Page 67 of Over Her Dead Body

New money looks around too much. It checks the ceiling height. It studies the art labels. It laughs at the host’s jokes one second too late. It wants someone to explain the rules while pretending it already knows them.

Martin did not look around.

He knew where the exits were. He knew which people mattered. He knew when to smile and when to let silence do the work for him.

He did not seem grateful to be included.

Even worse, Emma Calloway noticed.

Emma notices most things. It is why she is useful. She understands objects because she understands people pretending objects are only objects. A painting is never just a painting. A ring is never just a ring.

Neither is a client.

My phone lights beside the report.

I ignore it.

The report moves on.

The friend from Vienna may become a problem.

Friends are charming in theory. In practice, they create witnesses. They ask where you were. They remember what you said. They notice when a woman gives a business answer to a personal question.

Calloway gave one.

Possible lead. Private collection. Lisbon. Old family money. Messy estate. No public inventory.

I touch the line with one finger.

A lie with handles.

I read on.

Emma Calloway was the part I kept returning to.

Why was she at the party?

Not physically. Physically was easy. Women like Emma are invited into rooms like that because they know how to make expensive things sound inevitable. They give appetite vocabulary.

Emma knew better than to be enamored with the room.

That was one of her problems.

She knew too much to be comfortable and not enough to be powerful. She stood there anyway, doing what women like her are taught to do.

Smile. Assess. Behave.

Then Martin Hale walked in and made behaving harder.

My phone lights again.

Persistent. Unfortunate.

This time, I answer.

When I set the phone down, Martin Hale is still waiting on the page.

By 7:42 a.m., Martin Hale has a file.