"Someone call 911—there's blood in the foyer!"
"Stop! Move back!" Ethan Finch's voice cut through the screams like a gavel.
A waiter stumbled, then collapsed into the marble mouth of the Harbor Hotel ballroom. A second later a woman’s hand slid out from under the tablecloth, pale and still. Guests froze. Phones lit the room with flashes.
"Is she—?" a socialite whispered.
"Get security!" another shouted.
"Get the groom away from the crowd!" someone yelled, and the room split into a human tide toward the central chaos.
Ethan pushed through tuxedos and chiffon. He didn't look at faces; he looked at the body. Guadalupe Ellis lay half-concealed by the flap of a catering cart, her blouse soaked dark at the shoulder. A smear of red tracked across the marble like a mistake that wouldn't be cleaned.
"Back up!" Ethan barked. He stepped between the body and the press cluster as if it were a fragile heirloom someone wanted to grab. Cameras swarmed. Flashbulbs popped.
"Mr. Finch, are you a doctor?" a reporter yelled.
"I'm a lawyer," Ethan said. "Step back. Everyone step back."
"Is this about West?" another reporter shouted. "Is West Mendoza—"
"Out!" Ethan shoved a photographer away, hard. The man toppled. People gasped. A woman in a designer dress grabbed Linnea Richter's arm.
Linnea barely noticed. She stood at the stairhead, an engagement ring bright on her gloved hand, her face drained of color. Her hair was pinned; her makeup
