Chapter 8 - The Art of Silence
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"You can't just walk in there and shout at her," Marco told me later that evening in the estate's private gym.
He was teaching me how to stand—not cower, not pull my shoulders inward, but hold my head up so my throat wasn't exposed.
"Why not?" I asked, breathing heavily as I held my posture against the wall. "She tried to kill me!"
"Because if you walk in angry, she wins," Marco explained, stepping in front of me and placing his hands lightly on my shoulders, leveling them out. "She wants you to look unstable. She’s been telling the city for ten years that you suffer from severe psychiatric delusions. If you scream at her in front of five hundred people, they will see a sick girl attacking her grieving mother."
I looked into his eyes, feeling the steady heat of his hands through my shirt. "Then how do I stop her?"
"Silence," Marco said softly. "Silence forces people to fill the empty space. When a liar believes they are in complete control of the room, they don't stop talking. They over-explain. They give away details only the guilty party would know."
He stepped back, crossing his arms.
"When you walk into that ballroom tomorrow night, you will say nothing to the press. You will say nothing to the donors. You will look at your mother, and you will let her speak first."
"What if I get scared?" I asked, the old, familiar knot of terror tightening in my chest. "What if I see her face and go numb again?"
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Marco reached out, catching my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look directly at him.
"You won't go numb," Marco said, his voice absolute and unwavering. "Because I will be standing right behind you. And Chicago knows better than to touch what belongs to me."
