The crowd quiets. Brandt shifts his weight. He does not like the tone.
“I want to share something,” I say. “Something I think deserves a wider audience.”
My thumb finds the small switch on the underside of the microphone. A soft click. The speakers hum. Then the recording begins.
His voice pours into the garden. Calm at first, then cold. He speaks of dosage. He speaks of timing. He speaks of how an autopsy can be influenced if the right doctor signs the papers. Guests stop moving. Faces turn toward him.
Brandt goes pale. “Celia, stop this,” he says. He tries to step forward, but two guests instinctively block him.
The recording continues. His voice becomes unmistakably cruel. “She will not feel a thing. After tonight, everything becomes mine.” Conversations halt. Someone covers her mouth with her hands. Someone else whispers, “Is that real?”
Brandt lunges for the microphone. I take a single step back. Before he can grab it, a uniformed officer crosses the patio. Not one of the guests. Not part of the hired staff. I invited him quietly three days ago. He stands beside me with a calm expression.