“She knows something; I’m telling you!” Victoria continued. “It’s all her fault. She hurt him. I know she did. She’s not even denying it. I want to hear her say she didn’t hurt my son. I want her to say it. But she can’t, can she?”
"Stop it!" My voice cracked as I angled my body to shield Olivia from the onslaught. "You're wrong."
Victoria’s eyes blazed with a fury that could have set the ocean ablaze. "Am I?" she spat.
The room's atmosphere thickened, tension coiling like a spring. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Your grief has blinded you," I said, struggling to keep my own emotions in check. "You’re looking for someone to blame. But my daughter isn’t the one. Olivia is grieving too."
"Like hell she is!"
"Mom…." Olivia's voice was a frayed thread, barely audible.
"Enough!" I shot back, my plea barbed with desperation. "Can't you see what this is doing to her?"
Eyes shifted; guests traded glances loaded with doubt and curiosity. Some recoiled from the raw display, hands covering mouths, while others leaned in, ravenous for every morsel of conflict.
"Look at her," I demanded, my voice trembling with contained rage and sorrow. "She's your son’s friend, not his killer."
"Friends don't lie!" Mark's mother accused, her voice slicing through the murmured speculations.
"Neither does Olivia," I countered, each word a stone in a fortress around my daughter. "Not about this. Not about Mark."
Heads nodded, some in agreement, some in skepticism. The crowd had become judge and jury, their collective breaths held tight as they awaited the next revelation.
A cold hush fell. The double doors to the grand hall swung open with a purpose that made my heart lurch. Two uniformed officers strode in, their steps echoing against the marble floor of Paradise Key Private Resort's most lavish room.
"What’s the situation here?" The taller officer's voice cut through the whispers like a knife.
I tightened my grip around Olivia. She shrank against me, her eyes darting to the imposing figures that now commanded the room's attention. The detective from earlier stepped inside.
"Detective!" Victoria didn't miss a beat. She pushed through the throng of onlookers, pointing an accusing finger at Olivia. "That girl," she hissed, "she knows what happened to my son."
The detective's gaze locked onto Olivia, her innocence under scrutiny. His partner fumbled for a notepad, anticipation etched into his face.
"Ma'am, please, calm down and start from the beginning." The detective's words were laced with authority, but Victoria was a cyclone that refused to be stilled.
"Start with her," she urged, insistent, her voice searing through the space between them. "Mark would still be alive if it weren’t for her! She was with him last night. I saw them. In a tight embrace. Kissing. And now he’s dead. Now, my son is dead."
Olivia's breath hitched, her body tensing as if bracing for impact. I felt her pulse race, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that had once again claimed the room.
"Is this true?" The detective's question was directed at Olivia, but I answered.
"No," I said firmly, standing between them. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Detective."
"Let's keep this orderly," he replied, unswayed by emotion, his professionalism a stark contrast to the theatrics spiraling around us.
"Orderly?" Victoria scoffed. "My son is dead, and you want orderly?"
"Mrs. Thomas," the detective acknowledged me without taking his eyes off Olivia. "I'll need to speak with your daughter."
The detective's eyes darted from the enraged woman before us to me and back again, his face a mask of professional neutrality. I could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind as he weighed our words against the charged atmosphere.
"Detective, I’m an FBI agent," I cut in, my voice slicing through the tension. "My daughter?—"
"Agent or not, your badge doesn't change the facts here," he said curtly, barely blinking.
"Olivia is innocent," I pressed on, my words sharp. "There's been a mistake."
