by Sue Wilder
“I should go. Let you get on with your dinner.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “Give the mogul my thanks for his willingness to help.”
“Sunny…” Luna turned back to me. “He wants to help.”
My eyes stung. Connor Lange shouldn’t want to do anything for me. “I love you, Loony. Thanks for being there for me.”
“I’m your twin, Sunny. It’s always been the two of us together.”
We ended the call. In the silence, I dug out a spatula from the kitchen drawer and slid cookies onto a wire rack. Outside, the sun slanted toward the horizon, so I took two cookies out onto the deck. The Adirondack chairs were the best in the afternoons, with the flat arms serving as tables, and the damp air felt refreshingly cool after the oven heat.
Seagulls squawked, fighting over the black mussel shells tangled in seaweed drifts. From the bluff, I could see the jagged rocks that edged the sand. High tide often had waves crashing where the rocks jutted out, and I’d learned to be careful long ago.
But the breeze picked up with a buzz-saw intensity, forcing me back inside. As I closed the French doors, I heard my mother’s ringtone on my cell.
“Hi mom—”
“Soleil, sweetheart.” Her voice was tense. “Your agent called—she’s desperate to get in touch with you.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“An explosion. It’s all over the news. The motorhome you were using on The Four Kingdoms. It’s fully engulfed in flames.”
◆◆◆
“Soleil.” Shirl Campbell’s sturdy voice carried through the phone. “Are you watching?”
“Yes.” The fire dominated every news story, and I’d muted the sound because the talking heads tied my name to the lurid speculation.
“We need to act fast,” she said. “Get out in front. Make a statement before the press runs with a narrative.”
Shirl was my mother’s age, with flaming red hair, a beaky nose and tortoise-shell glasses on a beaded lanyard. Her appearance held more drama than her voice, but alarm still rocked through me. The luxury motorhome had been a place of refuge, and the way it burned felt like someone was erasing me while I watched.
Black smoke roiled. Men in khaki overalls worked the heavy fire hoses. People I recognized were huddled around.
“And why are you using a different cell?” Shirl demanded. “Soleil—darling—I’ve told you before you can’t disappear unless you want to destroy your career, which would make me very unhappy.”
“Shirl, I’m sorry. I planned on calling.” Okay, so I used my acting skills to reassure her. It was allowed. “I changed phones when they killed off Dacree. Then I left, just to get away from the turmoil.”
“Very laudable. I get that, but we need to make a public statement. If this fire isn’t accidental, the authorities will look for motives. Revenge is top of mind. Anyone with a grudge.”
“You’re saying I’ll be a suspect?”
“They’ll wonder if you sabotaged the motorhome before you left, and if that narrative gets out before we correct it, the mob will rip apart your credibility.”
I probably understood that better than anyone.
Other than Luna, maybe.
“I want you in front of the cameras,” Shirl added briskly. “Selling your side of the story the way you can.”
“No.” I closed my eyes. Opened them and stared at the television images. The gathered crowd. “If I do, the critics will go crazy. They’ll say I’m using this fire to call attention to myself. And the angry person? I’ll be waving some damn red flag in his crazy face.”
“I get that,” Shirl countered, “but the rumors are out there. We need to explain why you left the show. Say the nonstop work brought on exhaustion, and you needed the break. Wanted to explore other options.”
“Why not say I drowned in self-absorption?”
Shirl sharpened her tone. “I think someone already said that, but I’ll point out how you appreciate the fans and abhor the violence. Of course, we’ll work with the authorities, but you’re unavailable for interviews. I’ll start looking for another script—where are you, by the way?”
“The family house in Oregon.”
“Humm.” I thought she was writing something down. “This is your private-private phone, right? Your mother wouldn’t even give me the number.”
“Brand is snooping around again.”
“Oh, God.” Her husky laugh was a relief. “Gotcha on that one, but he wouldn’t dare come to me. He knows I know, and he never looked good squirming.”
