“You know I like being on my own,” I reply. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know. I’m just worried about you. I wish I could do something.”
“You could read Drew and see how bad Amber really was. See if she’s capable of murder.”
“Hard pass,” he responds drily. He pauses, scrutinizing me. “Are you really so sure it’s murder? He’s a pretty tightly wound guy from the sound of it. I mean, chefs have a stressful job, so I get it. But maybe he just has a heart attack or something … non-murdery.”
“Maybe,” I allow. “But given that she was such a big issue, and not all that long ago … I don’t know. I can’t explain why I think it’s murder. I just … know.”
I know Matt will take that statement at face value, as only he really knows the subtleties of how our visions can just feel like something, even if it’s not something we overtly Saw.
“Then why don’t you read her? Then you’ll know if she actually is the murderer,” he points out.
I lean back in my chair, somewhat astounded I hadn’t already thought of that. The idea both has merit and some issues … but it’s not crazier than anything else I had in mind.
“Well, crap. Guess if you’re gonna go and make sense, I can’t argue with you,” I grumble. But I give him a little smile. It’s the first in a while. Because he’s sparked a glimmer of hope.
I know her name. I doubt it’d be that difficult to find her. And then at least I could chase this lead until it either gives me the explanation I need or, well, doesn’t.
Matt rises, collecting our bowls and kissing the top of my head on his way to the kitchen.
“You’re welcome,” he calls over his shoulder.
I laugh and shake my head. And then I head upstairs to shower so I’m fresh and ready to hunt down Miss Amber Fisher.
Turns out a rich socialite who has been traveling Europe for the last year isn’t all that hard to find. In fact, much of her experience has been documented on our company’s platform. And with nearly twenty-five thousand followers, clearly people are eating up what she’s serving. Scrolling to the bottom of her feed, there’s nothing before September of last year, when she shared a shot of Paris from the air, captioned, “And so it begins.”
Her eighteenth birthday was chronicled not long after in October, followed by a procession of cities and famous landmarks. She definitely traveled in style, indulging in every luxury the region had to offer, from yachting off the coast of Italy to a private tour of Kensington Palace in London. Now, at a mere nineteen years old, she’s seen and done more than most people will in their whole lives.
There are also plenty of pictures of her, and I can definitely see why Drew would’ve had no clue that she was a minor. With strawberry blond hair and legs that go forever, she looks closer to thirty than twenty, and possibly like she’s even had work done on her face. What nineteen-year-old needs that?
I find my answer once I scroll down to a picture of her and her mother, cosmetics billionaire Bronwyn Fisher. You’d think the utter fakeness of her face would scare her daughter off plastic surgery, but clearly not.
In any case, there are only a few shots with her mom, and a few group party-esque shots. But none that look like she’s with close friends, or even a boyfriend. Though I know as well as anyone that how someone’s life appears on social media is usually a far cry from their reality. Still, the pictures of her by herself all look lonely, and I can spot the remote she used to take them. So she seemed to be on her own often enough. Kind of scary for someone who’d just demonstrated that she’s not capable of acting like a sane and responsible new adult.
Not that I know exactly how she did act. Or if she’s over all that. Too many questions, not enough answers.
I hop over to her mother’s page, where she’s got almost twice as many followers, and the shots are almost all of her face, seemingly advertising her company’s products. Thankfully, the captions provide more information, and I find in one recent post a mention of participating in the Embarcadero Center Building Lighting Ceremony that happens every year just before Thanksgiving.
A little more research and bingo. It’s this Sunday. Two days from now. Nothing on Amber’s page mentions plans to attend, but I figure it’s worth a shot.
And since Matt is gone, I’m sure he won’t mind if I use his press pass. If that doesn’t pan out, I can stalk her page again next week.
Oh god, am I the stalker now? There’s a scary thought. But at least I’m doing it for the right reasons.
I hope.
By Sunday I’m a pile of nerves and I don’t know if I can go through with it. I wanted to tell Anna yesterday in hopes she’d reassure me that I’m not doing something insane, but that would mean sharing more than she has any business knowing while working for Drew. I realize I probably should keep Anna at a distance until this is all over, just in case I let something slip that I shouldn’t. I know Drew would be furious if I did, and I’m not going to cross that line again.
I’m just going to cross another, very major line. Yeesh.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure Anna would’ve told me I’m nuts. She sure didn’t hold back saying just that when I handed her an unmarked mystery box and told her to keep it refrigerated, to bring it to work on Thanksgiving, and to only give it to Drew if he asked for it. Thankfully, she was laughing while declaring me a loon, so you know, there’s that.
I should be touched she trusts me so much, really. I mean, it could’ve been a bomb for all she knows. Guess I don’t come off as unhinged as I feel lately.
In any case, I dress warmly as it’s cool today and the sun will set mid-ceremony, which is kind of the point even if it will make it pretty chilly.
Since I’m using the company press pass, I figure I might as well use the company car too.
It takes forever because of traffic, but Jeff manages to get me to the backside of One Embarcadero Center where the press entrance has been set up.
As I step out into the brisk late afternoon, I can hear the sounds of the accompanying carnival on the other side of the buildings. It’s not an event I usually attend, but I’m suddenly sad, wishing I was here under more normal circumstances. That if everything was okay with Drew, maybe we’d be going together, riding the rides, eating cotton candy, listening to the live music.
I remind myself that’s exactly why I am here. So the man who is currently working at a restaurant just a few blocks away will get to do those kinds of things for the rest of his life. Hopefully a long life. Even if it’s not with me.
The guy at the gate barely looks at my pass, waving me in. I make my way around the building, through a fenced-in area to channel ceremony participants and the press, until I find the elevated stage with the theatrically large switch box that will light up One, Two, Three, and Four Embarcadero Center in just a little while.
A small group of people mill around the stage, though they look mostly like the tech crew, setting up microphones and wiring and such. The real VIPs stand on the ground in front of the stage, surrounded by press, camera flashes going off everywhere, recorders being stuck in people’s faces, the usual.