Chapter 2 - Ninety Seconds
The steel barriers stayed down for ninety seconds.
That was enough time to change the room.
Men who had watched me bleed suddenly understood the value of help.
“Everyone, step back.”
My father’s voice came through the ceiling speakers.
Calm.
Flat.
The voice he used when panic would get somebody hurt.
“Medical staff are entering through the service corridor.
Emergency egress remains available at the marked side doors.
Security will direct you.”
Grant pointed at me.
“My wife is having an episode.”
Nobody laughed this time.
A narrow service door opened.
Two guards entered with a paramedic between them.
Behind them came my father.
Daniel Bennett wore a dark suit, no tie, and the expression I remembered from the night a drunk driver killed my mother.
He looked at my mouth.
Then my torn sleeve.
Then Grant.
“You touched her?”
Grant tried a smile.
“Daniel, this is a private disagreement.”
My father stopped inches from him.
“You made it public.”
“Dad.”
I held up my phone.
The anger left his face so completely it scared me.
He turned to his security director, Mateo Ruiz.
“Find that room.
Call Detective Ortiz.
Tell her there may be a second victim.”
“Already on her way,” Mateo said.
Grant’s head snapped toward him.
“Police?”
My father faced the guests.
“The barriers are reopening.
Please cooperate with officers when they arrive.
No one is being asked to surrender a phone.
No one is to delete any recordings.”
Steel rose behind him.
Cold night air rushed into the ballroom.
People moved toward it.
Grant caught my wrist.
Not hard enough to leave a mark this time.
“Nora,” he whispered, “you have no idea what you’re doing.”
I looked down at his hand.
My father did too.
Grant let go.
The paramedic guided me into a chair.
“What’s your name?”
“Nora Mercer.”
“Any trouble breathing?”
“Only when I remember I married him.”
She didn’t smile.
Neither did I.
Grant leaned toward my father.
“You don’t own this place.”
My father’s eyes stayed on me.
“Yes,” he said.
“I do.”
That landed harder than the barriers.
For seven years, Grant had treated the Bennett estate as a rented stage for his success.
He had never asked who owned the company behind the lease.
Men like Grant rarely looked beneath things they believed were theirs.
Mateo’s radio crackled.
“Basement storage.
We found the chair.”
I stood too fast.
The paramedic caught my elbow.
“Is she there?” I asked.
A pause.
Then another voice.
“No woman.
There’s blood on the floor.”
My phone vibrated again.
May you like
This time, the message contained only six words.
TELL YOUR FATHER TO CHECK THE KITCHEN.
