by Jessica King
Ivy tapped her fingers on the velvet armrest. “Just be ready to draw.” Ivy radioed the balconies, and the security officers returned that all was clear.
Vince’s eyes grew wide, and Ivy knew immediately what had happened. “Who do you see?” she asked.
“The Rock!” Vince said, trying to contain his excitement by clenching his teeth. He pattered his feet against the floor, which was probably the most un-police thing she’d ever seen him do, which was saying something.
“No way,” Ivy said.
“Your seven o’clock,” Vince said. “I’ll look down.”
He looked pointedly at the floor, and Ivy turned over her shoulder, trying not to whip around in her seat, taking the most casual look she possibly could before shaking Vince. “That is the Rock!”
“I know!”
Ivy took a deep breath. “Watching the crowd.” She scanned the slowly filling auditorium, trying not to tell Vince every star she recognized.
“I’m watching. I’m watching,” he said. “Should we radio chief about this, though?”
“No!” Ivy said, trying to contain a smile, though it quickly faded when she once again saw Agent Shea standing against the wall, smiling politely, but calmly, at the herd of celebrities as they made their way to their seats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday, February 26, 2017, 7:42 p.m.
He was ready. He could do this.
He had to be. When he’d received a message to the number that he was only supposed to use to send the elimination text, he decided to write out how to best care for his fish, in case he didn’t come back.
If you don’t follow through, you’ll be a WIP.
He didn’t want to ever meet the person on the other side of that message. Staring in the mirror, he scrubbed at his face. He’d come this far, hadn’t he? He’d done the hard part, getting into the Oscars. Everything was set up just so in order to escape when it was done.
He’d had to be a bit unconventional about the card labeling Aline as a Kingsmen kill, but he’d managed. The toilet flushed, and he smiled at the man who whispered, “Excuse me.” He waited for the man to wash his hands and leave, busying himself with a fake text message. As the door swung closed, he reached under the sink to where the counter and wall met and felt for the small bag. Two bullets. That’s all he’d get. That’s all he’d have time for.
And hopefully, he’d only need one.
+++
Sunday, February 26, 2017, 7:50 p.m.
“Miss Knox,” a man’s voice said, and she turned. The man standing next to her wasn’t particularly tall or particularly in shape or particularly…young. She leaned back on her wobbling high heels.
“Sorry?” Reaghan said.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the man said. “I’m Chief Marks, I head up the LAPD, I believe you met a few of my detectives the other day.” His eyes now shifted to her bodyguard, who had thankfully chosen the right moment to reappear from the bathroom.
He nodded to her, then to the chief. Chief Marks pulled out his badge to show to each of them in turn, and a few of the stars milling about eyed her suspiciously. Her bodyguard shifted to try to block the conversation from general view. She felt the horrific blush starting to redden her around her neck and ears. She would blotchy in moments.
“I’ve pulled a few strings to sit with you all today.”
“Okay, yes, perfect,” she said. “Would you mind putting that away, though?” she said, nodding to the badge. “You’re drawing a few unwanted looks. Rumors fly around this world,” she said, waving her hands around her hair, which was piled up on the top of her head, and motioning to the room.
“Of course,” Chief Marks said. “I was interested, though, about your connection with a friend of mine who’s here tonight.” Reaghan didn’t have time for this.
“Is Detective Hart here?” she asked impatiently. Her celebrity crush was at the bar—the only truly well-lit area of the ornately decorated room, and she was about ready to make a break from the cop.
“No, well, yes, she’s here. But I mean Agent Connell Shea.”
Her head snapped back to the chief, whose eyes were sparkling with amusement. The LAPD was on a mission to torture her, apparently.
“Why’s he here?” she snapped.
“Is there any chance that you could tell me, Miss Knox?” The chief smiled at her, and his voice added bit of a Southern drawl to his words, making them slow and tactile in a way she wished she could cover with a dense blanket.
