I’m not really listening to Marcus, though. I’m already bracing for what Nora’s about to say.
“Carol Parker,” she swiftly finishes me off.
Well, fuck.
“So the answer to who killed Simon might be on Carol’s security footage,” I say, dazed from the impact of the realization. “Which means, we’re going to have to ask her for help.”
“You want a Xanax?” Nora asks dryly.
I don’t answer.
“Carol cornered me a few days ago when I was out for awalk,” Nora explains. “I think she wanted me to peer-pressure you into coming clean about the TPing. But she also went into painstaking detail about how she had the security company install a backup power supply so the cameras would never go down. It was the most mind-numbing hour of my life, but now, it’s clear I suffered for this very moment.”
Marcus looks at me, eyes pleading for me to make my move, and I reach for my phone.
“Are you calling Carol Parker?” he asks, like he can’t quite believe it.
“No. I’m calling Autumn.” But the call goes straight to voicemail. I try again, and get a busy signal this time. “Shit. Where is she today?”
Nora takes out her phone and scrolls to Autumn’s Instagram, turning her screen to show me the latest story, where Autumn is deflating a balloon arch that puts the Arc de Triomph to shame. “Today should have been Jenny Rubenstein’s bat mitzvah at Interlachen.”
“She worked so hard on that Make Your Own Mitzvah Mocktail station,” I say, feeling a pinch of sympathy.
“She’s probably up to her eyeballs in vendor logistics.” Nora waves a hand. “Let’s go talk to her.”
We leave Marcus standing in his kitchen, taking my car to the club.
When we find her, alone in a massive ballroom, the space has been transformed into a European discotheque. Neon lights and the reflective spin of disco balls bounce off mirrored tables. Black lights cast an electric glow, and the dance floor is a grid of video panels that flash a dizzying array of colors and images.
“I feel like I just dropped acid,” I whisper to Nora. “Do these kids take acid?”
Despite the party-ready room, there are no guests and no music.
Autumn is near the DJ booth, and with the switch of a button, the synthesized pulse of Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” starts thumping through the room.
She doesn’t see us. She can’t.
That’s the only explanation for why she shimmies her way to the middle of the dance floor, barefoot and bopping to the music.
“We should say something,” Nora murmurs.
I swallow a giggle. “She’s having fun. Why interrupt her?”
We don’t need to bother, though, because as Autumn launches herself into a spin, she catches sight of us and almost falls over.
“Este! Nora!” she trills, running back to the booth.
She recovers quickly, though, cutting the music and clearing her throat as she walks across the room to greet us. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We heard there was a floor show,” I start, but Nora slaps my arm. “Sorry.”
“The Rubensteins’ plans got caught in the storm,” she says, looking around the room. “Poor Jenny. She’s been working so hard. But by the time they canceled, a lot of the vendors had already finished their setup. I thought I’d enjoy one little dance before we have to break the whole thing down.”
In an instant, I regret teasing Autumn. Nora always says Autumn might be the hardest-working person in Winter Park. A part of me has written her off for the frivolity of it all—all this life and death going on and Autumn’s still popping a vein over party favors. But the childlike blush in her cheeks is such an honest tell. Shelovesthis job, making little moments come alive for people.
I am an asshole.
“Well, it looks really stunning,” I say. “You’re very talented.”