Chapter 7: The Gala

The dress belonged to Robin's upstairs neighbor, who was my size and had been a bridesmaid four times.

It was green.

Dark green, almost black under the lights, with thin straps and a slit up one side.

"Turn around," Robin said in her bathroom.

I turned.

"Oh, no," she said. "Oh, he's going to throw up."

"That's not the goal."

"It's a side effect." She zipped me. "The goal's in your purse."

The goal was a white envelope.

The divorce petition, filed that morning, with the lawyer's sticky note on the front.

"Hand it to him. Say his name. Say what it is. Then you're done."

Robin wore her navy paramedic uniform and carried a red trauma bag.

At the service entrance of the hotel she flashed her badge, then mine.

The security guard looked at my dress.

"Medical?" he said.

"Very," Robin said. "She's a defibrillator."

He let us in.

The ballroom was white tablecloths and gold chairs and four hundred people in suits and gowns.

Front Range's crest hung over the stage in blue lights.

There was a string quartet.

There was an ice sculpture of a soccer ball, slowly sweating onto a silver tray.

Robin parked herself and her trauma bag by the kitchen doors.

"I can see everything from here," she said. "If you faint, I'll catch you. If he faints, I'll take my time."

I walked into the room.

People looked at me, and then a few of them looked again.

I heard my name once, behind me.

"Is that the housekeeper?"

I kept walking.

Dex was at the head table in a navy tux.

Courtney sat beside him in silver, her hand on his arm.

The agent was at the next table, eating shrimp.

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