She looks up at me quizzically. “Where did Mara go?”
“The bathroom.”
This is the part of the plan that neither Mara nor I particularly like. She wanted to explain everything to Sonia, but I told her that would be a mistake. Most people are terrible actors. If Sonia knows she’s playing a part, Alastor will see it. I need her discomfort to sell the story.
Alastor must see everything exactly as I’ve arranged, and exactly as follows:
Mara returns from the bathroom.
Sonia tries to cede her position on the dance floor, but I won’t let her. I’m rude to Mara, deliberately dismissive. Mara answers back sharply, carrying a fresh glass of champagne that sloshes onto the ground as she gestures angrily.
Sonia pulls away from me, trying to apologize to Mara, but we’re already ignoring Sonia, locked in an argument that escalates and escalates because I intend it to. I’m cruel and cutting until real tears sparkle in Mara’s eyes, until she’s red-faced and shouting back at me.
We’re drawing the attention of our fellow party-goers, but I don’t make the mistake of looking to see if Shaw is watching too. I pretend to be entirely engrossed in the argument, trying to quiet Mara, grabbing her by the wrist.
Mara pulls her hand away, and when I won’t let go, she slaps me across the face. The slap is sharp, cutting through the music.
I release her wrist, saying, “Fuck off then, you fucking lush.”
I don’t enjoy saying these things. In fact, I hate it. But it has the desired effect. Mara storms away from me, off toward the coat check to retrieve her purse and coat.
I don’t watch her leave. Instead, I snatch up a glass of champagne off the nearest tray, toss it down, and ask Betsy Voss to dance.
Betsy is glad to take me up on the offer, slipping her hand into mine and saying with ill-concealed curiosity, “Trouble in paradise? Don’t let her get away, Cole—you’re such a gorgeous couple.”
“She’s more trouble than she’s worth,” I mutter.
I haven’t lied in a while. I’m out of practice. The words feel clumsy on my lips.
“You don’t mean that,” Betsy says.
I don’t bother to answer. All that’s required now is for me to keep dancing, looking as miserable as I feel.
This is the trickiest part. Will Shaw take the bait?
He has to slip out of the party without me seeing—or at least, with me pretending not to notice.
He might not leave at all.
The seconds tick past. I can see him in my peripheral, still dancing with the redhead. Twirling her around, laughing loudly, pretending to have the time of his life, his smile as phony as my fight with Mara.
Mara gathers her bag and coat, then storms out of the party.
Even then, Shaw lingers. I begin to believe he’s not going to follow at all.
Then, at the very edges of my hearing, through a break in the song, I catch his booming voice saying, “Let me get you another drink.”
Shaw parts ways from the redhead, first heading toward the bar, but then altering course to slip around the corner of the ornate plaster pillars leading into the theater.
Got you, motherfucker.
The trout is chasing after the bait, mouth wide open. I can’t wait for him to swallow the lure before I slip in the hook.
Shaw follows Mara out the double doors.
I leave the opposite way, heading toward the glowing movie screen, then pushing my way through the emergency exit into the alley behind the theater.
I don’t have to follow Mara because I already know where she’s going.
So intent am I on sprinting ahead of her, that I don’t realize I’m not alone in the alleyway. I hear the click of a safety coming off. Then the voice of Officer Hawks ordering, “Don’t fucking move.”
I turn slowly, already knowing I’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun.
Hawks is still dressed in his rented tux, though he’s lost the bow-tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. His glasses are slightly askew, the eyes behind them bloodshot with lack of sleep and at least one or two glasses of EBA champagne.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I say, trying for boredom in my tone. Unable to hide the edge of tension running underneath. I don’t have time for this—I don’t have time for any delay at all.
Hawks doesn’t give a fuck about my plans.
He’s here to ruin them.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he barks. “I’m arresting you,”
Fuck fuck FUCK!
“You can’t arrest me,” I sneer. “You have no warrant and no probable cause.”
“Turn around,” Hawks hisses through his teeth, “Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
FUCK!
I turn slowly, trying to buy time as my mind races.
My options are few.
“Mara just left the party,” I tell him. “Shaw is following her. He’s going to kill her.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hawks barks, coming up behind me. I hear the clink of metal as he pulls out his cuffs.
The urge to yank my hands away, to fight him, is overwhelming. But he’s closing the manacle around my wrist one-handed while he keeps his gun shoved against my side.
He frisks me roughly, finding the knife in my pocket.
“What’s this?” he crows. “Looks like probable cause to me. Can’t wait to run that through analysis.”
I want to slam the crown of my head against the bridge of his nose. I’m dying to do it.
Does he really think I’m stupid enough to carry a murder weapon around in my pocket?
I mean … one I’ve already used.
“We have to get to Mara!” I snap. “I can show you where they’re going.”
“Shut UP,” Hawks hisses, jamming the barrel between my ribs. “I want to shoot you. I’m fucking itching to do it. Just give me a reason.”
I keep my mouth shut as he hustles me to the end of the alleyway, to the cruiser parked a block down the street.
God DAMN it! I was hoping he brought his own car.
He shoves me in the back, where the doors have no interior handles and I’m trapped behind the thick metal mesh separating the driver from the back seat.