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“The only insane person I saw here tonight was you! You’ve always been selfish, Violet. But I didn’t realize you were cruel too. What did this serve, embarrassing her in front of all these people? What do you get out of it other than being a fucking bitch who still can never dance?”
She looked to me like I had slapped her. “She was lying to everyone.”
“The only thing we ever cared about was her dancing,” Walter said. “And she never lied about that.”
“Violet, get the hell out of my building. Don’t contact me or my family or anyone else close to me. You are not welcome. You are nothing,” I said to her before leaving to chase after Felicity.
The first place I went was her dressing room, not bothering to knock before entering, but it was empty, her bag still on the counter. I heard beeping from her old cell phone.
She had one missed call from Rosemary—I remembered her from the diner. But that wasn’t the strange thing. When I flipped open the phone, it took me to her caller ID list. There were calls to me, Rosemary, her boss Manny, but the calls she’d made to Cleo and Mark hadn’t lasted more than three seconds.
I dialed Mark. “The number you’ve reached is out of service. Please hang up and try again.”
I dialed Cleo. “The number you’ve reached—”
I moved to her text messages and wished to god I hadn’t.
Cleo, I’m sorry, okay? Please come tonight?
This service provider cannot receive texts.
Ha, yes, I’ll finally drink again with you. I had them reserve a seat for you and Mark.
This service provider cannot receive texts.
Just be happy I got you these seats, and it’s not the opera. There is no skybox.
This service provider cannot receive texts.
“Umm… sir?” The event coordinator was at the door. “Are you all right? Your eyes…”
I glanced in the mirror and sure enough, there were tears streaming down my face. Other than the sting in my eye, I couldn’t feel it. Wiping my eyes, I nodded. “I need you to check if two reserve guests came in,” I said sternly.
“Names?” she said, typing on her tablet.
“Cleo or Mark….” I glanced at the phone to see their last names. “Owens.”
“Sorry, sir, neither of those two people has checked in yet.”
I nodded. Cleo and Mark weren’t real people. They were hallucinations that Felicity truly believed were only her friends.
She was schizophrenic.
****
“Her real name is Felicity Harper Ford,” the man beside me repeated, placing the background check I had done on her so long ago in front of me. “Her mother was Amelia Ford, a very famous dancer in New York and abroad. She suffered from schizophrenia and died of a heart attack when Ms. Felicity was a child. Her father remarried about six months later, and she pretty much lived a regular life. She focused on her music and dance. Then one day, while out with her friends, they got into a car accident. Ms. Ford had a breakdown on the side of the street. She kept screaming for someone to call the police, that they’d killed her. There was no one there. They ran into a light pole. Her father sent her to Golden Crossroads Hospital, where she stayed until she was eighteen. She took part of her inheritance and then disappeared. She’s drained most of the money from her bank accounts, spending it on clothes. Oddly enough, a few of them were men’s clothes. It’s like she’s throwing out money with one hand and then working to replace it.”
“You can go now,” I told him, leaning into the backseat of my car as he opened the door and exited.
I thought of everything she’d told me, how hurt she was about taking someone else’s life, and none of it was true. Not because she lied but because she had honestly believed that was her story. That meant she’d been alone for almost a decade, talking to herself or her hallucinations, and no one had realized because no one got close enough to her to know something was off.
“Sir, where to?”
It was a simple question, the answer more complicated than I could even imagine.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Aftermath
