Chapter 18: Live

I turned my phone back on at noon, and it buzzed in my hand for a full minute.

Ninety-four missed calls.

Then the headline on every screen I touched.

ASHCROFT HEIR'S PREGNANT FIANCEE ATTACKED BY ESTRANGED BROTHER.

Under it was a photograph of Mitchell in handcuffs on the dark lawn, with ivy on his shoulders and his chin up.

Under that was a statement from a family spokesman.

Miss Hastings has suffered a nervous collapse, and is receiving private care.

I read it standing in the loft in one of Mitchell's shirts.

"I'm going to be sick," I said.

"Come here."

"No." I pushed my hair back with both hands. "I'm going to the shop."

"Lana, there are photographers on the street."

"Good."

He watched my face, and something in his own changed.

"You're going to talk to them," he said.

"I'm going to talk to everyone."

He put on his boots without another word.

My flower shop sat on its corner in Brooklyn with its green awning.

The buckets of tulips stood out front, exactly as I'd left them.

Eight people stood on the sidewalk with cameras.

Inside there were customers, because the week's flower orders did not stop for scandal, and I think half of them had come in out of curiosity.

A woman in a yellow raincoat held a bunch of ranunculus and did not pretend to look at the price.

I walked in through the door, past the cameras, and the room went silent.

I took my phone out, found the button for a live broadcast, and propped it against a vase on the counter.

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