Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

I comb through the rack until I find a short silver number that ties up the back like a corset. It might be my best bet. Grabbing it, I head for the bathroom and make a quick change, stuffing my clothes in an empty trashcan and tying up the bag. Thank heavens I have small feet. I slip on a pair of flat black shoes from the closet. They are a little big, but they’ll have to do. I take a second to wind my hair up into a bun and secure it with a few clips, pulling a few pieces out around my face as some of the ballerina bridesmaids had done. Then I apply a little lipstick, just for good measure. The whole process takes less than five minutes.

I slip back into the hallway and toss my bag of clothes into the garbage chute. If I have time, I can dumpster dive for it later. If not, well, at least no one will find it.

Following a set of ballerinas, I make my way down the hall. The wallpaper has an antique floral pattern that almost gives the illusion of being outside in a spring garden. Between that and the freesia, I feel like I just stepped into a Martin Johnson Heade painting.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind I almost laugh out loud, remembering the day we learned about the artist and how Ethan had remarked that we’d never, ever need to know any of that. I make a mental note to tell him.

Following the pink girls into room seven-fifteen, I have to struggle not to look as awestruck as I feel. The room is massive—lots of open spaces and Oriental decor, large antique room dividers and comfy-looking sofas. A few ladies are sharing a bottle of champagne in the main seating area. A man dressed all in white is softly playing the large grand piano in the corner of the room, and a few of the ballerinas are munching on a platter of crudités and chatting. From the back bedroom another ballerina approaches, only this one is in a warm golden-yellow rather than pink. She glances over, seeing me, and stalks over.

“I have a dress like that,” she says. “Freddy Ford, Fall Collection?”

I nod.

She shifts her weight onto one foot and puts her hands on her hips. It’s a pose that reminds me a lot of Kara.

“I was told it was one of a kind.” She’s glaring now, her stare drilling into me.

My mouth twitches. “It’s a knockoff,” I whisper.

She tilts her head, accepting my answer but not looking happy about it. “It’s a good one. Who are you, anyway?”

I hold out my hand. “I’m April. I’m here with the wedding planner.”

She looks at my hand but doesn’t take it. “Uh-huh.”

“Have you seen her?” I ask, not having to fake looking nervous.

She turns to the pink girls. “Have any of you seen Diane?”

They shake their heads.

One of the ladies on the lounge speaks up and I can tell from the slur in her voice it isn’t her first glass of the bubbly liquid. “They are doing the bride’s pictures down in the rose garden.”

The golden ballerina turns back to me. “Shouldn’t you know that? I mean, you have one of those headsets.” She points at my Earwig. I reach up and touch it gently.

“Yeah, it isn’t working. That’s why I’m looking for her. To let her know.”

She gives me an unimpressed look and walks over to the other bridesmaids. As I turn to leave, I hear one of them chuckle and say, “Izzy, you are such a brat.”

The rose garden is actually on the roof, two floors above the bridal floor. After slipping back into the elevator, I hit the button for the roof. The elevator stops on the eighth floor and a handful of groomsmen pile in. I’m immediately gagging on the heavy smell of cologne and stale beer. They are oblivious to me as they talk.

“This is going to be the best wedding prank ever,” the tallest one of the group says with a cocky grin.

“I know. Dude, they will never see it coming.”

“Your sister is gonna kill you, man,” another jokes.

The tall boy shrugs and tugs at his bowtie. “It’s really a gift for Brandon. He’s so uptight.”

“Well, your gift should loosen up his girdle a little.”

They all laugh and the doors slide open.

“Come on, Doug,” one of the boys says, motioning to the tall one.

“Doug Cartwright?” I must have said the name out loud because one of the groomsmen shoots me a duh look.

Before I can follow the groomsmen and ask about this prank, I’m accosted by a short man in a grey tux. He’s portly and, judging by the way he’s walking and his cute little blue-framed glasses, probably not part of the wedding party.

“Excuse me, who are you? This is a closed floor.”

I hold out my hand, which he stares at. What is it with these people and handshakes?

“I’m Heather. I’m with the caterer?” He looks blank, so I sigh. “There’s an issue with the cake. Something about too much humidity in the kitchen. The icing is starting to melt.”

His little hands actually fly to his face and flutter in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“They told me to get Diane and have her go talk to the kitchen manager about bringing the temperature down a few notches,” I finish quickly. His face has gone beet red and I’m almost feeling bad.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll take care of it right away. Tell Rodrigo that Diane is on it,” he blurts before scurrying over to a stern-looking woman in a long powder-blue dress.

I catch a glance of the groomsmen talking as they wait for the bride to finish the photos with her parents. Doug Cartwright makes an exploding gesture with his hands and a deep ball of dread forms in my gut. An exploding gift. A prank gone wrong. That’s what is going to kill the bride and groom. I turn, stepping back into the elevator and pressing the button. The gifts should be in the reception hall. I just need to find the one that’s a ticking bomb.

When I get down to the reception hall, I find the gift table, and a little bit of panic stutters through my heart. It’s stacked high with presents. I take a step forward, determined to search every single one if I have to, but a hand closes around my arm, tugging me backward.

“That is my dress. And Diane doesn’t have an assistant named April. So who are you, really?”

I turn, ready to make up whatever lie I have to, but behind her I see the clock ticking slowly. I’ve wasted half an hour already. Any minute now, the bride and groom will be saying their vows and then they’ll be here.

“Look,” I say, pulling my arm free, “there’s a bomb in one of these boxes. And I need to find it.”

She looks at me, her blue eyes cold as ice. “Security!”

I grab her by the neck and push her up against the wall. “Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m here to help the bride and groom. Now, Doug Cartwright has rigged one of those boxes to explode as a prank, but something is going to go really, really wrong with that. You can help me find the gift it’s hidden in, or I can knock you out and shove you in a closet. Your choice.”

She can’t talk, so she just nods vigorously.

I let go and she gasps for a second. “That sounds like something Doug would do. Idiot.”

I head over to the massive stack and start rummaging. “It has to have his name on it, right?”

She looks at me as I toss boxes aside. “And you are sure there’s a problem with it, that it’ll hurt someone?”

“I am.”

“It’s not in there. They had bomb dogs in here earlier, sniffing for explosives. He was going to bring it down after the ceremony. It’s in his room.”

I stare at her. Her face has gone pale, making her look even more waif-thin somehow.

She shrugs. “I heard them talking about it. It sounded funny.”

I put the gift in my hands back on the table. “Can you take me to his room?”