The Gala Plan

The Memorial Gala was forty-eight hours away. The invitations had been sent, the caterers booked, the press releases drafted. It was supposed to be Arthur's victory lap, a public sanctification of his "late" wife's memory and a solidification of his legacy.

Now, it was our stage.

We met in the penthouse suite of the hotel where Julian and I had moved the kids for safety. The room was filled with the hum of servers and the smell of takeout coffee. Corinne sat on the sofa, the Black Ledger open on her lap. She looked like a general reviewing troop movements.

"The video tribute," she said, tapping a page in the program. "It's scheduled for 8:00 PM. Right after the Governor's speech."

"Who's running the AV?" I asked.

"A company called visualFX," Julian said. "They've done all our events for years. The lead tech is a guy named Mike. He's... pliable."

"Does he take bribes?"

"He takes orders," Julian said. "From the CEO."

"Good," I said. "We swap the file."

"It's not that simple," Corinne said. "Arthur—or whoever is left of his inner circle—will have security on the booth. They'll check every drive. Every file."

"Then we don't use a drive," I said. "We stream it."

I looked at Julian.

"The dead-man switch," I said. "The server I set up. Can we route the output directly to the gala's projector?"

Julian frowned, thinking. "If we get access to the HDMI port. But that means someone has to be backstage. Physically."

"I'll do it," Corinne said.

We both looked at her.

"I'm the grieving widow," she said, her voice dripping with irony. "I have an all-access pass. No one will question me if I want to check the lighting or the sound."

"It's dangerous," I said. "If they catch you..."

"What are they going to do?" she asked. "Fire me? Kill me?" She touched the empty spot on her finger where the emerald ring used to be. "I'm already dead to them."

"Okay," I said. "You handle the feed. Julian, you handle the press. Make sure every camera is rolling when that video starts."

"And you?" Julian asked. "What are you doing?"

I looked at the ledger. At the list of names. Politicians. Judges. Police commissioners.

"I'm going to make sure no one leaves the room," I said.

I picked up the phone. I dialed the number for the FBI field office in New York. Not the general tip line. The direct line of the agent whose name I had found in the Black Ledger under *bribes paid.*

"Agent Miller?" I asked when he picked up. No relation to the detective. Just another man on the payroll.

"Who is this?"

"This is Elena Hawthorne. I have the Black Ledger."

Silence.

"I'm listening."

"The Memorial Gala," I said. "Saturday night. Be there. With a warrant."

"For who?"

"Everyone," I said.

I hung up.

I turned back to the room.

"We have a plan," I said.

But there was one piece missing. The most important piece.

"We need Margaret," I said.

"She's dead," Julian whispered. "We heard the report. The cyanide."

"We heard a report," I said. "From a medic on Arthur's payroll. We saw a photo Arthur provided."

I pulled out the email I had found in the kitchen. The toxicology report.

*HCG levels consistent with pregnancy.*

"That wasn't Margaret's blood," I said. "And if the blood was fake, the death might be fake too."

"But the body..." Julian said. "The photo."

"It looked like her," I admitted. "But Arthur had ten years to prepare for this. He had a facility full of patients. He had a doctor who specialized in... erasing people."

I looked at Corinne.

"The ambulance," I said. "The one that took her body away. Where did it go?"

"The crematorium," Corinne said. "Arthur owns it."

"Of course he does."

"But," Corinne said slowly, "the logs. The cremation logs are in the ledger. Under 'disposal services.'"

She flipped through the black book. Her finger traced a line.

"Here," she said. "January 14, 2016. Cremation of M. Hawthorne."

"No," I said. "Look at yesterday."

She scanned the page. She frowned.

"Nothing," she said. "There's no entry for yesterday."

"Exactly," I said.

My heart started to pound.

"He didn't cremate her," I said. "Because she's not dead."

"Then where is she?" Julian asked.

I thought about Arthur's last words in the study. *I couldn't let them find the others. Void A. Void B. Void C.*

He was talking about the dead bodies. The ones in the foundation.

But Margaret wasn't dead. She was a loose end. A liability.

And Arthur never threw away a liability if he could use it.

"He moved her," I said. "He moved her before the fire."

"Where?"

"To the one place no one would look," I said. "The one place he controls completely."

I walked to the window and looked out at the skyline. At the Millennium Tower rising like a needle in the distance.

"The penthouse," I said. "He put her in the penthouse."

Julian stood up.

"That's where the gala is," he said.

"Yes," I said.

I turned to them.

"We're not just going to play a video," I said. "We're going to bring her out on stage."

We were going to turn a memorial into a resurrection.