Page 16 of The Wedding Party

“Oh,” she says, her eyes going wide. “Of course you have. You’re an FBI agent.”

I suddenly wish we had told people I’m a schoolteacher. “I need to go change.”

“And you’ll come back?” Lana asks urgently.

Mentally I resist, but she really is remarkably insecure right now, so I concede. “Yes,” I agree. “I’ll be back.”

“I’m sorry again,” Carrie coos. “I feel horrible.”

I dismiss her worries. “Accidents happen.” I glance at Lana. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

“You want me to come with you?” she offers, almost eagerly, so much so I wonder why she’s here at all.

“No need,” I tell her. “Drink. Have fun.”

On that note, I hurry away and waste no time dumping the napkins on an empty serving tray set up by the bar exit. I enter the hotel lobby and rush up the red carpeted steps, and it’s not long before I’m on the second floor. Once I’m in my room, I say, “Hello, Elizabeth. I’m a mess. You won’t approve,” and then head to the bathroom.

Perhaps it’s crazy to talk to a nonexistent ghost, but probably less so than making a living by hunting real-life monsters.

Once I’ve changed into a black, lacy top and hung my wet blouse on the bathroom towel rack, I am halfway to the door when I pause just a moment. My mind replays the drink incident as I do with so many crime scenes and witness interviews. I focus on Natalie confronting me about being at the party, and the more I think about it, the odder it becomes. Her confrontation and my presence. She’s defensive with me, but also correct. I don’t know the bride or the bride’s family. But neither of these things is what is really bothering me. Carrie’s reaction to the exchange is what’s bothering me. I’m back to replaying those moments at the table. Carrie had shifted awkwardly, but right now I’m focused on the incident when she “accidentally” knocked her drink over on me.

There’d been a desperate look on her face at Natalie’s comment, a look that I’d been analyzing when her hand hit that glass and the icy-cold liquid soaked my blouse and skin.

I think about the look she wore and the lift of her hand. I think Carrie knocked that drink over on purpose, but with what endgame? To get rid of me or shut up Natalie?

Or perhaps, I think, both.

Chapter Fourteen

I’m still in my room rather than returning to the party, but not for long.

I’m not a person to be driven off. Furthermore, the more someone wants me gone because I’m a member of law enforcement—which is what Natalie’s confrontation indicates to me—the more I feel as if I need to be irritatingly present. If those things weren’t enough to convince me to return to the party, the fact that I’m Lana’s emotional support right now does. Divorce sucks. I’ve never lived it personally, but law enforcement tends to feed the demise of marriages, so I’ve been highly exposed to the drama and pain of those breakups.

I exit my room only to pause at the sight of a man to my left at the end of the hall, pacing back and forth.

As is just natural for me, I size him up. He’s a fit man, midthirties with dark hair. Tall. Over six feet, by my estimate, and wearing jeans, a polo shirt, and a whole lot of tension in his shoulders. I tell myself I’m not on duty and I need to ignore the man and the situation, but as I start to turn right toward the stairs, I find myself pausing. There is no real time off in law enforcement. There’s a sworn oath to protect and serve that I take seriously. And the bottom line here is that something bristles uncomfortably inside me at the idea of walking away from this man.

I walk toward him. He’s oddly unaware of my approach, and when I am all but on top of him, he jolts. “Holy hell,” he grunts. “You scared me.”

“I noticed,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

“Am I blocking your room?”

Considering he’s in front of the last door in the hallway and it’s the only door he’s blocking, I wonder, Which room is his room? “Actually, no,” I say. “You seemed out of sorts. I wanted to see if I can help.”

“I locked myself out of my room,” he explains. “I’m waiting impatiently for rescue.”

His room that he thought was my room? Obviously, I was bristling for a reason. “Is the front desk bringing you another key?” I ask.

“No, I’m expecting a business call any moment, and I can’t do anything until it’s over.”

“I can go for you,” I offer. “What room are you in?”

“No need,” he says quickly. “But thank you. I really can’t risk the aid arriving while I’m bumping heads with a client.”

He’s jittery, moving his fingers at his sides, but a work challenge while locked out of his hotel room could certainly explain his state of mind right now. I just want to know which room is his. Perhaps he’s standing at the end of the hallway to stay out of the walkway. It’s a semireasonable possibility.

Deciding that’s likely, I concede my position. “All right, then,” I say. “I hope the meeting goes well.” I back away from him and then start walking. Still the bristling sensation inside me just won’t let go, but I have no grounds to take action at all.