“For the love of—” She gritted her teeth. “Look, I talked to your detectives already, and why my ex-boyfriend is here is literally beyond me.” She shook her head, and felt a curl falling out of place. “Sorry, I need to fix this,” she said, putting the curl back in place with her fingers. “The clips are in my bag,” she said to the bodyguard, who handed her a black clutch pocked with rhinestones.
She made a quick escape to the little hallway leading to the restrooms. The wallpaper had all sorts of writing on it that reminded her of college bar bathrooms until she saw the names: some of the greatest actors from the past several decades had signed in Sharpie or lipstick or pencil. A patchwork collection of talent.
“Miss Knox?” said a familiar British accent.
“Oliver?” she said. She turned, squinting in the low light of the hallway. Oliver was shaking water from his hands. “Reaghan, please,” she said, flashing him a smile.
“Well, Reaghan, how’re you doing?” He looked up at her from beneath straight eyebrows that made him look mischievous. “Big night, innit?”
Reaghan’s shoulder’s slumped, and she wished her heels weren’t so high so she could look him in the eyes. The fact that she’d agonized for hours over which shoes she wanted to wear and now felt that she’d chosen incorrectly made her unbearably angry. “My hair is causing me a bit of grief, if I’m being honest.” Her voice sounded breathy in her ears, and she realized, cringing, that she was trying to sound dainty, like Aline.
He waved a hand, his famous collection of decorative rings flashing from the light of the bar. “You look beautiful, if I do say so myself.” He leaned back into the wall, curving himself against it, showing off a lean frame. “Wish I could do my hair up like that,” he said, grinning and pointing to his own hair, which was split in a strict part, the front of his hair curling into one twist that fell over his forehead with boyish charm.
She felt the blush creeping back and hoped it didn’t show too terribly. “Well, thank you,” she said, noticing the twenties look of his outfit. “Are you here tonight with…?”
“Aline,” he said, jerking a thumb back toward the crowd. “Like me to grab her?” he asked.
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “Ah,” she looked down at her toes, which were tucked behind a series of sparkling straps. “I’m afraid I do have a bit of hard feelings toward her. I was hoping to land that role co-starring with you.”
“Ah, yes!” Oliver said, running his hands through his hair, a motion that amazingly didn’t disturb its placement whatsoever. “I heard you had auditioned! I’m sure you were brilliant, darling.” When he said “darling,” it sounded like “dalling,” and Reaghan loved it.
“Thank you,” she said. “Lovely of you to say.” She started to angle herself toward the restroom, feeling more pieces falling out of place.
Oliver seemed to take the hint and raised his glass in her direction. “Try the little seashell soaps. They smell absolutely divine!”
Reaghan dispensed one more dazzling smile before running into the restroom. She squared her shoulders. It didn’t matter that she’d been at the Oscars for all of five minutes before her involvement in a possible murder that hadn’t even happened was questioned again and that her handsome non-co-star had run into her; it would still be her night.
She opened the clutch and fished out a series of pins, pressing them into her hair until they rested along her scalp. “Good,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Perfect,” she c
orrected herself. She would be perfect. She walked back out and mingled, avoiding returning to the police chief for as long as possible.
A man who had introduced himself as Chief Marks had meandered over to them. “Ivy and Vince said your seats look all good,” he said in a low voice.
“Wonderful,” Aline said. “I’ll—” She seemed to search the air for a moment before realization returned to her. She looked at Oliver. “Could I use your phone to text that to Emily?” He handed his phone to her and she smiled gratefully.
Oliver chuckled, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Her handler’s just about ready to have a heart attack.”
“That’s a lovely piece you’ve got there,” Chief Marks said, pointing to Oliver’s hip.
“Wha—Oh! Thank you. It’s a prop piece, obviously” Oliver said, showing off the shining Smith and Wesson ’19 model. He lowered his voice. “Stole it off the Truly Twenties set when I went to visit Aline last day of shooting. I knew we were going to be going in twenties garb for tonight though—wanted to look like a real mobster after playing the good guy in that indie film.”
