From my research on the train, I know what to expect. There’s a main building, which had once been a sprawling manor. That’s where clients stay when they’re in withdrawal. Once past that stage, they can move into a private cottage on the fifty-acre property while attending treatment sessions in the main house.
I was in touch with Justice last night, and according to him, Jamison’s cottage is in a cluster far from the house. We pull off along a side road and walk through the forest. That’s probably what Colt had done Sunday night, too.
We aren’t even at the cottage yet when I spot Jamison in the forest, walking a toddling puff of black-and-white fur. I remember something Justice said last night.
Izzy got him a puppy. A border collie cross. It needs a lot of exercise, and that’s what he wanted. Something to be responsible for, and something to get him out of his cabin . . . and out of his head. That’s really what Jamie needs most. To get out of his own head, get out of his own way.
As I approach, I clear my throat, so I don’t startle Jamison. He looks up, and not a flicker of surprise crosses those dark eyes.
“Lucy,” he says with the faintest of smiles. “I wondered when you’d get around to me.”
“You heard I’ve been making the rounds?” I ask as I walk over.
“Nah. But I knew you would. Tiana first, right? Then Justice?”
Those dark eyes twinkle, but it’s muted, shadowed amusement and affection. He picks up the whining puppy and glances over my shoulder as Marco comes up behind me. His gaze slides over Marco, sharp and appraising. Then a small nod, as if satisfied.
He steps toward Marco and extends a hand. “Jamie.”
“Marco.”
“Boyfriend or bodyguard?”
Marco’s lips twitch. “Both.” He eases back. “Are you okay with me being here? I can give you some privacy, but I’d prefer to stay close to Gen.”
“Gen.” Jamison pronounces it the way Marco does—Zhun rather than Jen. He looks at me. “Is that what you prefer?”
“Either’s fine.”
He lifts his free arm, as if for a hug. I step into it, and he gives me a quick squeeze. He smells of dew-damp puppy, and clean aftershave and Jamison. Mostly of Jamison, and my eyes fill with tears.
As I swipe away a tear, he shakes his head. “None of that. Also, please don’t tell me I look good. I trust you can do better than that. God, Jamie, for a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, you look awesome.”
I smile through the tears. “I won’t say it, but if I did, I wouldn’t mean it like that.”
He does look good, strong and healthy. A younger, slighter-built version of his father with his mother’s smile and keen gaze. He’s absurdly handsome, as one might expect, given his genetic inheritance. But there’s none of Colt’s arrogance or even Isabella’s confidence. He isn’t the diffident boy I remember, but there’s a quietness to him, a gentle maturity.
I remember meeting Tiana at ten and thinking how much older she seemed. Now it’s Jamison who acts and feels so much older. Unnecessarily older. He’s keeping this conversation calm, light even, putting a good face on his grief, but there’s an unmistakable melancholy.
“Can we take this conversation inside?” he asks.
“May I carry the puppy?” I ask.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he passes her over. “Definitely. Her name is Molly, by the way.” He falls in step beside me. “It’s good to see you, Lucy. I won’t add ‘despite the circumstances.’ It’s just good to see you, and before you tell me that you didn’t kill my mother, I know that. I think everyone knows that, really. It’s just . . .” He shrugs. “It’ll be resolved soon. You have nothing to worry about.”
Because he knows Colt went to New York on Sunday night. He knows his father’s secret, and that firm certainty in his voice says he won’t let me be scapegoated for this.
I loop my arm through his. He stiffens, as if in surprise, but when I go to pull away, he keeps me there.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Obviously, for your mom. That goes without saying.”
“It does.”
“But the . . . rest, too. I know what happened . . . the way I left and the fallout from that for your family . . .”
He slows at the edge of the forest and glances over. “Do you think you’re responsible for this?” He gestures around the grounds of the rehab facility.
“Not entirely, but what happened didn’t help.”
“What happened at the beach party wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about you and me, either. It was my dad being . . .” He makes a face, as if hating to speak against his father. “Dad being Dad. I was upset and angry. At the time, I only understood that you’d done something wrong and were sent away for it, and you weren’t coming back next year, like Mom had promised. That’s what I cared about. That you weren’t coming back.”
