Pretty Girl Gone by David Housewright

handed my drink to her. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Don’t forget. You promised to dance with me.”
    “I know.”
    I walked in a straight line to where Lindsey sat. The woman in the spider outfit said, “That’s not even the half of it—”
    “Excuse me,” I said and offered Lindsey my hand. “Mrs. Barrett. Would you care to dance?”
    “Mr. McKenzie,” she said. “I would be delighted. Please excuse me, Evelyn.”
    Evelyn didn’t seem even remotely happy to have been interrupted, but said, “Of course,” just the same.
    I led Lindsey to the dance floor. Nina watched us. She was frowning.
    “Thank you, thank you,” Lindsey chanted just above a whisper. “Thank you for getting me away from that dreadful woman.”
    “My pleasure,” I said.
    I took her lightly in my arms. It was the first time I had held her in nearly twenty years, yet the thrill of electricity that flowed through me was the same as it had been that evening in her living room. I tried to ignore it. She was a married woman after all.
    Lindsey was wearing perfume or cologne—I never understood the difference—which made her smell vaguely like a pine tree. People smiled at her and nodded their heads. If they noticed me at all it was to wonder, “Who’s that guy?”
    The orchestra segued into a full arrangement of Edwin McCain’s rock ballad, “I’ll Be.” I led Lindsey into a waltz step as best I could. She followed without effort.
    “You dance very well,” she said.
    “Stop it.”
    “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you weren’t a ‘gala kind of guy.’ ”
    “It was the only way I could think of to speak to you. Your aides wouldn’t put me through.”
    Lindsey’s body stiffened beneath my hands.
    “Do you know who sent the e-mail?” she asked.
    “Not yet. I did learn where it was sent from.”
    “Where?”
    “An address in Victoria.”
    “Victoria, Minnesota? Jack’s hometown?”
    “Yes. I’ll run down there tomorrow and check it out. There is something else you should know.”
    “We can’t talk here on the dance floor,” she insisted.
    “I’m open to suggestions.”
    “There’s a restroom at the end of the far corridor. Meet me there five minutes after the dance is over.”
    We continued to twirl on the floor in time to the music, floating between other couples that mostly danced in tiny, graceless circles. I looked over Lindsey’s shoulder for Nina. I couldn’t find her. Instead my eyes rested on Troy Donovan. He was glaring at me. Lindsey and I spun a few times and I lost sight of him. When I saw him again, his eyes appeared serene and were directed elsewhere. I watched cautiously. A moment later, Donovan looked at us again. The expression that flamed across his face—if only for an instant—was curiously familiar, one that I had seen on a man’s face before, and it didn’t take long for me to recognize it. Jealous anger.
    Why?
    The answer became painfully clear when Lindsey said softly, “I miss my old friends,” and rested her head against my shoulder. Donovan witnessed the move, grimaced, and turned away.
    You’re kidding,
my private voice said.
You are absolutely kidding.
    The song ended. I stopped dancing and released Lindsey from my embrace. We applauded politely along with the other dancers.
    Lindsey whispered, “Five minutes.”
    She left the dance floor while I stood there watching, a post in the ground.
     
    I searched for Nina, but couldn’t find her. After a few minutes, I headed for the restrooms farthest from the atrium. Along the way I snatched a long-stemmed glass filled with white wine off a silver tray carried by a waiter. I didn’t know if the glass was meant for someone else and I didn’t care.
    The noise from the ball that followed me down the corridor became blessedly hushed by the time I reached the restroom.
    Lindsey’s driver—the man I had seen at the Groveland Tap—stood watch at the door. He could’ve been one of the guards at Buckingham Palace for