Page 45 of It Happened on a Sunday
“She was joking, Moises. Trying to keep the crowd in check.”
“Exactly. Which means if you don’t say something, they’re going to assume she’s running this show and you’re just along for the ride.”
“So?” Far be it from me to lie to the people.
“So, if you don’t control the narrative, the presswill. And you won’t like how they spin it, Mr. Caught-in-the-spider’s-web.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I’ve had press attention before. I’ve had fans show up at my house. But Sloane? She’s playing in a whole different league, and I don’t even know the rules.
“WhatshouldI say, then?” He looks surprised but also so relieved by the question that I have to laugh. “Did you honestly think I was going to fight you on this?”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he admits as he sinks down onto the padded bench next to me. “Sometimes I forget how reasonable you are. Start with a joke. Something self-deprecating if they ask about the jumbotron. Then say you’re looking forward to the date. Keep it kind, positive, complimentary. You don’t want to look like you’re pissed about it—especially not after what happened at the concert.”
“I’m not pissed. I’m…concerned.”
“Good. Let that show. Just keep the anger part under wraps. That part’s mine to manage.”
He’s half joking. Barely.
“If I’m going to be fine, why do you look so nervous?” I ask as he reaches out to adjust my already centered tie.
“Because we’re talking about the Black Widow herself. I have no idea what’s going to happen when reporters come at you, exceptsomeone’sgoing to try to make a meal out of you—and Ihighly doubt it’s going to be Sloane. In fact—”
He breaks off as both our phones chime at the same time.
“Well, that can’t be good,” Moises mutters as he pulls his out.
I take mine out as well to see that Marquis has sent me another video.
This one is titledSloane Is Already Wild About Sly and We’ll Get Into It.
I’ve never clicked something so fast in my life.
It starts like the others—crowd screaming, chanting “Sloaney” so loud that they drown out the artist they paid who knowshowmuch to see. But it’s from a different angle than the others I’ve seen. Whoever is filming is clearly on Sloane’s left, which gives us both a clear shot of her being struck on the left cheek.
I wince. So does the woman filming.
“Oh shit! That’s not okay,” she says. Her camera pans down to the stage floor and the thing that hit Sloane.
It takes me a few seconds to register what I’m seeing. It’s a doll dressed to look like the Black Widow, with a knife stuck through her chest.
A knife that has a crude rendering of the Twisters logo drawn on its hilt.
My whole body goes cold, then hot, then ice-cold again. I can barely hear the rest of the video over the roaring in my ears.
As I try to wrap my head around what I just saw, the video goes on to talk about Sloane’s expressions and how different they are from normal—all proof that she’s “wild about me.” But I’m not paying attention anymore. Instead, I’m staring at that damn doll still lying on the stage, wondering who the hell threw it and why the hell they thought they had the right to do so.
“Do you see it?” I demand.
“A weapon with a Twisters logo used to murder a Sloane Walker doll,” Moises says, his normally well-modulated tone climbing into panic.
“A threat,” I shoot back.
“To her. And to us,” he agrees, standing up without even bothering to brush off his suit pants, which is a first for our PR manager if I’ve ever seen one. “It looks like we both have our work cut out for us.”
He heads for the exit, then pauses just before he walks out. “Please, for the love of God, remember what I said.”
