“It’s a podcast company.” Jamie smiled pleasantly. “You know, the future of journalism.”
The security man shrugged. “Whatever you are, you’re on the list.” He pointed at me, giving my jeans and sweater a once-over. “She your plus-one?”
“My assistant,” Jamie said smoothly, and the words worked like magic. The security guard immediately dismissed me. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “Next.”
The party was concentrated in an enormous marble-floored room with high windows, a space that reminded me of a Regency ballroom. Except it was lined with mounted TV cameras, all facing a stage they’d set up for the governor’s announcement. I could tell immediately where the governor was because a crowd thronged around him. When the bodies shifted, I caught a glimpse of him: smooth-skinned, hair coiffed like a helmet, broad shoulders encased in an immaculate tuxedo. Even more handsome than he looked on TV.
“Over there,” Jamie whispered. “That’s the head of the DNC, talking to the New York City mayor.”
I looked at all the dressed-up people, taking a moment to let the enormity of what Don had accomplished sink in. All of upper-crust New York was here. In the crowd, I spotted the familiar face of the Lieutenant, standing next to a woman I recognized as his wife. I whipped my head down.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie hissed.
“Michael Corbin.” I nodded in his direction.
Jamie’s eyes gleamed. “I hope they’re all here. Every last one of them, with their families and friends.”
I scanned the crowd. No Laurel or Don. But there, in the corner near the string quartet, was Reginald Carruthers, in a tuxedo with tails. A woman about his age had her arm twined through his—maybe his wife.
Jamie gripped my shoulders. “Are you ready? You find Laurel, and I’ll call my team?”
I looked down. One of Jamie’s knee was shaking. “Are you ready?”
He swallowed. “I’m scared, to be honest. But I don’t know what else to do. My team will send the evidence to the feds once the episode is out, and I’ll call them myself, tell them there’s people in immediate danger. Find her fast, okay? Fast, then out.”
“Okay.”
He leaned forward and caught my face, kissing me on the forehead. “If she doesn’t want to come,” he murmured, “leave her.” Then he turned, and I watched him knife through the crowd.
With Jamie gone, I moved slowly, keeping a careful eye on the people around me, searching for pale hair and paler skin. It occurred to me: if Laurel wasn’t at the party, she might still be getting ready, planning some big entrance. She might be alone somewhere in the mansion.
With one last glance at the Lieutenant and Marquis, I slipped out of the ballroom and into the hallway I recognized, the one that led to the basement. I needed to go in the opposite direction—upstairs, where the bedrooms would be. Did Laurel have her own, or did she share with Don? Was it true they were practically married?
The promise of her drew me forward. Once more, I was Sleeping Beauty, moving by instinct, hand outstretched toward the spindle. I wondered how long it would take to find her, when every turn pushed me farther into the maze of this sprawling place, and every new wall jolted me with pieces of art so perfectly in Don’s taste they felt haunted, like he was inside them, watching. I came to a fork in the hall and chose left instead of right. Turned, and froze.
I faced an open door—a room with nothing but an enormous painting, covering the expanse of a wall. In it, a beautiful woman with long hair the color of moonlight, falling into the arms of a tall, black-cloaked figure, its hood hiding its face. Two skeletal hands snaked from the figure’s cloak, gripping the woman by the waist.
I took a staggering step forward, transfixed.