Too bad I’m gonna put him in the ground instead.
I want to get this over with. Where the fuck is he?
“We can’t do anything if Hawks is here,” Mara frets.
“Don’t worry about that—he’s not on the guest list, and there’s no way in hell somebody brought him as a date.”
I take a short detour to whisper in Sonia’s ear. Ten minutes later Hawks is hustled out of the party, arguing with security all the way out the door.
Sanity is a fragile thing—a few taps with a hammer and the whole psyche can crack. I think Hawks has had more than a few taps.
As Hawks leaves, Shaw arrives. He’s dressed in a midnight-blue tux, a stunning redhead on his arm. The girl looks suspiciously like Erin Whalstrom. I doubt that’s a coincidence—we knew Shaw would come, and he knew we’d be here, too. He can’t resist turning the knife one last time on Mara.
She watches Shaw twirl the redhead around the dance floor, her shoulders stiff with anger.
“Just a few more hours,” I promise her. “Then he’ll pay.”
“Bleed every fucking drop out of him,” she replies, never taking her eyes off Shaw.
We wait for him to get comfortable. We wait for the night to progress. This is an important part of the hunt: the false sense of security. Let the prey come into the clearing. Let them approach the water. And let them lower their head to drink. Only then does the crocodile lunge up out of the water.
Shaw drinks his champagne. He flirts with the redhead, and with anyone else who passes within his view. Occasionally he throws glances in my direction, or in Mara’s. I ignore him as I have at other events where we’ve been forced to share space. It’s never me who approaches Shaw, always the other way around.
Mara and I dance together.
She’s already beginning her part of the charade. She pretends to drink too much champagne, leaning heavily on my arm. And I pretend to become annoyed with her, snapping at her once or twice, before she spills her drink on my trousers and I stalk off, annoyed, abandoning her on the dance floor.
This is phase one.
Mara goes to the ladies’ room to collect herself. She’ll splash water on her face, pretend to attempt to sober up.
Meanwhile, I search for Sonia.
I find her engrossed in conversation with a broker named Allen Wren, pitching him on Mara’s newest series.
“She’s in high demand these days. Every painting sells for more than the last. If you’ve got potential buyers, you’d better put the wheels in motion—even a few weeks could cost them thousands.”
“You’re not going to railroad me, Sonia,” Wren says, wagging his finger in her face. “I’ve been burned on these so-called rising stars before.”
“Not this one,” Sonia promises, sipping her drink. “Have you seen her work in person? Photographs don’t do justice. The paintings glow, Allen. They fucking glow!”
“I’ll come take a look this week,” Wren says, finishing his own drink in one gulp and leaning forward to run his fingertips down the back of Sonia’s arm. “But why don’t you ever come visit my gallery, Sonia? It’s been months since I had you alone in one of my back rooms …”
Sonia arches an eyebrow at him, not shaking off his hand.
“I consider it … I liked what I saw last time …”
They both jolt upright when they see me standing only a few inches away. Sonia blushes and gives an embarrassed laugh, while Wren doesn’t even try to hide what he was up to.
“Your fidus Achates is very persuasive, Cole. I think I’d do anything she asked …”
“Come dance with me,” I say to Sonia, ignoring Wren.
This is such a strange request that Sonia accompanies me without question, following me onto the dance floor and slipping into a formal position better suited to a waltz than the music actually playing.
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.