The shrimp and pasta Brittany and I ordered was delivered by a young waiter with thick black hair and ice-blue eyes. He looked like he belonged more on the movie screen than pushing room-service carts. He set the covered plates and drinks on a table by the window.
“There you are, Miss O’Connor.” He dipped his head to me, then Brittany.
“Thank you.” I nudged a five-dollar bill into his hand.
“Appreciate it.” He raised his cool eyes and gazed at me.
The moment stretched out, and still he looked. Electricity danced up my nerves. I pulled back, tensing. “What?”
He gestured toward my hair. “I like you better without the wig.”
Abruptly he swiveled toward the empty cart and pushed it toward the door, as if realizing he’d overstepped his bounds. I stared after him as he slipped out into the hall.
The door clicked shut.
I turned to Brittany, feeling violated all over again. “We already made the news.”
“Yeah. Terrific.”
I focused on the black screen of the TV. The last thing I wanted was to see the coverage and be reminded of those awful minutes in the mall. But to not know what reporters were saying …
Striding to the nightstand, I snatched up the TV remote and punched the on button.
From the table, the smell of pasta and cream sauce wafted up my nose. My stomach flip-flopped.
“Go ahead and eat.” My face scrunched up. Gripping the remote, I flipped channels to find the news stations.
“That’s okay, I’ll wait for you.”
“No, Brittany. Eat.”
I pushed the channel button.
A car commercial.
Brittany sat down at the table and angled toward the TV.
Punch.
A sitcom.
Punch.
MTV.
Punch.
News. Something about the economy.
Come on!
My index finger worked feverishly, my stiff arm thrust toward the TV. With every channel, the dread inside me grew. I’d shouted at the reporters and burst into tears. They’d probably shown it over and over — made me look as bad and weak as possible. What great drama for all the watchers across America.
Had I hurt the band? Would Mom be mad at me?
Brittany took a few bites, then clacked down her fork. The sound shot right through me.
“Wait,” she said. “Maybe it’s not on at all.”
“Then how would he know?”
“Maybe he was there.”
My hand dropped, the remote dangling from my fingers. A cell phone ad played on the TV. “But I don’t remember seeing him. Do you?”
“No. Not that it means much. There were so many people …”
We locked eyes, trying to think it through. If the waiter had been there — what could it mean?
“Wouldn’t he have been here, working?” Brittany asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he works dinner to closing.”
My gaze traveled to the connecting door to Mom’s room. Mentally I rehashed the conversation with Detective Furlow. Pictured him turning over the “always watching” photo with his gloved hand.
I blew out a breath. “I’m going to keep checking.”
Brittany ate. I sank onto my bed and channel surfed between the news stations.
Suddenly, there we were on the screen. I gasped.
“Leave me alone!” I watched myself cry. The cameras flashed, the crowd pressed in. Microphones were thrust at me. And the expression on my face! I looked so scared, like some homeless child with nowhere to run. Just watching the scene, I felt the claustrophobia crowding my lungs.
I shuddered.
The camera panned over Bruce as he pushed through the crowd, then focused on Brittany. Her features were pinched and white.
“Oh, no.” She pushed her plate away. “My mom’s going to freak.”
My throat tightened. “Will she make you go home?”
“Probably.”
“But you said you can’t.”
“I know. I won’t.”
“What is it, Brittany? What’s going to happen to me if you leave?”
“I told you I don’t know for sure. Just … something. Some danger.”
I huffed. “What good is sensing the future if you can’t be a little more specific?”
“Maybe,” she said grimly, “we don’t want to know.”
I cast her a long look, then turned back to the TV. A camera captured the three of us bursting out the door and jumping into the black limo. The last scene showed the car driving away.
“Did you see the waiter anywhere in that crowd?” I asked.
“No. But the footage was pretty fast. He still could have been there.”
A blonde female commentator filled the screen, relating the known details of Tom’s death and the investigation. A detective was interviewed — not Detective Furlow. He didn’t say much except that they were “following a few leads.”
The report ended.
“We could call the hotel restaurant,” Brittany said. “Ask somebody if that waiter was working this afternoon.”
I tilted my head. “But he’d probably hear that we asked. I don’t want him to know we’re suspicious of him.”
“What are we suspicious of anyway? Even if he was in the mall, he couldn’t have been backstage last night. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Tom’s death.”
“Remember, the detective said more than one person could be involved.” I wandered to the bed, sank down on it, and stared at the ceiling. All these puzzle pieces. I felt way too frazzled. My tired mind couldn’t begin to sort it all out. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
With a deep sigh, I turned onto my side in a fetal position. Another whiff of shrimp filled my nostrils. No way could I eat it now, even though my body needed food. I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up when this was all over. Like maybe a year from now.
A knock sounded on the connecting door.
Mom.
“It’s open!” I dragged myself off the bed to face her.
Mom stepped inside. Her eyes flicked over Brittany and the food, then roved across my face. “Shaley, are you okay?”
Can’t you see I’m not?
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
Her gaze held mine. Ask me again, Mom. Ask me again.
She checked her watch. “I’ve set a meeting for all of us here in the hotel. It’s in ten minutes in Ross’s room.”
“Why?”
“There are things we need to talk about.”
“You mean Tom’s death?”
“Partly.”
I drew back. “You going to tell them about his wall? That it’s my fault he’s dead?”
Mom’s face softened. She touched my arm. “Shaley, this is not your fault.”
“But I don’t want them to know!”
I couldn’t imagine it—Ross and the bodyguards and everyone in the band looking at me. Hearing what Tom had felt. Just thinking about it, I wanted to throw up all over again.
“I’m not going to tell them that. In fact the detective wants it kept quiet. But we do need to talk about added media attention. That, on top of the murder — we all need to be extra careful.”
I shrank away. “Are you going to tell everybody about the white rose? And the ‘always watching’ photo? I don’t want them to know that either.”
“Shaley, you just might be in danger, don’t you understand? For some reason you’ve been targeted with these things. I want the rest of the band to know that much. We can all help watch out for you.”
“We’ve got Mick and Wendell and Bruce for that. Besides, what can happen to me behind a locked hotel door?”
Mom’s eyes closed. “It’s not just tonight. It’s tomorrow and the day after that.” She held on to both my shoulders. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Why not?” The words blurted out of me, bitter and cold. “Then you wouldn’t have to keep all the stuff about my dad from me anymore.”
Mom pulled in a sharp breath. Her eyes glistened. “That has nothing to do with this. I just want to keep you safe.”
Deep down I knew that was true. But trust can’t be put into separate boxes. If I couldn’t trust Mom for one piece of my life — the piece that involved my father and who he was and who that made me — I couldn’t trust her in others.
“Shaley, talk to me. You know I love you.”
The back of my throat burned. I didn’t want to cry. “I love you too.”
She squeezed my shoulders, then let go, all business once more. She had band issues to attend to. “We can finish this conversation later. Right now we need to get over to Ross’s room.”
I turned my head away, my gaze landing on the food. Brittany had eaten most of hers. Mine hadn’t been touched.
My chest deflated. “Brittany’s coming with me, Mom.”
No way was I going through this torture without her.