Part 3: The Camera Above The Service Door
The projection screen behind the stage came alive with a pale blue glow.
No one sat down.
Nobody wanted to be the first person to act like this was normal.
A technician in a black vest clicked through a security folder while Genevieve kept shaking her head.
“You can’t show that,” she said. “That hallway is staff-only.”
Mrs. Rourke looked at her. “Exactly.”
The video opened on the service corridor behind the ballroom. It was not glamorous like the party. It was gray walls, stacked crates, extension cords, and the dull metal frame of the stage lift.
Then I appeared on screen.
My hair was tied back. My sleeves were pushed up. I was holding a clipboard in one hand and a small flashlight in the other. I looked tired. Not lucky. Not decorative. Tired.
Mr. Voss appeared beside me, leaning heavily on his cane.
On the video, I pointed up toward the rigging label.
The crowd could not hear what I said, but they saw Mr. Voss’s face tighten. They saw him take the flashlight. They saw both of us check the tag again.
Then another figure entered the corridor.
Genevieve.
Not in her ruby gown yet. In a white rehearsal dress, her phone in her hand, irritation written across her whole body.
She spoke to me. I shook my head.
She stepped closer.
I shook my head again and pointed toward the cable.
Then Genevieve reached for my clipboard.
I pulled it back.
A ripple moved through the room.
The video continued. Genevieve turned away, made a call, and stood with her back to the camera. A moment later, Helena Aldridge entered the corridor.
My stomach went tight.
I remembered that moment.
Helena’s perfume had reached me before her words did, sharp and expensive over the smell of metal and dust.
On screen, Helena spoke to Mr. Voss first. He looked unmoved. Then she turned to me.
I remembered her smile.
Gentle. Polished. Dangerous.
“You’re clearly overwhelmed, sweetheart,” she had said. “Maybe let the adults handle the technical parts.”
I had shown her the numbers.
She had stopped smiling.
The video showed Helena taking the log from my hand. She read it. Genevieve looked over her shoulder. Then Helena glanced directly at the camera.
The technician paused the video.
Mrs. Rourke’s voice was quiet.
“Why did she look at the camera?”
Mr. Voss answered, “Because she knew exactly where it was.”
The technician pressed play again.
Helena stepped toward the wall.
The camera angle went black.
The ballroom erupted.
“She covered it?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Was she trying to hide the cable issue?”
Genevieve finally shouted, “Because Lucia was ruining everything!”
Her words sliced through the noise.
I turned toward her.
Her eyes were wet now, but furious wet, not sorry wet.
“This was supposed to be my night,” she said. “My family funded the ceremony. My mother designed the snowflake. I was supposed to hang the final crystal, not some charity invite.”
The phrase hit exactly where she meant it to.
Charity invite.
My hands curled at my sides.
Mrs. Rourke’s face hardened.
“Lucia was not invited by charity. Lucia was selected by the safety committee.”
Genevieve laughed bitterly.
“Because she scared everyone with numbers.”
Mr. Voss took one step forward.
“No,” he said. “Because she saved your mother from being remembered for a disaster.”
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Helena’s hand flew to her necklace.
And I knew, from the way she touched it, that the disaster was not the only thing she was hiding.
