Page 27 of The Bridesmaid

‘I’ll leave you to figure that out.’

I’m confused. This whole situation is confusing. ‘If I find you these sensitive documents, that is going to fill your Fall pages?’

‘If you bring me those documents,’ he says, ‘I’ll destroy the evidence you want destroyed.’

I stand. ‘I have to go,’ I tell him. ‘Adrianna Kensington’s driver is picking me up.’

Chapter Twenty-One

ADRIANNA

I’m in the leather-scented safety of my car, being driven to the Plaza for my fitting. Ophelia is sat across from me, keeping a respectful distance, since she has gauged my black mood. Ophelia is my emotional barometer.

‘I think my forehead is shiny,’ I say, catching a glimpse in the window reflection.

She darts across obediently, and powders. I relax under the sweep of the soft brush.

‘There,’ she says proudly. ‘Beautiful.’

Georgia organizes my schedule, and Ophelia organizes my feelings. I should probably treat her better, but something about her is like a puppy wanting to be kicked.

At school, Ophelia was an insipid chatterbox. Freckled pale skin and ordinary features. Somewhere along the way, she reinvented herself as one of New York’s most talented make-up artists, with a palette of primary-color make-up and designer jumpsuits. Her hair is a bright orange, faded to platinum blonde tips, in an artistry that speaks of a thousand-dollar-an-hour hairdresser.

The makeover never stopped her talking, though. Today it’s a high-speed stream of animated chatter about maximizingsecurity that matches her bright-colored geek-chic clothes.

She’s clearly freaking out after Simone’s death, but unable to voice her real feelings.

I nod along to the suggestion of doubling the bodyguards, my thoughts entirely elsewhere.

‘It’s OK not to be OK,’ Ophelia says earnestly, her freckled forehead crinkling.

‘I’m fine,’ I snap.

Ophelia nods in deep understanding, ever the willing emotional punchbag. She hesitates. ‘You’re really sure you want to go to Elysium two days early?’ Her voice sounds strained.

‘We’ll be safe there,’ I repeat. ‘Ten thousand miles of ocean between us and the crazy person who killed Simone.’

But even as I’m saying it, Mark’s words are coming back.

Are you sure you can trust your bridesmaids?

I press my lips together tightly.

Yes. I can trust my bridesmaids implicitly. None of them would want to hurt me. None of them would dare.

I see Ophelia react to something out on the street. Her eyes widen.

‘There’s Petra Morka,’ she says. ‘Outside that restaurant your dad likes.’

‘We’re picking her up,’ I explain, and I see Ophelia’s rainbow fingernails curl inward.

Even when she isn’t posing, Petra’s striking features draw the gaze. I wonder if Dad bought her the chunky gold necklace at her pale throat. A flash of rage burns and is gone.

‘Should we pretend we didn’t see her?’ I make the tone completely neutral, so I can spin it as a joke or not.

She giggles nervously. ‘Can youimagine?’ Her amber eyes aresparkling. ‘How angry she would be?’ There’s a wistful edge to her tone.

‘Let’s do it.’ I press the intercom button for the driver, walled away behind his glass panel. ‘Could you drive on, please? There’s been a change of plan. Petra doesn’t need a ride.’