Chapter 4 - THE LAST SUPPER
The gala was held at the Grand Regency Hotel.
The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
Men in tuxedos and women in silk gowns floated across the marble floor.
I stood in the shadows of the mezzanine,
wearing a black dress I had bought at a thrift store,
my hair pinned up,
a heavy veil covering my face.
I looked like a widow,
which was fitting,
because my marriage was dead.
I saw Frank,
standing in the center of the room,
holding a glass of champagne.
He looked triumphant,
a king among his subjects.
Brian was by his side,
a bandage on his temple,
his eyes darting nervously around the room.
He looked like a man waiting for a ghost.
I moved toward the technician’s booth,
where a young man was managing the screens for the keynote presentation.
“I have the updated slides from Mr. Peterson,”
I said,
my voice a low,
calculated whisper.
I handed him a thumb drive.
“He wants these played right before his speech.”
The boy nodded,
too distracted by the beauty of the event to question me.
I walked back into the crowd,
taking a seat at the very back.
Frank walked up to the podium.
The room went silent.
“Friends,
colleagues,
partners,”
he began,
his voice smooth as silk.
“Tonight we celebrate progress.
We celebrate the bridges we build and the future we create together.”
I felt a cold smile touch my lips.
“And now,”
Frank said,
“A look at our upcoming projects.”
The lights dimmed.
The giant screen behind him flickered to life.
But it wasn't a map of a highway.
It was the seven-second recording.
“This time put in more,
because the girl is starting to get suspicious.”
The audio boomed through the high-fidelity speakers.
The room gasped.
Then,
the images appeared.
The ledger pages.
The names.
The amounts.
The word “Collateral” next to my name.
Then,
the video from the bedroom.
Victor’s face,
clear and unmistakable.
Frank’s voice,
discussing the “playground.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Frank turned around,
his face turning a ghostly shade of grey.
He looked like a man watching his own execution.
Brian tried to run,
but he tripped over a chair,
falling into the center of the dance floor.
I stood up,
removing my veil.
“The soup was delicious,
Frank,”
I shouted,
my voice ringing out like a bell.
“But the truth is much harder to swallow.”
Panic erupted.
Roger and Victor tried to push through the crowd.
The Mayor looked for an exit.
But the doors were already opening.
Not for the guests,
but for the federal agents I had alerted through Sarah.
The blue jackets with the yellow letters flooded the room.
“Frank Peterson,”
an agent announced,
“You are under arrest for human trafficking,
May you like
bribery,
and conspiracy.”
