Chapter 2 - The Joke Walks In
At 8:17 Friday night, the brass doors of the Continental ballroom opened.
Thomas Dixon was laughing when Penelope stepped through them.
He stopped first.
Then Larkin did.
Then, in a strange ripple spreading across the room, conversations began dying one after another.
Penelope had changed one detail after leaving the salon.
The black dress was gone.
She had returned to the boutique and exchanged it for the only dress that had frightened her more.
Dark crimson.
Not bright red. Not romantic red.
The color of old wine under candlelight.
The gown caught every chandelier above her and threw the light back in tiny, dangerous sparks. A high slit revealed one leg as she walked. Her dark hair had been pinned loosely enough that several deliberate strands framed her face. Her glasses remained.
That was important.
Penelope had considered contact lenses.
Then she had decided she was not attending as someone else.
She was attending as herself.
Just the version none of them had earned the right to see.
Larkin stood beside the head table with a whiskey glass halfway to his mouth.
He did not drink.
Thomas whispered, "Holy hell."
Penelope heard him.
She walked directly toward them.
Every instinct developed during three years of professional invisibility screamed at her to slow down.
She didn't.
"Mr. Steves."
Larkin stared.
For perhaps the first time since she had met him, he had absolutely nothing to say.
Penelope allowed herself three glorious seconds to enjoy it.
Then she looked at Thomas.
"Mr. Dixon."
Thomas recovered enough to grin.
"Woods?"
"Still me."
"What happened?"
Penelope tilted her head.
"To what?"
Thomas opened his mouth.
Larkin cut him off.
"You're late."
Penelope glanced at the antique clock.
"Seventeen minutes."
"You're never late."
"I had difficulty finding parking."
"You took a cab."
That made her smile.
"You notice more than I thought."
Something changed in Larkin's face.
Not much.
But Penelope had spent three years reading microscopic movements around that face. A tightened jaw meant anger. One lifted eyebrow meant disbelief. A thumb rubbed across the edge of his watch when he was calculating risk.
Now his thumb moved.
He was recalculating her.
Good.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Your seat."
Penelope followed.
The table was occupied by people whose names usually appeared in encrypted files.
Viktor Antonov, who controlled three shipping terminals.
Sebastian Morelli, whose construction companies somehow won every city contract they bid on.
Isabella Cruz, elegant and silver-haired, whose legitimate hotel empire concealed an organization rumored to have more intelligence assets than several federal agencies.
And Roman Vale.
Penelope knew Roman's financial records better than his face.
She also knew something nobody at the table apparently knew.
Roman was stealing from all of them.
"Your secretary?" Roman asked when Larkin pulled out Penelope's chair.
Thomas laughed.
"Don't underestimate her. She can weaponize Excel."
A few people chuckled.
Penelope sat.
"Actually," she said, "I prefer SQL."
The laughter stopped.
Roman smiled.
"So she speaks."
"Constantly," Larkin said. "Usually about money."
Roman leaned toward her.
"And what does money say about me, Miss Woods?"
Larkin's eyes flicked sharply toward Penelope.
A warning.
She smiled politely.
"That depends which set of books we're discussing."
Silence.
Roman's smile remained.
His eyes did not.
Larkin slowly lowered his glass.
"What does that mean?"
Penelope reached for water.
"Nothing suitable for dinner."
Roman stared at her.
Penelope drank.
Across the table, Isabella Cruz began laughing.
Not cruel laughter.
Delighted laughter.
"Oh," Isabella said. "I like this one."
Thomas leaned toward Larkin.
"You knew she was like this?"
"No."
Penelope heard that too.
Dinner continued.
By the second course, she realized the evening had stopped being a joke.
Something else was happening.
Men were arriving late.
Security guards were exchanging signals.
Larkin checked his phone four times in six minutes.
Then Roman Vale lifted his wine.
"To new partnerships."
Nobody drank.
Roman's smile hardened.
"Come now. Surely tonight isn't all business."
"It is when you invite half the eastern seaboard's criminals into one ballroom," Isabella said.
Roman laughed.
Then Penelope saw the waiter.
He was carrying champagne.
Nothing unusual.
Except Penelope had personally approved the staffing invoice.
She knew there were forty-two servers.
She had reviewed their payroll information because two Social Security numbers had initially failed verification.
She remembered faces badly.
Numbers, however, she remembered perfectly.
The man approaching Larkin had never appeared on the list.
Her eyes dropped.
His right sleeve hung strangely.
Too heavy near the wrist.
Penelope stopped breathing.
The waiter reached inside his jacket.
"Larkin."
Her voice was quiet.
He looked at her.
"Down."
The gun appeared.
Penelope moved before she thought.
She slammed both hands against Larkin's shoulder.
The first shot shattered his whiskey glass.
People screamed.
Larkin hit the floor.
Security erupted around them.
The second bullet tore through the back of Penelope's chair.
Larkin grabbed her waist and dragged her down.
"Stay down!"
Tables overturned.
Crystal shattered.
Men reached for weapons.
Penelope found herself pinned beneath Larkin's body while gunfire thundered across the ballroom.
Then, almost as suddenly as it began, silence returned.
The false waiter lay motionless near a marble column.
Thomas was shouting orders.
Guests were running.
Larkin lifted himself slightly.
His hands moved over Penelope's shoulders.
"Are you hit?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He looked furious.
Not frightened.
Furious.
"You saw him."
"I knew he wasn't staff."
"How?"
"I processed payroll."
For several seconds, Larkin simply stared at her.
Then Thomas approached.
"He's Vale's."
Roman had disappeared.
Larkin's expression turned murderous.
Penelope caught his wrist.
"Don't."
His eyes snapped toward her hand.
She released him immediately.
"Sorry."
"Why?"
"Because if Roman planned this, he wouldn't use someone identifiable as his own man."
Thomas frowned.
Penelope's mind raced.
"The waiter was supposed to be discovered."
Larkin went still.
"A setup," Thomas said.
"Possibly."
"Against Roman?"
"Or against you."
Penelope looked toward the ballroom entrance.
A security camera hung above it.
Its indicator light was dark.
She felt cold.
"Larkin."
It was the first time she had ever used his first name.
He noticed.
"What?"
"Someone turned off the cameras before the shooting."
Thomas swore.
Larkin looked toward his security chief.
Then back at Penelope.
The woman he had invited because he thought she would embarrass herself.
The woman who had just saved his life.
"Miss Woods."
"Yes?"
"You're not going home tonight."
Penelope stared at him.
"That wasn't a request."
And for the first time that evening, she understood something more frightening than the gunfire.
May you like
The joke was over.
Now she was part of the game.
