Page 28 of The Bridesmaid

‘Sure thing, Miss K.’

The car accelerates. Petra, who is watching the familiar limo expectantly, takes another step toward the road. Ophelia and I start laughing. Helpless schoolgirl giggles. But as the car reaches the end of the street, Ophelia wipes the corners of her eyes.

‘OK, we should go back now,’ she whispers, with a timid grin.

‘No way,’ I tell her. ‘Let her take a cab.’ The image of famous Petra Morka, being mobbed as she attempts to hail a New York cab, is too funny. But Ophelia’s face is grave.

‘Don’t,’ Ophelia’s face is strained. ‘She’ll beso mad. You know how she was at school.’

‘So? I’m not scared of Petra.’ I fold my arms, look forward, and pretend not to care. In the rear-view mirror I catch sight of Petra’s face, screwed up in rage. ‘Look at her,’ I say, trying to recapture our earlier moment. ‘She looks furious.’

‘Please, Dri.’ Ophelia is looking over her shoulder. ‘Please. She’ll get us back. She always gets her own back.’

‘She’s not the older girl anymore. She can’t do anything to us.’

Beside me, Ophelia is trembling. I relent and press the intercom.

‘Can you turn back around and get Petra,’ I say.

Ophelia sinks back, relieved.

We can both see Petra’s furious face now, as the car loops back toward her.

I take out my cell, and angle toward us.

‘We should have a picture. Two friends on the way to the fitting,’I decide, turning to highlight my cheekbones. As the happy girl smiles back at me, I feel the tension drain away.

‘Don’t you remember what Petra used todo?’ insists Ophelia quietly. ‘Those awful games. Saints and Sinners.’

I twist in surprise. It’s an unspoken rule that no one ever talks about what happened to us at school. What is she thinking?

I make a fake confused face. Just enough to signal she should drop the subject. Then replace the smile.

‘I really don’t remember,’ I say, pointedly. ‘Could you shuffle to the left?’ I add. ‘I actually think it would be better if this picture were just of me.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

HOLLY

Fitzwilliam and Ortiz have closed ranks, muttering about the legality of opening elevator service panels on private property. Fitzwilliam holds the key in a plastic evidence bag.

‘We need to get written permission from the hotel,’ says Ortiz. ‘And that needs to be applied for through the correct channels. It could take a day. If we’re lucky.’

‘The bridesmaids all fly out to Elysium this afternoon,’ Fitzwilliam points out. ‘We’ll be too late to make any arrests, if whatever Simone concealed helps the investigation.’

‘The key was left for me,’ I tell them. ‘I can open it.’

Fitzwilliam glances a little too openly at my blue hair and lip piercing. ‘This is police business, Holly,’ he says. ‘It’s a murder investigation.’

‘Firstly,’ I tell him, ‘as a civilian, I can open that panel right now, without the risk of losing my job. Secondly, how many elevators are in the Plaza? You don’t even know which elevator panel to open.’

‘She’s right,’ says Ortiz. ‘There must be at least twenty elevators in the public lobby. Plus service elevators.’

‘Are you saying you do know which elevator panel to open?’Fitzwilliam’s jaw juts forward petulently. ‘Because if you do, and you withhold that information—’

‘Then there’s nothing you can do about it, without arresting me and wasting a whole bunch of time.’ I put my hand out for the key.

Fitzwilliam glowers, moving the bag closer to his body. Ortiz snatches it cleanly from his grip and holds it out to me.