She’s definitely going to jail.
The room lights flicker. In the corners of the grand ballroom, giant speakers crackle to life. “Excuse me,” booms a voice with consonants as crisp and cultured as a watercress sandwich.
Ripley’s heart stumbles in her chest.
“Good evening, attendees and honored guests. Welcome to the American Paleontology Society gala. If everyone could turn their attention toward the stage, we’ll get—” A whine of feedback interrupts the familiar smoke-over-whisky voice.
When the sound stops, the speaker scans the crowd. “I think that might have been a Parasaurolophus. Did anyone see where it went?”
Ripley might be the only person not laughing at the incredibly dorky joke.
Because, onstage, James is the one making it.
She can’t stop staring at him. He looks good. Or, he doesn’t, but he does.
James in a suit is a masterpiece of design and engineering. Hishair is perfectly tamed, that one Superman curl at his temple gelled into obedience. Yet his eyes are deeply shadowed, his shoulders rolling forward as if he’s beyond tired.
He has to lean down to the microphone at the lectern. “I’m James Smithson. As the director of the theropod stream, I have the honor of announcing this year’s Othniel Marsh Chair recipient. Or at least of reading a teaser biography with all identifying information redacted.”
“Oh, mate.” Griff sighs, disappointment slackening his shoulders. Cara grabs Ripley’s limp hand and grips it in wordless encouragement.
No,Ripley thinks. He wouldn’t. James wouldn’t spend the summer working with her, talking to her,believingher, and do this. He wouldn’t get up on a stage to honor and enrich a man whose deception threatens his most dearly held principles. He wouldn’t write a letter like that and then do this.
James wouldn’t. But Smithson might. Smithson, who needs his father’s approval to help his sister. Who’s probably gotten some unsubtle reminders from Will about how his and Ripley’s unorthodox investigation would look to his colleagues.
James finishes reading the traditional intro praising Othniel Marsh, an antiquated asshole who ruthlessly backstabbed his best friend and stole his fossils but made enough discoveries for that to be overlooked. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” He makes the obligatory pause for dramatic effect.
Cara touches her earpiece, eyes unfocused. A second later, she leans close to Ripley’s ear. “As soon as he says Will’s name, you and Griff are moving. You’re confident. Purposeful. You don’t stop for anything. Clench those thigh muscles, sweetie. We don’t need another fainting episode.”
Ripley nods. Her heart is hammering in her throat, her hands so damp they might be dripping. She wants to run and never stop. Start another new life somewhere far away from here.
The impulse is familiar. Easy. Seductive.
And she can’t keep living like that. This life ishers.She earned it. And if she’s going to go down, she’ll do it fighting for the community she’s built and the people she loves.
On the low stage, James looks at his feet, looks up. Ripley’s skin prickles with fear and adrenaline.
“Unfortunately,” he says, “I must refuse to introduce the winner. Although the intended recipient appears to have made incredible strides in discovery and research, there are inexplicable irregularities in his data. His refusal to allow access to his specimens for confirmatory testing can only be construed as unethical, if not immoral.”
The clinking of forks on cocktail plates stops. People freeze midway through the gulps of wine they’re taking to get through the tedium.
Griff turns around, beaming.That’s my mate,he mouths with deepest satisfaction.
“Finn, he didn’t say the cue,” Cara hisses urgently into her earpiece. “What’s the new cue?”
A somewhat scruffy older white man Ripley recognizes as the conference chairman bounds up onto the stage. He looks toward the tech booth at the back of the hall and makes a slashing motion across his throat. James is still speaking in a calm, even voice.
“…standards of the scientific community. Although I am aware of other highly problematic accounts of his past conduct, those stories are not mine to—”
With an electronic thump, James’s microphone cuts out.
The crowd erupts into shocked chatter. Two security goons escort James off the stage to a chorus ofSmithsonandOh my GodandDid you see that?
“Go, go, go,” Cara says urgently into her earpiece, then her hand is gripping Ripley’s shoulder. Holding her back, she realizes.
“You can’t save him, Rip. James can take care of himself. Let him go by. What a glorious idiot,” she marvels. “Went down in flames, God love him. Don’t turn your head, Ripley. Don’t let him see you or he’ll lose his damn mind. Time to go.”
Hands shaking, Ripley opens her bag and takes out a cordless microphone. On the near wall, two black-clad figures separate, Finn heading toward the soundboard at the back, Fiona crossing the room to lay a Bluetooth range extender and a stack of photocopies at the front of the stage. When she reaches the opposite wall, Fiona takes off her lanyard, covers her pale hair with a black beanie, and keeps walking toward the ballroom door.
