Chapter Twelve Adrianna
Chapter Twelve
ADRIANNA
My New York apartment has always felt like a safe space for me.
It’s so high above Manhattan, I can see all the way to Brooklyn.
A few years back, we had a company fit ballistic walls and floors.
Maybe a little overkill, but like Dad says, it’s more about the message you send out.
It’s three thousand square feet, polished resin white floors, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows and I’ve just had a spa room built, where I’m currently soaking my toes with my half-sister, Georgia.
I’ve been scrolling on my phone every minute since the police left.
‘Nothing about Simone’s death in the news?
’ Georgia asks. As usual, she is immaculately styled, her Afro hair sculpted in a halo of glossed curls, dewy skin subtly contoured with expensive make-up.
Like me, Georgia inherited Dad’s patrician nose, and large, slightly close-set eyes, but they look prettier in her warm brown shade than my deep-blue.
Her slender legs are clad in soft gray jeans, rolled up at the ankle, and she wears a V-neck black chiffon blouse, open low to display a clutch of elegantly understated gold jewelry.
Georgia’s mom is CEO of an African-American beauty brand, while mine was a blonde socialite.
But there’s no mistaking we’re related, with Dad’s strong features and personality to match.
We are the same age – thanks to one of Dad’s short-lived affairs, that Mom always gracefully ignored. Georgia started Kensington Manor boarding school the same year as me. But to everyone’s surprise, we looked out for one another from the start.
My eyes track the headlines. I shake my head. ‘Dad kept it under wraps. The only thing I can find is reruns of the story from three years ago.’
Georgia sits up slightly, her narrow frame slanting forward. ‘From when you were kidnapped? Why are they running that?’
‘Because paparazzi are sick individuals, and because my wedding is coming up, they like to remind me of my lowest point.’
My finger zooms over the scrolling news tabs. Old stories.
Society heiress kidnapped
Billionaire heiress snatched
Party girl Adrianna taken
‘How are the other bridesmaids taking the news?’ I ask Georgia.
‘They think your crazy kidnapper is on a killing spree, and they’re freaking out,’ she says. ‘Just like I am. Dri, do you really think—’
‘I’m not calling the wedding off,’ I tell her, holding up my hands. ‘I’m not letting a murderer win.’
She nods briefly, accepting the fact, but unhappy still. ‘I just wonder …’ She hesitates. ‘Dad picked Simone to spy on us, right? All those questions she asked.’
I nod slowly. ‘Maybe,’ I agree. ‘Simone wasn’t exactly part of the crew.’
‘She was a Kensington Manor School girl,’ Georgia points out.
‘Yeah … but. Scholarship. And older. Left before we even got there. She didn’t go through what we all did.’ I give a little shake, dislodging the memories. ‘Talk work to me,’ I tell Georgia. ‘You know that’s your happy place.’
This elicits a small smile. ‘True,’ she agrees. ‘OK. We got the pictures back from the bridal swim shoot,’ Georgia says, handing me a sheaf of color print-outs. ‘We edited Simone out. Journalists are bound to wonder why.’
‘Let them wonder.’ My bridesmaids and I stand in a perfectly choreographed semi-circle, with carefully contrasted heights, hair colors, and bathing suits. We look like a bikini-clad girl band, our postures and facial expressions suggesting a varied range of feminine personas.
I’m in the center, naturally. Lean, tanned, in a white bikini with cut-outs. My chestnut curls have been artfully tousled, to give a carefree beach vibe. I leaf through, noting Georgia’s mark-ups.
Five women smile out from the picture. We’re all old schoolfriends. In theory at least.
Silky, a dark-haired arthouse film-maker, is the only bridesmaid I’d consider a friend.
Next to her, freckled Ophelia works a kooky look, to match her career as celebrity make-up artist. Petra’s long limbs and sharp cheekbones supply the supermodel credentials.
And finally, Georgia. Her voluminous curls are side-parted, and captured at an angle that complements her small jaw.
She bears the slightly shocked expression of someone who doesn’t naturally pose for photos.
I look back at the image. Five bridesmaids. Down to four. Me. All ready for release.
‘None of them look as though they like me,’ I say, putting my finger on what bothers me about the pictures. ‘But … I guess it’s a solid line-up. Let’s just get out to Elysium.’
Georgia turns to look at me, her large brown eyes owlish. ‘Dri,’ she says gently, ‘pretty pictures don’t mean everything is OK. You can’t just bury your head in the sand. Figuratively,’ she adds, lifting her large phone, scrolling social media.
As I glance at her screen, a familiar headline flashes up. The story that went viral all around the world, three years ago.
‘Georgia!’
She lowers the large screen. ‘It just popped up,’ she says. ‘I didn’t search it, I swear.’
My eyes are locked on her screen.
The Killing Code - Three Dresses
Three bloody dresses found where Adrianna was snatched.
Then the picture. Me. Three years ago.
Adrianna Escapes Torture Room
Bloodied, bruised, with her long hair hacked away, Kensington heiress escapes with her life.