Page 15 of The Bridesmaid

Society heiress kidnapped

Billionaire heiress snatched

Party girl Adrianna taken

‘How are the other bridesmaids taking the news?’ I ask Georgia.

‘They think your crazy kidnapper is on a killing spree, and they’re freaking out,’ she says. ‘Just like I am. Dri, do you really think—’

‘I’m not calling the wedding off,’ I tell her, holding up my hands. ‘I’m not letting a murdererwin.’

She nods briefly, accepting the fact, but unhappy still. ‘I just wonder …’ She hesitates. ‘Dad picked Simone to spy on us, right? All those questions she asked.’

I nod slowly. ‘Maybe,’ I agree. ‘Simone wasn’t exactly part of the crew.’

‘She was a Kensington Manor School girl,’ Georgia points out.

‘Yeah … but. Scholarship. And older. Left before we even got there. She didn’t go through what we all did.’ I give a little shake, dislodging the memories. ‘Talk work to me,’ I tell Georgia. ‘You know that’s your happy place.’

This elicits a small smile. ‘True,’ she agrees. ‘OK. We got the pictures back from the bridal swim shoot,’ Georgia says, handing me a sheaf of color print-outs. ‘We edited Simone out. Journalists are bound to wonder why.’

‘Let them wonder.’ My bridesmaids and I stand in a perfectly choreographed semi-circle, with carefully contrasted heights, hair colors, and bathing suits. We look like a bikini-clad girl band, our postures and facial expressions suggesting a varied range of feminine personas.

I’m in the center, naturally. Lean, tanned, in a white bikini with cut-outs. My chestnut curls have been artfully tousled, to give a carefree beach vibe. I leaf through, noting Georgia’s mark-ups.

Five women smile out from the picture. We’re all old schoolfriends. In theory at least.

Silky, a dark-haired arthouse film-maker, is the only bridesmaid I’d consider a friend. Next to her, freckled Ophelia works a kooky look, to match her career as celebrity make-up artist. Petra’s long limbs and sharp cheekbones supply the supermodel credentials. And finally, Georgia. Her voluminous curls are side-parted, and captured at an angle that complements her small jaw. She bears the slightly shocked expression of someone who doesn’t naturally pose for photos.

I look back at the image. Five bridesmaids. Down to four. Me. All ready for release.

‘None of them look as though they like me,’ I say, putting myfinger on what bothers me about the pictures. ‘But … I guess it’s a solid line-up. Let’s just get out to Elysium.’

Georgia turns to look at me, her large brown eyes owlish. ‘Dri,’ she says gently, ‘pretty pictures don’t mean everything is OK. You can’t just bury your head in the sand. Figuratively,’ she adds, lifting her large phone, scrolling social media.

As I glance at her screen, a familiar headline flashes up. The story that went viral all around the world, three years ago.

‘Georgia!’

She lowers the large screen. ‘It just popped up,’ she says. ‘I didn’t search it, I swear.’

My eyes are locked on her screen.

The Killing Code - Three Dresses

Three bloody dresses found where Adrianna was snatched.

Then the picture. Me. Three years ago.

Adrianna Escapes Torture Room

Bloodied, bruised, with her long hair hacked away, Kensington heiress escapes with her life.

Chapter Thirteen

HOLLY

New York’s tall buildings have retained the slow heat of yesterday. It’s only as Mark and I get deeper into the green heart of Central Park that the peanut and traffic-scented air breaks into something a little fresher.