Chapter 12: The Gala

The company's IT manager gave me Annie's old phone at three that afternoon.

It had been returned to HR the day she was suspended, and nobody had wiped it yet.

"Her voice memos back up to the company cloud," he said.

"I didn't listen to them. I thought you should have them first."

I sat in my car in the parking garage and listened to the first one.

It was a recording of Annie, alone in a room.

"One, two, three, now," she said.

Then she sobbed. It was a beautiful sob, cracked in the middle.

"Mrs. Bancroft, I'm so sorry. This is my only good shirt."

She stopped. Her breath was perfectly calm.

"No. Archive says hold on the word badge. Again."

She did it again, and again, and again.

I played eleven of them before my hands stopped shaking.

The last one ended with Annie's real voice, tired and small.

"Archive says wait for the camera," she said. "Don't cry until somebody's filming."

I forwarded the file to my private account, and to my lawyer, and to Patrick.

His answer came one minute later.

I'll handle the sound system.

At seven I walked into the grand ballroom downtown with Jocelyn on my arm.

She had done my hair herself. She had zipped my dress.

Three hundred guests in black tie turned toward us under the chandeliers, and every one of them smiled.

Desmond stood at the front beside the stage, in a tuxedo, with a flute of champagne.

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