Chapter Seventy-Seven. Ingrid
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
INGRID
I watch Travis chatting with Ben over in the corner.
Travis leans back in a chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, hands animated in a story.
And it makes sense, I suppose, that Travis would be the one to talk to Ben when no one else will.
He isn’t from Anhalt, doesn’t harbor years of suspicion against Ben, against the whole Sherman family.
But still, I can’t shake the thought of that recording on his phone. Can’t figure out why he would have it.
The Events Hall has a strange energy, everyone exhausted, nerves frayed raw, but now a kind of manic cheer has been laid on top as they set up the room, absurdly, for the pageant.
Men reset the chairs into neat rows. Women pass out programs. Mark is arranging two tripod construction lights, like spotlights pointed at the stage. The girls are off in the dressing room.
When Olivia finally emerged from her room, she had all the pageant girls rallied behind her.
We can’t do the pageant now, someone said, reasonably.
Why not? Hannah asked, and she had a point. All the contestants were here, the audience, the dresses, and the judges, and we had nothing but time on our hands.
It was Olivia, though, who convinced everyone. This last week, prepping for the pageant with Mom, she’d said, those are my best memories of her. I want to do it for her. How could anyone argue?
Even Mom has a little color back in her face. She’s refreshed her makeup and tamed her hair, and she’s sitting in the front row, ready for her moment to bring the crown up to the stage.
Outside, the night is inky black, the soft flakes swirling. It’s like one of Izzy’s snow globes in reverse. I think of how the room would look from out there, all of us encapsulated on the inside, lit up and displayed like specimens in a jar.