“Shirl—everyone who reads the book knows what you know. Let me see the statement before it’s released, okay?”
“Don’t I always take care of you?”
Shirl negotiated with a killer instinct, but she had a heart of gold. “I love you madly, Shirl. Almost as much as I love my mom.”
“Darling, in this line of work, you need all the moms you can get because there are plenty of mothers out there. I’ll get that statement ready.”
I smiled as we disconnected. With Shirl in charge, I felt more in control. She didn’t know about the midnight attack, but she knew more than my mother, and she was also right about issuing a statement.
If the fire represented some twisted revenge against Dacree, then further violence might hurt people I cared about. Co-workers, fellow actors on the show who weren’t secretly envious.
Standing by and doing nothing—that wasn’t possible for me. But I couldn’t help thinking any statement would fan hidden flames and encourage an enemy I couldn’t see.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Oh my God, Soleil—these cookies.” Missy rolled her eyes as she took another bite, then wiped at the chocolate smudge on her lips. “Come bake for me.”
“I can’t.” I cradled the espresso cup with both palms, enjoying warmth. We sat in the café, near the windows, where rainbow-colored wind chimes sparkled in the sun.
“Why not?” Missy challenged. “You’ve been baking all week, so come use my kitchen. Set your own hours.” She winked over the top of her perfect macchiato. “Keep your mind off your problems.”
“You’re kind.”
“I’m mercenary. Who wouldn’t want Dacree of Wyvern baking cookies for her customers? Oh…” She wiped at her mouth with a napkin. “I meant to ask—did they learn anything new about that fire?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” We’d turned into good friends over the past week, clicking with an authentic vibe. “The last time I talked to Shirl, she told me not to worry.”
“Her statement was perfect.”
“More like her instincts.” I stared down at the swirl of white foam on the rich, dark coffee. “It was hard, watching people I’ve worked with, giving interviews with soot on their faces. The hairdressers, the makeup artists who created Dacree’s exotic look—I didn’t want them hurt.”
“You must be worried sick,” Missy commiserated. “And I loved Dacree’s hair, all those little braids back to the crown.” She mimed corkscrews in the air above her head. “I tried it once. Looked awful on me.”
“Missy, you’re lovely.” I knew her husband died when Tad was in diapers, but with her auburn hair pulled back from her face, Missy had a wholesome beauty, and I wondered why she hadn’t remarried. “Don’t denigrate.”
“Well…” She swirled her cup until the foamed coffee moved in little waves around the rim. “Have you seen Garrett lately? I heard a rumor you helped him out.”
“Humm… Who told you that?”
“Angie was in. And then Maggs. Not prying, but…”
“Not answering, but…”
“Oh, come on, spill,” she teased.
“He helped me with something.” My shrug rolled with innocence. “Then he tripped on my deck and aggravated his back. He had to stay over, sleeping on the floor.”
“Oh—just sleeping?” Her sly grin made me laugh.
“Yes, sleeping. Doped up on muscle relaxers and painkillers, crushing my bunny slipper in his sweaty palm, then flashing
me in the shower. End of story.”
“Or the beginning, I wonder?”
“Not going back to high school,” I warned her. “Neither is he.”
“Because the sex is far more exciting at thirty.”
I glanced around, ignoring the embarrassment I hadn’t expected. “Where’s Tad?”
Missy’s expression sobered. “At the Fisherman’s Memorial. He goes there this time of year, when he needs to be alone.”
I wasn’t sure I understood. Or if I should pry. “I’ve been out there, to the state park. Not the memorial, though. I’ve always thought I should go.”
Missy reached across our table and gripped my hand. “It’s too much to ask, but I’m going to ask, anyway.”
Her worry alarmed me. “Missy—what?”
“Would you go out there now? Sit with him? He’s your friend and loyal protector, Soleil, and he’ll talk to Dacree of Wyvern when he can’t talk to me.”