He opens the door to his cottage and ushers us inside. I put down Molly, and she scrambles for her bowl, careening over the hardwood floor. Jamison chuckles as he fills her water. Marco silently passes us to take a seat in the living room. I stay in the kitchen with Jamison as he feeds the puppy.
Then he says, “You aren’t responsible for me being here, Lucy. That’s poor life choices and even poorer DNA. Addiction runs in the family. Dad’s had problems, but Mom kept him on the right path. His mother, though, was a total mess. Seems I take after her.”
He waves toward the coffee maker. I nod, and he grabs three pods and pops in the first.
“Fortunately,” he continues, “I seem to have inherited—or learned—a little of Mom’s common sense, too. Enough for me to see the path I’m on and switch to a better one. I wasn’t quite so clear-headed at eighteen. I blame testosterone.” A wry smile my way. “I had my fun—and my screw-ups—but I’m clean and planning to stay that way.”
I nod, saying nothing.
He searches my face and says, “You read about the suicide attempt. Or is it attempts now? One is far too dull.” He sets out cream and sugar. “Even one overstates the matter. Technically, I suppose getting coked up and hopping behind the wheel of a friend’s new Ferrari is suicidal, but I didn’t intend to kill myself.”
As he hands me the first coffee, I say, “I saw you on a movie poster at the airport. That’s what you want, is it?”
He smiles. “You still have a knack for that. What you really mean is ‘Do you actually want to be an actor, Jamie, or are you feeling pressured into it?’”
He hands me a second cup with a nod toward Marco. Then he says, “The answer is that I want it. Acting, yes. Action movies . . . ?” He makes a face. “That’s a longer discussion. But the short one is that I really am okay, Lucy.” He pauses, fingers tightening around the third mug. “Or I was last week, but again, that goes without saying.”
He ushers me into the living room, where I hand Marco his coffee. The puppy gallops after us, and when Jamison sits, she vaults onto him. He absently pats her head, as if lost in his thoughts.
On the coffee table, his cell phone vibrates. He shoots it a glance of annoyance. Karla’s name pops up on a text. It looks as if it isn’t the first from her this morning. Notifications fill the lock screen. Jamison turns the phone facedown.
“You didn’t come here to talk about me,” he says.
“I do want to know how you’re doing. I would have loved to see you before now. Long before now. It just wasn’t appropriate.”
“I know. I tried getting in touch with you a couple of years ago, just to say hello, but you’d gone into deep hiding by then. Can’t say I blame you. When I was a kid, I had no idea how it affected your life. Having had my own fun with the tabloids, I understand.”
He meets my gaze. “It’s unfair, and it sucks, but what’s happening right now is even more unfair and a whole lot worse. So ask your questions. Don’t treat me with kid gloves, Lucy. You of all people know how much I hate that.”
“I do. Okay, well . . .” I take a deep breath. “I won’t tiptoe around it, then. I know
your father came to visit you the night your mother died. He’s pretending he never left LA, but he was here.”
Jamison’s head jerks up, his gaze meeting mine in a look of pure confusion.
“My . . . father?” A rueful laugh. “I’d ask if you mean Colt Gordon but . . .” A wave at his face. “There’s no question of my paternity. My dad wasn’t here, Lucy. Whatever you uncovered, it’s a mistake. I haven’t seen Dad in weeks.”
“He caught a private jet to New Haven,” I say. “He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t coming here.” I pause as I remember that we aren’t investigating an accidental death. This is murder. “Unless he wanted to seem like he was coming here.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” It isn’t Jamison who speaks. It’s Marco, the first words he’s said since greeting Jamison. He speaks carefully. “If it was an alibi, Gen, Colt needed to show up here. To get an actual alibi from Jamison.”
“Maybe he planned to say he came here, but Jamie was asleep.”
“Then he’d have left proof. A note or something. And he wouldn’t have flown back to LA and hidden the fact he was in Connecticut. The only reason he’d do that is if . . .”
