Fed

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George walked out of the hall with her shoulders stiff and her face so composed that I knew inside she had to be screaming. The skin around her sunglasses was tight, a sure sign that she was transferring all the tension to her eyes, where no one would be able to see it.

Rick spoke first: “Georgia, what just happened?”

If she lashed out, I wanted to be the one who drew her fire. I stepped minutely forward, adding my own patently idiotic, “George? You okay?”

She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server and drained it in one convulsive gulp before she snapped, “We have to go. Now.”

I frowned. “How pissed is he?”

A small, utterly humorless smile creased her lips. “He’s pulling our press passes in fifteen minutes.”

I whistled. “Nice. Even for you, that’s impressive. What’d you do, suggest that his wife was having an affair with the librarian?”

“It was the tutor, that was the Mayor of Oakland’s wife, and I was right,” she said, with typical haughtiness. She started toward the exit. I followed, motioning for Rick to do the same. “I didn’t say anything about Emily.”

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