Chapter 1 - The Girl at the Microphone

"DON'T LET HER PRESS THAT BUTTON!"

Natalie Cross's scream cut through the ballroom one second too late.

Seven-year-old Ivy Blake stood beneath three crystal chandeliers, one hand wrapped around a black microphone and the other around a little wireless remote. She wore the white dress her uncle had ironed that morning and a cream cardigan with one loose button. Behind her, Margaret Dorsey, a red-haired woman in a navy evening gown, lunged toward the stage.

Ivy pressed PLAY.

The giant wedding screen went black. A man's voice cracked through the speakers. "Once Owen signs after the ceremony, the girl becomes our problem to manage."

Then Natalie answered. Her voice was unmistakable. "Westhaven can take her Monday. Tell them she has behavioral problems. Owen will believe the evaluation if it comes from me."

Two hundred guests stopped breathing at once.

Natalie ran toward the stage, her satin skirt sweeping over scattered rose petals. "Turn it off! That's private!"

The recording continued. "And the notebook?" the man asked.

"I will find it," Natalie said. "Ivy doesn't get another visit with her father until I do."

Owen Blake, waiting near the officiant in a black tuxedo, felt the floor vanish beneath him. Ivy's father was his older brother, Adam. Adam had been in state prison for fourteen months, convicted of starting the fire that destroyed Rowan Street Music Hall and killed its night custodian. Owen had taken Ivy in, paid for every appeal he could afford, and believed Natalie when she said she wanted to help.

He crossed the floor. "Natalie. Tell me that isn't you."

She caught his sleeve. "Please, Owen. Let me explain."

"Then tell me the truth."

For the first time since he met her, she couldn't find a rehearsed answer.

Ivy put down the microphone. "Uncle Owen," she whispered, "she told me Daddy was never coming home. But she said it before the judge did."

Margaret reached the stage and shut off the screen. She wasn't looking at Ivy now. She was staring at a man in the first row: Martin Cross, Natalie's father, who had risen slowly from his chair.

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"Owen," Margaret said, her voice shaking, "take Ivy and leave through the kitchen."

Martin raised his phone, and four hotel security guards started toward the doors.