Chapter 8 - Her Perfect Afternoon
Back at Saint Cecilia's, Juliette's groom loosened his bow tie. Evan Mercer was taller than I remembered from the society pages, with eyes that turned sharp when anyone lied to him.
"Juliette," he said, "she knows things about your family. Let her speak."
"She's a criminal," my sister shouted. "Look at her!"
The insult hit a familiar place, but it didn't put me on the floor this time. I took one painful step into the aisle. "Look at me, then. These burns didn't come from a costume shop."
Dad moved toward me, holding out a hand. I wanted to run to him. I also remembered his name on those papers. I stopped just beyond his reach.
"Did you sign away my property?" I asked.
His face collapsed. "I signed something after the funeral. Bernard said it would protect your mother's trust. I couldn't read half of it through the tears."
"Dad, that doesn't make it okay."
"I know," he whispered.
Marcus opened the leather case again. This time he displayed a photograph from Ravenwood: me sitting in a wheelchair, my scarred throat wrapped in gauze. The date fell eighteen months after my official death.
"That's fake," Juliette said too quickly.
A young bridesmaid lowered her bouquet. Someone near the front whispered, "Oh my God."
"Then explain the monthly payments," Evan said. "You told me that account covered your mother's foundation."
Juliette turned to him with the expression she used when charm was about to become a weapon. "Evan, honey, can we do this somewhere private?"
"You can answer right here."
She opened her mouth. No words came.
Then Marcus showed a signed conservator authorization. Dad leaned closer, stared at the witness line, and looked sick.
May you like
"That's my signature," he said. "But I never witnessed this."
Juliette reached for the document so fast Marcus had to pull it away.