Marco looks at Jamison, who hasn’t said a word, who has just sat there petting Molly. The dog whines, and I look into Jamison’s face. It’s studiously calm, but the puppy picks up his anxiety.
“Yes,” Jamison says.
“Yes . . . ?” I say.
“Yes, in answer to the possibility Marco doesn’t want to raise in front of me. There’s only one reason Dad would turn around, go home and pretend he never came: if I wasn’t here when he arrived. If he wanted to protect me. The answer is yes. I wasn’t here. I’d slipped out and driven to New York to see my mother.”
My heart slams, stealing my breath. I wait for his next words, which will be that he went to see Isabella but changed his mind and turned around. Or that he saw her, but early in the evening, and she was alive when he left.
His gaze locks on mine for a split second before it drops, and he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d never have let you go to jail, Lucy. Never. I wanted to turn myself in right away, but Karla insisted I wait. I’ve been battling it out with her. For now, I was just waiting to hear that you were arrested, and then I’d step forward.”
The puppy whines, and he rises and hands her to me with a murmured thanks. Then he walks to the window and looks out with his back to us.
“This should be more dramatic, shouldn’t it?” he says. “At least more drawn out. I should keep tap dancing for as long as I can, evading questions and misdirecting you. Then, when you realize it was me, I should . . .”
A one-armed shrug, his gaze still on the window. “In one of Dad’s movies, I’d pull a gun. At the very least, I’d tackle Marco. Or make a run for it. You asked if I like acting. I do, but that movie poster you saw was for Dad. I don’t care for action. I’m all about drama, so in my movie, I’d beg for understanding, beg you not to turn me in, maybe bribe you to take the fall, promising you won’t go to prison.”
He turns to me. “When Mom told me her plans for you two, I hopped on my motorcycle and drove to New York to talk her out of it. To convince her to leave you alone. She admitted you were reluctant to go public, and she needed to respect that. She needed to see that her scheme was all about her—assuaging her guilt and reclaiming her pride. She honestly wanted to help you, but she needed to proceed with more care, to be sure you wanted it.”
He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “I asked to stay and join her lunch with you. Mom was uncomfortable with that. She knew I still cared about you, and I guess she thought I was setting myself up for disappointment. We argued. I went to leave, storming out. She grabbed my arm, and I flung her off and . . .”
His voice catches. “Those slippers. Those stupid Beast slippers. She nearly fell down the stairs in them once. I tried to get rid of them, but they were important to her.” He swallows. “They slid on the bathroom floor and—”
He flinches, convulsively, as if seeing Isabella fall again, hearing her skull crack against the tiled step.
“And she hit her head and died.” My voice sounds strange, hollow, because I know that isn’t what happened, but he doesn’t seem to catch my tone, just nods and sinks back into his chair.
“You framed me,” I say.
“What?” His brow crinkles. “No. I would never do that, Lucy.”
“So you didn’t take your mom’s tablet? Didn’t send the texts luring me to her room that morning?”
He stares at me, confusion piercing the numb blankness. “Wait. You were lured . . . ?” He breaks off and curses under his breath. “Of course you were. You didn’t just happen to show up that morning.”
He reaches for his phone. His fingers tremble as he thumbs through the messages. He keeps talking, his gaze on his phone. “We always call Karla when we have a problem. That’s her job. Fixing problems. But I’ll fix this, Lucy. I’ll turn myself in. Karla’s apparently on her way now. I’ve been ducking her calls, so she’s coming in person. What happened to Mom was an accident, and I should have turned myself in right away, but I called Karla and . . .” He shakes his head.
“Karla realized it wasn’t an accident,” Marco says. “She knew what you’d done. That’s why she covered it up. That’s why she framed Genevieve. She knew the coroner would uncover the truth.”
Jamison looks up, blinking. “Truth?”
“Your mother died of asphyxiation. She was smothered with a pillow.”
“W-what?”
Marco repeats it, but Jamison just stares, as if the words don’t compute. He goes very still, his face stark white. Seconds tick past, and we let him process it. Then he shakes his head.
