Chapter 4: Table One

I did not wear the blue.

Bea had found a green dress in the back of my closet, long and plain, with a slit that let the cast show.

"Own it," she said, and zipped me in, and kissed my cheek.

The Drake ballroom had a thousand lights and a string quartet.

I came in on crutches with Arthur Dunleavy beside me, his cane tapping.

Heads turned. I let them.

A woman in a headset met us at the door with a clipboard.

"Mr. Dunleavy, Table One. Everyone's so glad you're here."

She looked at me and said, "And you must be his guest. Welcome."

She did not ask my name, and Arthur was already steering me through the room.

Table One sat closest to the stage.

The chief of surgery at Lakefront was already in his chair, silver-haired, with a loud laugh.

"Arthur," he said, getting up. "And who is this?"

"Jo Costigan. An old friend's granddaughter. She broke her leg and I'm told it's the only reason she agreed to sit still."

The chief pulled out my chair himself.

"Dr. Ellery's girl," he said, remembering.

"I met you at the Christmas party. You do the books for the little firms."

"I do."

"Good. Honest work." He winked.

"Everyone at this table is in the business of money, so we'll get along."

I smiled and said nothing.

Across the ballroom, at a table near the back, a man in a black tuxedo had stopped with a drink halfway to his mouth.

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