Chapter 23: The Tape

Ciara's POV

The board called an emergency session at ten the next morning, in a conference room on the Lakeshore's mezzanine with a long walnut table.

Anthony sat at the far end as a private citizen, which he had never been in that room.

Constance sat across from him in a fresh navy suit with a bruise on her cheekbone and her hair pinned back so tight it pulled at her eyes.

I sat beside Edmund with the tote bag in my lap.

Camille came in last, on a lawyer's arm.

She had dressed carefully in cream, with her hair brushed and her eyes red, and she looked at me with a trembling mouth.

"Ciara," she said. "I'm so sorry about last night. Everything got confused."

The chairwoman rapped the table once.

"Miss Ellingwood, the board has two questions. Did you rescue Mr. Kensington, and did you push your sister into Cutler Lake?"

Camille's lawyer leaned toward her ear.

"I decline to answer on advice of counsel," Camille said.

"Then we'll hear the recording," said the chairwoman.

Edmund set the little digital recorder on the table and pressed play.

The wind came out of it first, and the creak of the dock.

Then Camille's voice, light and reasonable, filled the room.

Do you know what it's like to be believed?

I had heard it once. It was worse the second time, in a room with people.

Constance told me to watch you, and to keep you from writing to him. I read your letters at the Foundation desk with a cup of tea.

The treasurer put a hand over her mouth.

You were dead, and I'd won. I'm sorry. That's the truth. I smiled.

Then my own voice, small and distant. Say it again for the room on the twelfth.

And Camille's, quite clear: No.

Edmund stopped the tape.

Nobody in the room moved.

Camille's face had gone slack, and her lawyer sat very still beside her, looking at the table.

"That is not admissible," Constance said.

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