Page 3 of The Bridesmaid

‘Says he’s got a package he can only give to you directly,’ confirms the officer.

I turn to see a man in a liveried uniform looking in my direction. Tapping my lip piercing distractedly, I head toward him.

‘Any thoughts on the victim before you flee the scene?’ shouts Howard, cupping his hands and shouting after me.

‘Blood arc is oval,’ I shoot back. ‘High-pressure exit. Consistent with a left ventricle wound, right-handed killer. My client is left-handed. And the shoes were put on the victim after he died. Your perp probably stole the victim’s sneakers and left barefoot. Get to Sneakerheads on Upper East today, you might catch them selling them on.’

‘You’re wasted in a private law firm,’ Howard calls back. ‘When are you going to join the good guys, Holly?’

‘When you let me keep my piercings in and choose my own hours.’

The delivery guy wears a box-fresh tan shirt emblazoned with the crown logo of his company, and looks very out of place in the dark alley. The morning sun is coming up, lighting him from behind like an angel of destiny.

I recognize the branding on his shirt. His company delivers ultra-secure, ultra-valuable items, with a price-tag to match. My law firm uses them occasionally for State documents. But never to employees.

I swallow uncertainly. He’s holding a black cardboard box – the same size as one of the heavy legal books that form a jerry-rigged nightstand in my walk-up apartment.

Legal documents? They come in envelopes.

‘Holly Stone?’ he asks.

‘That’s me.’ My eyes drop to the box. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

He looks uncomfortable. ‘I went to your apartment first. Your room-mate told me you’d been called out to a crime scene.’

‘But how …?’

‘My client was extremely clear, these must only be delivered to you personally. Would you mind looking into the display?’ he asks. ‘Face recognition.’

I wait motionless until he nods, then lowers the device.

‘Never seen such a high-tech security before,’ I say conversationally. ‘Couldn’t risk this falling into the wrong hands, huh?’ I add. His eyes follow my black-painted fingernails as I take the box.

‘Let me get you a tip,’ I tell him.

He raises his hands, appalled. ‘No. No. That’s all taken care of.’

I frown. I’ve never known a delivery guy to refuse a tip before.

‘Are you sure, because …’

He shakes his head so vehemently I wonder if I’ve offended him.

‘The tip is included in the delivery,’ he says, backing away. ‘And perhaps mention to your apartment block manager that there are some … drugs people … junkies … outside on the street. You probably don’t want them hanging around your building.’

‘That’s Burt and Emerson,’ I assure him. ‘They’ve been there forever. Never cause any trouble unless their methadone scripts get refused.’

He retreats, with an uncertain expression. I lever off the top of the box, taking extra care, since the contents could be valuable. Growing up in a shabby tenement, my quiet anxiety of damaging something expensive has never quite gone away.

But as the contents are revealed, I see to my surprise it isn’t documents.

There’s another box inside emblazoned with two names, picked out in foiled curling golden letters.

Adrianna & Mark

I stare at them for a moment.

Adrianna Kensington, famous nightclub heiress and her millionaire fiancé, Mark Li.