Page 47 of Over Her Dead Body

His ruined hand is visible.

The report lies open beside him, turned to the final page.

His signature is visible too.

That matters.

At 7:16 p.m., the photograph goes out to everyone assigned to watch Emma Calloway at the gallery.

No caption.

No explanation.

Just a little editorial guidance.

I watch the read receipts appear.

By 7:20 p.m., everyone has gotten the message.

By the time Emma arrives, no one needs reminding to pay attention.

CHAPTER 18

EMMA

Pilates Todd looks exactly like his profile, which is rarer than it should be.

He meets me outside the gallery fifteen minutes late, tan, handsome, and apologetic in the loose way of people who assume forgiveness is already on its way.

“You look nice,” he says.

“So do you.”

He glances down at himself. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“Neither was I, and this is technically my job.”

He laughs because he thinks I’m joking.

Inside, the gallery is already full. Champagne. Low music. Women in black. Men in suits expensive enough to suggest either generational wealth or interesting debt.

Three people look over when I walk in.

Not stare. Nothing dramatic. Just a glance, then away.

Still, I have the sudden, irrational certainty that I have something in my teeth.

Or toilet paper on my shoe.

Or Lisbon written across my forehead in lipstick.

Todd looks around. “So this is a work thing?”

I spot Celeste by the bar, in her element. “This is everything.”

Todd smiles.

It wasn’t meant to be funny.