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Monica’s smile doesn’t even falter. Only her right eye twitches slightly as Lindsay stares at the bunch of flowers, head tipped down now, not looking out at the crowd with her agreed-upon performance smile.
And then the corners of Lindsay’s mouth spread wide. I see it before she looks up, and as the stage lights catch her face in slow motion, she comes up grinning.
It’s practically homicidal.
From a distance, though, you can’t tell the difference between a super-exuberant, vibrant young woman and a woman who is ready to commit murder.
But I can.
Lindsay walks right past Monica, her eyes staring out at the thousands who cheer, confetti and balloons in the air now, the tri-colored balloon bunch lost into the cavernous ceiling of the auditorium.
She holds the bouquet of flowers high above her head. I follow her at the side of the stage and tell my guys at the edge of the front row to get ready.
The flowers launch as she throws them into the crowd, then looks right out at dead center, her palm pressed to her lips, throwing the crowd a big kiss.
Euphoric cacophony erupts.
And then she turns around and walks into the waiting arms of her father.
That was as close as Lindsay could get to giving Stellan, Blaine and John the middle finger in public.
“Track down the source of Lindsay’s flowers and the red, blue and purple bunch of balloons in the crowd,” I snap to Gentian.
“Yes, sir. Need lockdown?”
“No. Damn it, we can’t risk the PR mess. Just get a fast handle on who was where. Review video. Front of stage, center, first row area is where I saw the balloons. Same area where Lindsay threw her bouquet.”
I skate through the thick crowds behind stage, knowing I have to get back to Lindsay, wondering what I’ll find.
“Drew?” It’s Paulson.
“What?”
“Balloons held by a stoner. Said ‘some dude’ handed him a fifty to walk in and release the balloons.”
“It’s always ‘some dude,’” I mutter.
“Wish I had better news.”
“Cameras outside where the stoner met the culprit?”
“Probably not. Said it was two blocks away.”
“Check anyway.”
“Got it.”
A wall of wavy blonde hair attached to the same dress Lindsay wore catches my eye. Monica is on the other side of her, eyebrows turned down, face otherwise hard as stone.
And just as expressive.
“What are you talking about, Lindsay? Colors?”
That’s all I need to hear.
“Monica, the attackers are harassing Lindsay again. First cutting the brake line, then a series of harassing texts, and today they upped the ante.” I whisper this into her ear, breathing in the heady scent of her spicy perfume, like cinnamon mixed with copper.
She jolts, then tenses. “No press leak?”