“Well, I wish I could get my hands on one of those,” the chief said. “Those are beautiful pieces. The stuff I carry,” he said, motioning to his own hip, “is just clunky.” The chief’s eyes locked onto the ivory pommel with longing.
“I’m sure that does the job, though,” Oliver said, laughing. “I’m just trying to look pretty.” He struck a pose, and a few people around him laughed.
Aline giggled at his side, remembering her instructions to him earlier that day. “Well you’re doing a lovely job,” Aline said, though her smile dropped the instant she looked up from the phone to see the fake gun’s barrel pointed in her direction. Aline pushed it aside.
Oliver, not noticing how the prop had been positioned, apologized when he noted the fading color of her skin. Chief Marks bid them goodbye, and Aline felt herself say goodbye, even as her attention latched onto the gun at his side. A real, modern weapon made to kill. Then she was suddenly locking eyes with bodyguards all over the room armed with guns. There were so many guns in the immediate area, and there would be even more in theatre.
“Aline?”
She turned to Oliver and shook her head. “Should we have come here?” she asked, feeling a shaky panic she’d been suppressing skitter through her body. “Should we have come? We could leave,” she said.
It was so dark in the room, barely lit for the purpose of elegance, that they might not even be noticed if they slipped out of the room. Inga was saying hello to another bodyguard, and Aline tried to speak silently with her eyes.
“Hey,” Oliver said, pressing his hands over her shoulders. “We can if you want, but are you sure?”
“Just seeing a gun,” she said. “I’d been trying to keep a brave face for everyone and all, but—” She didn’t realize her fingers had gone cold as ice until Oliver moved his hands to hers.
“But you’re a good actress, and no one knew you were scared.”
“And now I’m very scared,” she whispered. The headpiece matching her flapper dress itched against her head and she suddenly wished to be watching the Oscars from home, like she had last year, back when no one was labeling her as a witch to be slaughtered because she believed in magic.
Last year, when she was in sweatpants instead of a heavy dress. Inga finally caught her eyes, and he was by her side in a moment, waiting for her to say what she needed.
“Up to you,” Oliver said, “but I remember how much you wanted to come here this morning. I don’t want you to regret leaving, especially when you have such a good chance at winning.” He shook his head. “It’s a dream to get an Oscar this early in your career—could you imagine?” He put a finger under her chin, pushing it up. “But, if you go home, you will still win the Oscar. They’ll present it to you later. Just because you’re not here doesn’t mean you don’t win.”
Aline looked around the room, the pictures of past Oscar winners accepting their award and images from films she’d admired all her life sat proudly in dimly lit frames. She could act brave for a few more hours. She would be brave.
She squared her shoulders, wiping emotion off her face with a single blink of her eyes. “I want to stay.”
Inga nodded once, though he didn’t leave her side again for the rest of the party.
Oliver smiled, one side of his mouth tilting up higher than the other. “All right then. Let’s win some awards, yeah?”
Aline nodded.
+++
Sunday, February 26, 2017 9:25 PM
About an hour into the show, Red Vines and Junior Mints rained down from the sky attached to mini parachutes—much to the glee of the attendees, and Ivy’s mouth watered as the people around her dug in. She wouldn’t be distracted now, but she made a mental note to buy candy later.
“All’s clear, all’s clear.” Joyce’s voice. Saying it twice was how she was to tell Ivy over the radio they shared with Agent Shea that she was still confident Agent Shea was no danger to Aline. Balcony’s clear twice was the signal that Agent Shea was on the move, but everything seemed uneventful so far.
“Anything on the mezzanines?” Ivy asked. She’d gotten permission to leave the radio the employees used to talk on low during the show, and they’d been fairly quiet so far. She got an “All clear” from several of the ushers, who sounded unsure, not recognizing the voice on the other side.
She and Vince were on either side of Aline, Oliver on Ivy’s other side. Aline fidgeted, but otherwise seemed absorbed in the show, laughing alongside the other stars, cheering and crying and clapping at every cue.
