Chapter 8 - The Version They Wanted
On the screen, my hands gripped Vanessa's ankle. The clip began there and ended with her stumbling backward. Nothing showed the heel aimed at my face.
A few guests gasped. Vanessa touched Elliot's arm with a perfect trembling hand.
"She frightened me," she told the microphone. "I only want everyone safe."
Sloane Price appeared beside the press row in a navy jacket. She was already recording the screen.
I stepped into the aisle. "Play the ten seconds before that."
Vanessa's smile thinned. "You were dismissed."
"You kicked at my head. I caught your ankle. That's not what your video shows."
A guard moved toward me, but Elliot raised his hand. "Wait. Is there a longer recording?"
"Of course there is," I said. "The photographers were aiming before she kicked."
An older guest near the front stood up. "I filmed it," she said. "My grandson wanted to see the orchids. I got the whole thing."
Vanessa turned. "Mrs. Heller, pleaseā"
"Don't please me, dear. I saw your foot go up."
The room shifted. People leaned away from Vanessa instead of toward her.
Sloane approached the woman to obtain the original footage. Elliot stared at the stage screen as if he'd never seen an edited video before.
"Why would anyone cut it like that?" he asked.
"Because they needed me discredited," I said. "And a waitress locked downstairs."
I heard a sharp intake of breath. Vanessa took the microphone.
"This woman is making wild accusations. She's been fired before for the same behavior."
My old complaint. Pike had supplied it to her.
"I have a name," I said. "Lena Ortiz. The waitress is Iris Vega. Ask your security chief where he put her."
Elliot's face lost its color.
"Calder," he said into his radio, "come to the ballroom. Now."
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A reply hissed through the speaker: "Sir, the girl has already signed a statement."
Iris, standing behind the curtain, whispered, "I never signed anything."
