Page 14 of The Bridesmaid
Mark is watching me closely. His eyes drop to the circle of candles and flowers around the dresses. ‘You think that’s like a ritualistic thing?’ he asks nervously.
‘Could be,’ I admit. I look back at the photograph.
‘Could it be … like a warning to Adrianna?’
‘Why would you think it would be a warning?’ I catch my curving body and darkly painted eyes in one of the many mirrors.
‘Dri has enemies,’ admits Mark.
‘Like who?’
He makes a strange kind of laugh. ‘Let’s just say she likes to keep her enemies close.’ He avoids my gaze.
‘Mark,’ I say carefully. ‘You called me here to help you. But if you’re keeping something from me—’
He shakes his head quickly. ‘It isn’t that,’ he says. ‘I just … Sometimes I think Dri isn’t telling me everything.’
‘Do the police have a theory as to how the victim died?’ I ask, unable to bring myself to say her name just yet.
Mark nods slowly. ‘She was beaten with something heavy,’ he explains. ‘Multiple times. Close range. Likely she knew her attacker.’ He pauses.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘The police are working half on facts and half on media hearsay,’ he continues. ‘You know how Adrianna is portrayed by the media.’
I do. Adrianna Kensington is characterized as bratty, entitled and difficult, to use some of the nicer words.
Something occurs to me. ‘The pictures you sent to my phone were official hard copies from NYPD,’ I tell him. ‘Do you have their preliminary report?’
He hesitates.
‘I won’t ask how you got it,’ I add.
Mark breathes a halting sigh. ‘In my car. Parked out front.’
‘Can we get out of here?’ I ask. ‘I need to read the report and take a look at those pictures in daylight. I have a feeling the police have missed something important.’
Something about this whole scene doesn’t sit right at all, and I’m fairly sure the hard copy images and a shot of caffeine are going to bring it all into focus.
Chapter Twelve
ADRIANNA
My New York apartment has always felt like a safe space for me. It’s so high above Manhattan, I can see all the way to Brooklyn. A few years back, we had a company fit ballistic walls and floors. Maybe a little overkill, but like Dad says, it’s more about the message you send out. It’s three thousand square feet, polished resin white floors, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows and I’ve just had a spa room built, where I’m currently soaking my toes with my half-sister, Georgia.
I’ve been scrolling on my phone every minute since the police left.
‘Nothing about Simone’s death in the news?’ Georgia asks. As usual, she is immaculately styled, her Afro hair sculpted in a halo of glossed curls, dewy skin subtly contoured with expensive make-up. Like me, Georgia inherited Dad’s patrician nose, and large, slightly close-set eyes, but they look prettier in her warm brown shade than my deep-blue. Her slender legs are clad in soft gray jeans, rolled up at the ankle, and she wears a V-neck black chiffon blouse, open low to display a clutch of elegantly understated gold jewelry. Georgia’s mom is CEO of an African-American beauty brand, while mine was a blonde socialite. But there’s nomistaking we’re related, with Dad’s strong features and personality to match.
We are the same age – thanks to one of Dad’s short-lived affairs, that Mom always gracefully ignored. Georgia started Kensington Manor boarding school the same year as me. But to everyone’s surprise, we looked out for one another from the start.
My eyes track the headlines. I shake my head. ‘Dad kept it under wraps. The only thing I can find is reruns of the story from three years ago.’
Georgia sits up slightly, her narrow frame slanting forward. ‘From when you were kidnapped? Why are they running that?’
‘Because paparazzi are sick individuals, and because my wedding is coming up, they like to remind me of my lowest point.’
My finger zooms over the scrolling news tabs. Old stories.
