Chapter 13 - Clearing the Name
I didn't wait for the elevator.
I took the stairs two at a time, hitching the long lavender skirt up to my knees with both hands, my heels echoing like gunshots in the carpeted stairwell.
When I reached the fourth-floor landing, the heavy oak door to Suite 402 was cracked open. Soft acoustic guitar music floated out into the hall, mingled with the sweet, buttery scent of warm pastries and the sharp tang of hairspray.
I pushed the door open.
The room went dead silent.
Three makeup artists froze with brushes suspended in the air. Two of Paige’s college friends gasped.
And there, standing in the center of the room in front of a three-way gilded mirror, was my little sister.
Her dress was a masterpiece of vintage ivory lace, with long, delicate sleeves that ended in pearl buttons at her wrists and a sweeping train that pooled like spun sugar across the Persian rug. Her veil was already secured, floating behind her dark hair like morning mist.
She looked at me in the mirror.
Then she slowly turned around.
Her eyes dropped to my dress—the wrinkled, hastily zipped lavender chiffon. They dropped to my bare feet, where I had already kicked off the painful silver heels at the doorway. Then they rose to my face.
“You’re late,” Paige said.
Her voice was flat. But her lower lip was trembling so hard the pink lipstick was smearing against her teeth.
“I had a little trouble at the gate,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Paige let out a choked, half-strangled laugh, gathered fifty yards of ivory lace in her arms, and sprinted across the suite.
She hit me like a linebacker.
We both tumbled backward onto the velvet sofa, laughing and crying simultaneously, our arms wrapped around each other so tightly the delicate lace of her sleeves dug into my ribs.
“You idiot,” she sobbed into my collarbone. “You absolute, crazy, wonderful idiot. You couldn't just let someone else handle it? Just once?”
“You know I can't,” I murmured, holding her head against my chest, feeling her heartbeat racing against mine. “You know that’s not how I’m built.”
Paige pulled back, her face streaked with mascara, looking at me with a mixture of awe, fury, and absolute love that only a sister can deliver.
“They showed the video of you,” she said, wiping my cheek with her thumb. “The whole thing. The Port Authority released the terminal security footage thirty minutes ago. You looked like an avenging angel, Hannah. You pushed three cops out of the way to get that man breathing.”
She grabbed my hands, holding them up to the window light. They were still raw, the skin scrubbed pink.
May you like
“These hands,” Paige whispered, her voice cracking. “These are the hands that were supposed to button my dress.”
“Then let me button it,” I said.
