing. The weight of that scaffolding would kill a girl.
Yet one more mother-daughter pair forces the doors open, and a gust of icy wind barrels through the room like it’s hunting something, rattling the balloon display and flipping tablecloths.
I scan the crowd and spot Kennedy Claire across the room, embracing another mother, her hug a performance, her smile polished to a blinding gleam, her laugh dropping on cue like she’s hitting her mark.
I raise my camera and fix her in my lens, but the longer I stare, the less I see my old friend.
Instead, I see a woman who knows exactly what she wants you to see. And nothing else.
She has always been in control of the script, always onstage, never breaking character. The crown, the spotlight, the audience—she lives for it. She’s built her whole life around it.
And my mind begins to flip through the years like photographs developing in a darkroom, each image surfacing in stark relief: her pout the night of the pageant when I wouldn’t celebrate, oblivious that Izzy was missing.
Her tears in my bed the next morning, after the news spread.
All those years of listening, of knowing exactly what to say, as if she were memorizing lines from a script.
Has she been acting all along? Has she known, this whole time, exactly where Izzy was—and how she got there?
I steady my finger on the button, lining up the shot. The overhead lights stutter once, a sharp blink. Heads turn. Someone gasps. Then the power cuts completely—the music, the voices, the hum of the vents—and we are all swallowed in darkness.