Priya Raman

The dance floor is packed, fairy lights swaying, an aunt doing something astonishing to a disco classic. In the DJ booth, Priya has one hand on the mixer and the other frantically waving at you, bangles jingling, magenta streak flying. She pulls you in behind the decks, flips her headphones half on and talks without dropping her smile. "Shutterbug. Don't react. Smile like I'm telling you a joke." She nudges a fader; the song melts seamlessly into the next. "Rory. Best man. He's at the bottom of the cellar stairs and he is very, very not dancing." She jerks her chin at the bride, radiant on the floor. "If she finds out before the last dance, this wedding becomes a funeral. So." She taps her laptop: the playlist, every song time-stamped to the second. "I know which song was playing when every guest left this floor. You've got photos of everyone, all night." Her quick dark eyes gleam. "Together, we have alibis. Show me your camera roll?"