Chapter 6: The Rooftop

The slideshow of Whitney's selfies froze on a picture of her in a bikini on a yacht.

Then the screen went black.

A timestamp appeared in the corner. FRI 10/09 6:42 PM. HOTEL MARCHESE LOBBY CAM 2.

The music cut out.

Someone said, "Is this part of it?"

On the big screen, Grayson pressed a twenty into my hand.

There was no sound. There didn't need to be.

Whitney lifted her phone in her right hand.

Her left hand slid down to her wrist.

The camera was high and clear and merciless. It was the same footage from the security desk, from a better angle.

Then it caught her gasping and grabbing her own wrist.

The DJ had found the zoom. He ran it again, closer.

The whole rooftop watched Whitney Lyle steal her own bracelet three times in a row.

"Oh my God," a woman in a pink dress said. "She planted it."

"Turn it off!" Whitney was shoving through the crowd toward the booth. "Turn it off, that's fake, that's AI!"

The DJ looked at her, then at me.

"It's from the hotel's own system," I said loudly. "Anyone who wants a copy can have one. The hotel will confirm it."

Phones came up all around the room.

Every single one was pointed at Whitney.

Her ring light was still on its stick in her hand, shining up into her face.

"You," she said, and saw me.

The crowd turned with her.

I was standing by the DJ booth in my black dress and red lipstick.

"Happy birthday, Whitney," I said.

"You crazy bitch. You came to my party?"

"You came to my hotel."

A gray-haired man in a navy blazer pushed through from the bar. He had Whitney's chin and none of her color.

"Whitney," he said. "Is that real?"

"Daddy, she's lying, she's married to a gangster, they faked it."

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