She found herself constantly turning toward Agent Shea, who eventually saw her once, and offered a tiny thumbs up from where his arms were crossed in front of him. Ivy fought turning around again for at least five minutes. If he kept seeing her look, it might tip him off that they knew something. If he really was planning to make a move, which she still wasn’t sure about. She tapped her fingers against her dress and pretended to laugh at a joke she didn’t hear.
“All’s clear, All’s clear.”
The winners for directing had just been announced when Ivy heard Joyce’s voice in her ear. “Balcony’s clear, balcony’s clear.” She whipped her head around, seeing Agent Shea walking toward a far door.
A reel showing past winners rolled, the darkness making the agent’s back flash in different lights. The winner of the previous year’s Best Actor and another woman walked out onstage. Jennings Ford. They’d pulled countless strings to have her carry the Oscars, let alone to bring them out earlier than usual. But Jennings looked as regal as anyone in the room, and she faced the crowd, who were too polite to mumble that the awards were supposed to brought out after the winner had been announced. Her eyes were searching for someone she’d never seen. Someone who thought she was dead.
“Is that—” Oliver asked from her side, but Ivy didn’t have the time to discuss which actress Jennings resembled.
“These actresses are brilliant because they are no longer themselves. They become entirely their characters, and we thank them for that beauty,” said the actor onstage.
“Why’s he leaving?” Vince asked, leaning across Aline to whisper to Ivy. She shook her head.
Aline’s eyes grew wide. She slid down in her seat, and Ivy rested a comforting hand on her leg. Aline gasped as a clip of herself in her most recent film played on the screen in front of her.
“Balcony’s clear, balcony’s clear. Left door.” Joyce’s voice. It was a hardly hidden code, and Ivy wondered why Agent Shea wasn’t saying anything.
“What’s going on?” Aline whispered, but Ivy didn’t respond to her.
Vince followed her gaze to the back-left door, still a clear enough shot for a good shooter.
The type of shooter good enough to shoot through the memory of a phone.
“Vince,” she said.
Vince slid out of his seat, moving lightly across the floor to the side aisle.
>
“Knox just got up,” Chief Marks’ voice now grumbled across the radio.
He didn’t know the code. Agent Shea put his hand on his hip. His gun.
“Vince, Joyce, go. Go now.” It took all her willpower not to yell it.
“On it,” Vince’s voice.
Ivy whipped around in her seat as more clips rolled and Reaghan simply stood by the wall…changing her shoes to a pair of flats. She flashed a goofy smile to one of her friends nearby. She’d chickened out of her heels after tripping onstage the previous year, changing into flats, even though it left her dress dragging on the floor.
Ivy looked at Aline whose eyes were saucer wide as the actor onstage prepared to announce the winner.
“And the Oscar goes to…” Paper crinkled into the microphone as the actor opened the envelope.
Aline looked at Ivy quickly, one last check to make sure she could go onstage.
“With Shea,” came the confirmation from Vince.
Ivy nodded. “Go,” she mouthed. She looked toward the back of the theatre, where a quick flash of light signaled that the door leading out to the lobby had been opened—Vince and Joyce removing Agent Shea. She turned to Chief Marks, who was still staring at Reaghan and her bodyguard.
“Aline Rousseau!”
The crowd broke into applause and Aline ascended the stage stairs, her hands cupped over her mouth, her smile still visible in her eyes.
“He’s saying he didn’t recognize Jennings and thought she might try to make a move onstage!” Vince said through the earpiece. That was valid. They hadn’t told Shea about Jennings, worried they might tip him off.
Ivy turned to Oliver.
His chair was empty. How long has he been gone, Ivy? The question only had time to echo in her head once.
And then she heard the gunshot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, February 26, 2017 11:12 PM
Ivy was already up and turned toward the sound of the gunshot. She’d yelled, “No!” as if that could have stopped the bullet in its tracks. The crowd around her was in an uproar as half of the star-studded audience sprang to their feet with her and the other half dropped to the ground beneath their seats.