“She’s going to the closing ceremony.”
As if I needed to spell out the obvious.
Lou nodded, her mouth full, seemingly unaware of the crumbs falling onto her lap.
“She just killed a man, and she’s wearing Chanel,” Constance said.
“You can tell this is Chanel just from this?” Lou said, shoving another cookie into her mouth. She clocked the fumbled look on both of our faces. “What else is there to say? The woman’s clearly a psychopath.”
I got up and stretched my legs. My back was sore, my shoulders tight.
“We can’t let her get away with it.”
We should never have been at that party. We should never have seen what we saw. We would never be as successful or rich or famous as someone like Odetta Olson, especially not now that our names would be tainted forever. We would be paying for our mistakes.
And by “we” I meant all of us, including Odetta Olson.
“We should go,” I added.
Lou was still munching away. “Where?”
“To the ceremony,” I said. “We need to talk to Odetta Olson. She needs to know she can’t just go to a party after what she did.”
Lou shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere near that woman. Let’s start with the police.”
“I’m with Marnie,” Constance said. “She doesn’t get to parade in Chanel for another minute.”
She was already heading toward the door.
“And if she tries to take us down with her,” I said, “we have the perfectinsurance policy.”
I picked up the necklace, which was resting on the wooden stool. How many people were looking for it now?
“Let’s go before it’s too late,” I added.
Constance looked at each of our wrinkled, and all too casual, outfits and made a sad face. Then she nodded, reluctantly. Lou grabbed the last packet of cookies and followed us out.
When we arrived at the Martinez, the crowds were the thickest they’d ever been, people screaming some of the most famous names in the world, all except for Dorian Fisher’s.
It took some elbowing to reach the door of the hotel. Luckily, I had my festival pass with me so we got in without a hitch. The lobby was buzzing, the air thick with glamour. This was the night to go all out, to wear the most beautiful gowns, to aim for the most jaw-dropping moments.
Soon, screens around the world would fill with snippets from the closing ceremony, the best-dressed list, the surprise wins. Or losses. For now, every smile on display was further proof that the news of Dorian Fisher’s death wasn’t public yet. Maybe they were still looking for him. But in the meantime, the show would go on.
Pushing through the crowd was a feat. There were so many photographers, cameras everywhere, ready to record it all. When I glanced at the girls, all I saw were their ashen faces, the fear in their eyes, the dread they breathed. You might think someone would have noticed the way we looked, how little we belonged there. But we were invisible.
“We’re really doing this?” Lou said.
I nodded, almost imperceptibly. We were too far gone now.
“She’s there!” Constance said suddenly, her voice laced with terror.
Indeed, Odetta Olson was making her way across the lobby, shielded by a dozen people. Maybe up close she looked exhausted, but from wherewe stood she was still the powerful, magnetic woman she projected so well.
I felt my good intentions dissolve, like sugar in a teacup, but I couldn’t let them. Not now.
“Excuse us!” I said, clearing a path.
We were less than five feet away when a security woman in a black suit stopped us.
