Page 22 of The Bridesmaid
‘Look who’s about to get married to the man of her dreams.’
I open my social media and post, feeling the anxiety slip back as the picture loads. But as I scroll down my feed, my manicured finger hovers.
Just as I feared, the stories from three years ago are making a resurgence.
No ransom issued for Adrianna Kensington. Police fear worst.
My eyes track down several headlines from three years ago. Something about my wedding seems to be affecting the algorithm, giving these old features new life.
Day 3 Hunt: Police losing hope of finding 21-year-old Adrianna alive.
The terrible pictures still grab me right in the gut, even now. Me emerging from the room.
My eyes are glassy. Dead eyes. I don’t seem to have even noticed the crescendo of flash photography reflecting on my gaunt face. My dehydrated body is clad in a filthy ripped negligee, and I lean heavily on my dad’s stocky frame as he pushes aside journalists with an angry, outstretched hand.
I put a hand to my head, feeling out my long brown hair. It’s grown back now. When I got out, my famous curls had been hacked away. Cleaved to the scalp in places. Elsewhere, what littleshreds remained hung in dirty rats-tails.
I stare at the broken girl in the picture. My perfectly manicured nails glide over her tear-streaked face.
Another picture shows the room I’d just left. In the three days I was there, I felt like every square inch was familiar. But now I look, the bed seems smaller. The hanks of my long hair, which I had remembered littering the entire floor, are gathered in one corner.
Taking a breath, I force my gaze back to the pile of photography in my lap. To the images of the lovely girl getting married next week.
I pause on one. My perfect face, healthy, tanned, juxtaposed with the smiling bridesmaids. We are beautiful. Perfect.
Everybody wants to be us.
Before I can stop myself, I rip the picture clean in half, and scream.
Chapter Eighteen
PETRA
I emerge from the shower in one of the Kensington Club bedrooms. Leopold is on the bed, buttoning his shirt. The mirror with cocaine residue and a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill are still lying on the coffee table. He tucks the gun he always carries into his waistband.
‘Good coke, right?’ I nod toward the table.
‘Only the best for my clubs,’ he agrees.
‘Are you free this afternoon?’ I ask him. ‘It’s fun having you back in the city. You were away in LA so long.’
He blinks at me for a moment. ‘Didn’t Georgia tell you? The bridesmaid dress fitting got moved to today.’
‘She didn’t tell me.’ I rub at my hair with the towel, pushing up a wave of blonde spikes.
‘Probably slipped her mind,’ he says, nonchalantly.
I turn to hide my annoyance. Absolutely nothing slips Georgia Kensington’s brilliant mind unless she’s deliberately decided it will happen. Beneath the halo of dark curls, she’s every bit as smart and slick as her professional appearance suggests. Leopold always takes his youngest daughter’s side, so I’ve learned not to cause drama.
‘Why move the fitting?’ I ask.
‘Keep the media guessing, and tighter security. It will be easier tomanage the narrative of Simone’s murder if Adrianna isn’t getting papped at New York dress stores. You’re seeing your magazine editor later, right?’
‘I am. But I still don’t get it, Leopold,’ I tell him. ‘You really want me to leak details of Simone’s death? You’ve spent the last day making sure the story doesn’t get out.’
I pick up a hairdryer and a brush. Start blasting my short hair into its regular punkish style.
He sits on the bed. Checks his phone. ‘The best press is proactive, not reactive,’ he says, looking tired. ‘I can’t hide it forever. And you don’t leave silences. That causes speculation. Just drip a few details to your magazine editor today. Not too much. Let them dig around and think they’re clever. It makes for bigger coverage.’
