The camera pans across the Grand Hall. My chest blooms with pride at my arch. The eighteen-foot masterpiece of white wisteria and cream roses. It’s magnificent, framing the entrance exactly as I designed it.
It also hurts to look at it. It’s mine. And I’m not there.
“And here comes the man of the hour,” the reporter says, her voice dropping to a hushed, reverent tone. “Judge William Hale.”
I stop breathing.
My father steps out of a black town car.
He looks immaculate.
He’s wearing his bespoke tuxedo, the black lapels sharp against the crisp white shirt. His silver hair is perfectly coiffed. He stands tall, projecting an aura of absolute, unshakable authority.
He waves to the crowd, smiling.
It isn’t a tight, worried smile or the brave face of a grieving father. It’s his campaign smile. Warm. Benevolent. Charming.
He stops to shake hands with the Police Commissioner. He laughs at something the Mayor says, throwing his head back.
A cold, hollow ringing starts in my ears.
Why are you laughing?I scream in my head.I’m missing! I’ve been gone for three days! Why are you laughing?
“He’s acting,” I hiss. “He has to act normal to show he isn’t weak.”
The reporter pushes through the crowd, holding a microphone out.
“Judge Hale! Judge Hale! A moment for Channel 4?”
My father turns and engages the camera, looking directly into the lens. Directly at me.
“Good evening, Diane,” he says, his tone deep and smooth. “A wonderful turnout tonight, isn’t it?”
“It’s spectacular, Judge,” the reporter says. “The floral arrangements are breathtaking. Speaking of which, your daughter Iris isn’t by your side tonight. She usually orchestrates these events. Is she here?”
This is it.
I lean forward, gripping the arms of the chair until my nails dig into the fabric.
Tell them,I beg.Tell them I was taken. Tell them to find me.
My father’s expression softens. He puts on a mask of fond, paternal indulgence. He sighs, a small, weary sound that suggests the burdens of fatherhood.
“Ah, Iris,” he says, chuckling softly. “You know how young women are these days. The pressure of the season... it got to be a bit too much for her.”
The reporter tilts her head. “Oh?”
“Yes,” my father continues, his voice dripping with fake concern. “She’s a perfectionist, my Iris. She works herself to the bone. After the stress of the preparations, she decided she needed to disconnect. She’s taking a much-needed mental health break.”
Everything in me locks.
The sound in the room seems to suck out, leaving a vacuum.
“A break?” the reporter asks.
“In Bali,” my father lies. Smoothly. Effortlessly. “She flew out yesterday for a bit of a yoga retreat. No phones, no work, just some much-needed peace. I told her, ‘Sweetheart, you go find your center. The flowers can wait.’”
Yesterday.