“Missy…”
“I should be a better parent.” She released my hand and glanced away. “It kills me, the way he won’t let me comfort him. His father died before Tad was old enough to remember. Sixteen years ago, an accident, no one’s fault. The ocean’s a bitch, and you accept it if you chose the life. But Tad, he never had a choice. He goes out there to sit with the names because that’s all he has.”
“I’ll go.” I didn’t even have to think about it.
“Do you know the way?”
“I’ll follow the signs.”
◆◆◆
While I’d been to the state park, I’d never been inside the octagonal building that housed the memorial. Muted light drifted through the windows. The centered, black marble monument was engraved with names. Too many names. Flowers and photos decorated the top, but my focus was on Tad. He slouched on a bench with one ankle crossed over the opposite jeans-clad knee, staring at a small photograph in his hands.
Silently, I slid onto the bench beside him.
“Hey.” I kept my voice low because the space felt like that, quiet and reverent. “This is my first time.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged and glanced away. “All the tourists come. It’s on the visitor’s list of things to see.”
“It’s lovely.” I turned sideways on the bench, tucking one foot beneath the opposite leg, grateful that I’d worn a tee, jeans and tennis shoes; I could handle the pose. “I talked to your mom.” Tad was too smart not to be honest. “She’s worried about you.”
“I know.”
“Is that your dad?” I gestured toward the photo.
“Yup.”
“May I?”
Tad held out the photo of a handsome man with blonde hair and a devilish smile that could break hearts. I traced one finger along the edge.
“I see you in him. Your hair and eyes are like your mom, but that smile—Tad, that’s your smile. And the way your eyes crinkle up near the corners.” I handed the photo back. “You must miss him.”
“I never knew him. I was too young, a baby, and babies don’t remember things.”
“No, but not remembering a person doesn’t mean you can’t miss them. Do you have other favorite photos?”
“One where he’s holding me. He looks really proud, you know? Because I was his kid and all.”
Leaning forward, I stroked Tad’s hair where it fell against his forehead. “Tell me about him.”
“He liked to fish for salmon and go after the dungies. Mom said he could steam Dungeness crab better than anyone, and when he sang in the shower, it was awful.”
“Does she tell you stories about him?”
“Sometimes. She has his things in this old gold box, a shirt box or something. She keeps it in the closet and pulls it out to show me. He had a money clip with a naked lady she didn’t want me to see, like I’d never seen a picture of a naked lady before.”
“Moms are like that,” I said gently. “But I get why this photo is your favorite. Kinda feels like he’s right there with you, the way he’s smiling.”
“Yeah.”
Tad stood, and I walked with him toward the monument. After a moment, he bent to rub his fingers over three engraved names. Tad Wilks. Javier Garcia. Oscar “Oz” Botero.
“Their boat was the Ibiza Trident. Oz was captain. Javier was first mate and my dad was crew, even though they switched out the roles. Everyone could do everything, and they were coming in ahead of a storm. Seas were rough on the stern, but the ebb current was worse with the river running hard. They say the load shifted, or the Ibiza took on water. Oz was a good captain, the best. He knew what he was doing. They all did, but somehow, they got turned sideways and a wave rolled them over. They hadn’t even reached the jetty yet.”
I traced each name. “Did these men all have families?”
“Javier didn’t. Oz—he was dude’s step-dad.”
Garrett’s step-dad? I flashed back to high school, how I’d never noticed Garrett’s family sitting in the stands, other than one time. His mom was at the championship game. The game where Garrett got sacked in the final ten seconds after leading an eighty-yard drive with a skill I’d found heartbreaking.
“He saw you the other day,” Tad continued. “You were taking selfies with everyone and he stared really hard.”
I remembered that stare. “We knew each other in high school.”
“Cool.”
“Not so cool.” I made a face. “I was that girl, the obnoxious cheerleader, and Garrett was the football jock, a big star. He seemed pretty angry that year.”
