The rapid-fire questions left her visibly rattled, her confident facade crumbling as she struggled to form a coherent response.
“Y-you…,” she stuttered, her voice trembling, “are you accusing me?”
Before I could respond, she suddenly swayed, collapsing toward me with an exaggerated cry. We tumbled to the ground, a chaotic mess of tangled limbs and fabric. Laurel clutched her ankle, her face contorted in pain.
“Why did you push me, Angie?” she wailed, her voice carrying through the hall. “My ankle… it hurts so much!”
The microphone, now lying at her feet, amplified her words, ensuring everyone heard her accusation loud and clear.
Disdainful murmurs rippled through the crowd as all eyes turned on me. I met their judgmental stares head-on, refusing to flinch.
Brian rushed to the stage, his face a mask of concern. But before he could reach us, the platform beneath us groaned ominously. A second later, it gave way.
Laurel screamed, clutching at the nearest steel beam as debris rained down around us.
“Brian! Save me!” she shrieked, her voice shrill with terror.
Amid the chaos, I glanced at my wrist, now bleeding from a deep gash where a sharp edge had sliced through my skin.
Blood was everywhere.