“It’s about the murder of Mariel Valconsuelo,” answered the police officer; and that single word, murder, echoed through the room like a gunshot. Avery saw Neil Landry lean forward, his nostrils flaring in anticipation. Well, of course. Perfect Avery Fuller being questioned about a murder might be the start of a very good story.
The police officer folded his hat respectfully in his hands. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Fuller. We would like to hear what your daughter has to say on this matter.”
“Out of the question,” Avery’s dad said smoothly. “She can’t talk, today of all days. It’s the inauguration ball! If you really need Avery’s testimony, you can come back with a subpoena.”
Avery found her voice at last. “I don’t mind,” she whispered, and rose to her feet, still holding tightly to the napkin as if it were a good-luck charm. “I don’t know anything about Mariel or about her death, but if there’s any way I can be helpful, I am happy to try.”
Pierson relented, though he still didn’t seem pleased. “All right,” he conceded. “But let me get Quiros for you. You shouldn’t have to answer any questions without our lawyer present.”
Avery nodded and followed the policemen out the door, trying to project a self-assurance that she didn’t feel.
She had plenty that she wanted to keep hidden—about Eris’s death, her relationship with Atlas, and most of all, what Mariel had done to Leda that night on the beach in Dubai.
Soon enough, everyone might discover that perfect Avery Fuller wasn’t so very perfect after all.
CALLIOPE
CALLIOPE GLOWED WITH palpable happiness as she walked with Brice into city hall, pulling her gown to one side so it wouldn’t catch on her heels. It was a deep purple—the color of royalty, of course—made of a glorious lithe satin that clung to her waist before falling in dramatic folds down to her strappy black stilettos. Next to her, Brice looked brooding and aloof and devastatingly handsome.
“I’m so glad you decided that you could come tonight after all,” Brice said warmly.
At first Calliope thought there was no way she could come to the ball. It was too high-profile and conspicuous, too flagrant a violation of the rules she should be living by; and besides, Nadav and Elise would be here. Yet in a shocking twist of events, Calliope’s deliverance had actually come from Livya.
Livya had woken up this morning sick and clammy with a fever. She had begged her daddy to please stay home and take care of her. It made no sense to Calliope; everyone knew that room comps were equipped with a full suite of medical products, and could just as easily monitor a sick person or feed them soup. But of course, Nadav agreed to stay by Livya’s side all night, like the smothering parent he was.
The moment she knew for certain that Nadav and Elise weren’t coming, Calliope had messaged Brice. I think I can sneak out, if you want to go to the inauguration ball.
Sneak out! For shame, Brice had replied, and she could practically see the amusement glinting in his eyes. I’ve been a terrible influence on you, Calliope Brown, and you should turn me away while there’s still hope for you. If you can. I’m usually quite difficult to get rid of.
Don’t even try to take credit for my behavior, she had replied, smirking. I was breaking rules long before I met you.
She was glad, now, that she had decided to come. City hall took up multiple levels of the Tower, spanning the 432nd to 438th floors. It was a tangled warren of administrative offices and shabby board rooms, the entire thing dominated by an enormous domed foyer at its center, and its crowning glory: a curved observation deck that perched at the top of the dome, looking directly out at the sky.
This must be the very first black-tie function ever held here. The Tower itself was less than two decades old, yet these midTower public spaces seemed to have aged more rapidly than the rest of the structure. There was already something faded and scuffed about city hall, as if it had been lived in too aggressively.
Tonight, though, the entire place was transformed into an enchanted fairyland. Every last centimeter was spangled and tech’d out to perfection: the flagstones of the foyer were covered in crimson carpets, printed in an interlocking F monogram. The walls had been lined in a hologram of waving gold banners, scattered with occasional vid-clips of Pierson Fuller. And flowers, there were so many flowers, piled into perfect globes that hovered over every table. As Calliope moved with Brice through the room, a progression of faces flashed past like lights flickering on and off; all painted with makeup and treated with DNA longevity treatments, all animated by the same weary excitement. It felt a bit like a wedding, as if Mr. Fuller was making a lifelong commitment to something. Probably to his own ambition.
To one side of the room, Calliope saw Avery talking to a group of reporters. She couldn’t help thinking that there was a tempestuous heat to Avery’s beauty tonight—as if beneath her bright-gold exterior, she was coming rapidly untethered.
A photographer walked past and lifted an image-renderer to snap a pic of them, but Calliope quickly ducked aside. She couldn’t afford photographic evidence of her and Brice. She was risking enough just being here.
Though even if Nadav’s friends did see her, Calliope wasn’t sure they would actually recognize her. Wearing this dramatic low-cut gown, her hair tumbling sexily over one shoulder, Calliope looked nothing like the frumpy, morose creature she had been at her mom’s wedding. She felt utterly like herself again.