“Yeah. It was right after. We talk about it now. About being angry at the wrong things. Oz just died and his mom was falling apart. He said my mom fell apart, too, but at least she had me, and I was too young to be angry about anything.”
“You’re close?”
“He says we’re brothers in tragedy, and I totally get it. We are. It isn’t negative like people think. We share something no one else does, like you, having a twin.”
“Tad—when did you get so grown up and wise?”
His grin hovered. “Can’t be your loyal protector and be dumb.”
“No, you can’t.” Someone was watching. A man with cropped brown hair, wearing a black suit in a beach town. I wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening to our conversation.
“Ms. St. Clair?”
The official tone made me step in front of Tad. “Yes. And you are…”
“Detective Wentz, LAPD. My partner, Detective Reyes, is waiting by your vehicle. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Right now?” My chin lifted. I didn’t appreciate the ambush, and when Tad inched closer to my side, I reached out to stroke his back.
After a moment, Wentz nodded to tell me he understood. Alarming Tad wasn’t in his interests, and he took a step back. “I’m sorry to have intruded. We can wait until you’re finished.”
“We’re almost done. Tad?” He turned to look at me. “Your mom might need you for the afternoon rush.”
“I can stay.” He broke my heart with that determination—my loyal protector—and I gave him a reassuring hug.
“I need to talk to Detective Wentz. I’m sure it’s about the fire, and maybe I can help.” I watched as Tad shoved his hands in his pockets, still gripping the photograph, and silently, I hoped he hadn’t bent the corners with the rough treatment.
Detective Wentz stepped from the door. Tad jogged around him before disappearing down the path, and I turned toward the parking lot. An unmarked black sedan blocked my rental from behind, and another man—Detective Reyes—leaned against the driver’s side door.
I had nothing to hide. In my public statement, Shirl made it clear, but I’d only cooperate in the privacy of my grandfather’s house, where my attorney was a phone call away.
“Your car or mine?” I kept my tone light, but stared straight ahead.
“You drive, and I’ll ride with you, unless you have objections.” Which would make me appear guilty. “Detective Reyes will follow.”
�
��Fine.” I raised my chin in a signature Soleil St. Clair move, then walked with the confidence of a star, entering a scene and hitting every mark.
But adrenaline surged, and I hoped that when I put the key into the ignition, my fingers wouldn’t shake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my drive and saw Marsh standing in his front yard. He waved to get my attention. “Ms. St. Clair—Soleil. Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” I waited for Wentz to climb out of the car before locking the doors. During the drive, I’d decided he was overweight, but hid it beneath his jacket. His aftershave was a grocery store brand, and his hair was no-nonsense short.
What I saw of Reyes told me he was uncomfortable in a suit, and after he parked at the curb, he joined his partner in solidarity at my side. But I’d dealt with men like them before, and stiffly, I led the way past Luna’s red geraniums and into the house.
After I tossed aside my keys and purse, the vibe turned official. Wentz flipped open his shield case and asked if I had objections, and even if I did, I knew it was a formality. I agreed, then went to the kitchen to make coffee because everything about that fire bothered me. It felt personal, like the attack in the dark, and I needed the ritual of coffee to calm me. I arranged mugs and cream, then suggested my grandfather’s writing room for the questions. I wanted to settle in my favorite chair and believe this meeting was routine. That Wentz didn’t choose the wingback chair so he could face me, while Reyes chose a chair to the side. They were just chairs, arranged the way they’d always been arranged and I shouldn’t let my foot flick.
We started with casual conversation. How did I feel about being fired? Was that why I left California? Why did I change my phone and drive a rental?
Because, I told Wentz, despite the cliché, a blonde in a screaming-red convertible stood out, and I’d wanted to be anonymous. He jumped on the opening and asked about the police reports I’d filed. And I remembered advice from my attorney during the divorce. He said honest people didn’t deny details that were easily checked. Wentz was asking questions with answers he already knew, and when my pulse fluttered, I wasn’t sure if it was caffeine or nerves.