“That’s a mistake,” he says, a little too lightly, and my heart cracks. It just cracks. “They’re wrong. Mom died in a fall. From hitting her head.”
His phone buzzes. He stares at it, as if not recognizing the sound. Then he grabs it and shoves it into his pocket.
“Karla’s here,” he says. “I’m going to talk to her. Fire her, for starters. Then we’ll call the police, and I’ll turn myself in.” He gets to his feet. “Just give me a few minutes with her alone. Please.”
Marco opens his mouth, but I put out a hand to stop him.
“We’ll be right here,” I say. “But if you’re more than fifteen minutes, we’ll call the police ourselves.”
He nods, as if barely hearing me. Then he heads straight to the door. Molly yips and tears after him, only to have the door clip her tiny snout, Jamison too distracted to notice her.
When Jamison is gone, Marco turns to me. “He murdered his mother, Lucy. I know you don’t want to believe that, but he isn’t going to confront Karla. He’s going to let her fix this problem—by getting him out of here.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t think so.”
“Karla didn’t just happen to arrive while we’re here, Gen. Jamie wasn’t surprised when you showed up. Justice must have warned him last night. Then Jamie called Karla, and she flew up here to spirit him away.”
I don’t answer that, and he continues, “Jamie knew he was safe. That’s why he admitted it so readily. Admitted to accidental death. According to him, he didn’t even shove his mother. She grabbed him, and he pulled away, and then? Those damned slippers. They killed her.”
“I remember them. Very slippery slippers.”
He shoots me a look for that. “Which he probably put on her feet afterward. The fall didn’t do the job, so he smothered her and phoned Karla, who knows the coroner will realize it wasn’t an accident. Karla framed you, but Jamie still thinks his story will set him free. Maybe the lightbulb finally flashed, and he realized he needs to run. Or maybe Karla’s going to need to kick his ass into that car. Either way, the family’s manager has another mess to clean up.”
I nod. “Go after him, please. Stay back and listen in. I . . . I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
He squeezes my arm
, too distracted to see that my gaze is lowered. A quick kiss on my cheek, and he’s gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The back door to Jamison’s cabin eases open, and Karla steps inside. She shuts the door behind her and then stands just inside, listening and looking. She doesn’t see me. I’m in the back closet, door opened just enough that I can see her.
In three days, I’ve come full circle, hiding in a closet, holding my breath as I watch and listen.
Karla takes a moment and then leans to see into the front room, where I’ve left my laptop playing a TV show at low volume. She nods, satisfied, and then creeps past my hiding spot. As I watch her go, my heart sinks.
I wanted to be wrong. I so badly wanted to be wrong.
I’d reflected earlier that this is the problem with Isabella’s murder: so many suspects I don’t want to be guilty. Tiana, Jamison, Justice . . . Even with Colt, I’d held out hope that, for Isabella’s sake, he cared enough never to do this. I kept hoping that the killer would be a stranger. Huh, she was murdered by some screenwriter I never met, who blamed her for “ruining his vision” with her script doctoring.
Yep, that’s the solution I wanted. If it had to be someone I’ve met, then maybe Bess. No offense, Bess, but I don’t know you, and that makes it easier for you to be a killer.
Karla, though . . . ? Karla never even made it to my list of serious suspects until I heard Jamison’s story, and even then, I told myself I was wrong. She was a committed employee, who’d given her professional life to the family and sacrificed, I’m sure, most of her personal life, too. No marriage. No kids. Just the job. Always the job.
I liked you, Karla. Not in the warm way I liked Tiana and Jamison and Justice. Warm wasn’t your word, but I liked you for that, not in spite of it.
Before the scandal, I’d seen Isabella as my role model. After it, though? After it, I looked to Karla, even if I never quite realized it until now. Efficient and capable are not sexy adjectives, but they were what I needed post-scandal, and Karla embodied those traits. Her strength was not exactly warm and fuzzy, but it was kind. That’s what I remember from that night when Karla took charge. She’d been kind when I needed kindness. Not platitudes but genuine compassion.
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