Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Wheelchair
"Why are you asking about my dad?" I said.
The woman gripped her wheelchair armrest. "Because he tried to warn us. And we didn't listen soon enough."
Vincent rose slowly. "Mom, not here."
"Especially here," she replied.
Victoria recovered her smile. "Isabella, you're upset. Why don't we get you somewhere quiet?"
"You were about to strike me," Isabella said. "I don't need your advice on quiet."
The guests looked away, suddenly fascinated by their glasses. A man with a city-council lapel pin took three careful steps toward the exit.
The security guard reached for my badge. "You're off the floor, miss."
"She stays," Vincent said.
"Sir, the catering manager—"
"Can speak to me." Vincent didn't raise his voice. Somehow that made the guard step back faster.
I thought a billionaire telling people what to do would feel wonderful. Mostly, I felt small and tired. Tomorrow morning I would still owe the hospital. My father would still need another surgery. I would still have to explain why I had ruined a high-paying shift.
Isabella touched my sleeve. "Would you walk with me?"
We went into a side lounge with green velvet chairs and windows overlooking Lake Michigan. Vincent asked his head of security, Lena Ortiz, to keep the door open and take the names of anyone who had witnessed Victoria's raised hand.
"You're documenting this?" I asked.
"My mother asked me to," he said. "And because a room full of witnesses already seems determined to forget it."
Isabella looked at the space beneath her wheelchair. One footrest hung crooked. Her hand drifted toward the wheel brake. It moved when it should have held firm.
"This chair was checked before I arrived," she said.
Vincent crouched. A small fastening clip lay on the carpet, nearly hidden beneath a table leg.
"The brake has been tampered with," Lena said after examining it. "We need to preserve the chair as it is."
I thought of the marble step behind Isabella. If she'd rolled backward while Victoria struck her, everyone might have called it a terrible fall.
Isabella raised her eyes. "Emma, your father told me a very similar thing about a van."
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Then Vincent's phone lit up. He read the message, and all the color left his face.
"Vehicle Eighteen," he said. "It's back on the road."
