by Lexi Ryan
“You are so selfish,” she says under her breath, but loud enough so everyone in the corridor can hear. Then louder, she adds, “Your friend is in danger, and you don’t even care.”
A chill runs over me despite myself. It’s not that I believe her. Bella will say anything to get what she wants. But what if she’s telling the truth? “Who?”
She looks over her shoulder, eyeing Fred suspiciously. “We shouldn’t do this here. We shouldn’t be seen together.”
No shit. After her interview, the gossip papers would love a picture of us together. I can just imagine the headline: Bella Comer Confronts Her Husband’s Mistress. That wouldn’t help my cause at all. But now I want to know what she has to say almost more than I want her to . . . No, I don’t want her to drop dead. I’m not that violent. But I wouldn’t object to her falling out of existence. As if the universe could just go poof and Bella never happened. Maybe then I’d still be married to Tom. Would we be happy? Or would he have found some other whore to screw?
I don’t invite her up, but I also don’t stop her when she follows me into the elevator.
The security guard stationed inside looks to Bella, and she shakes her head. “I’m going up to her place.”
He turns his gaze on me and I shrug. “She’s with me.” I slide my card into the key slot and punch in for the penthouse. The security guard follows with his key to activate the elevator. I should really buy a house outside the city, but I’m in New Hope visiting my brother so often it seems pointless. Besides, this place has great security. Or so I thought, before they let Bella in the doors.
Rather than wallow in the awkward silence, I tear open the letter on the top of my stack and pull the paper from inside. “Get a clue,” I mutter when I see it.
“What is it?” Bella grabs the letter from my hand—rude—and studies it. It’s like the others. I’ve gotten at least half a dozen of these in the last month. Magazine clippings glued to paper to spell out, “She loves me. She loves me not.” Daisies made out of construction paper adorn the corners.
When Roommates got big and I started getting substantial amounts of fan mail for the first time in my career, this stuff used to freak me out. I’ve gotten numb to it over the years. One thing you learn when you work in the public eye is that people are seriously freaks. “Who sent you this?” Bella asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Some crazy fan. I’ve been getting notes like that for a few weeks now.”
She pulls off her sunglasses and settles them on top of her head. Her face is clean of makeup and her eyes are red and puffy. “Notes like this?” she asks. “You’re sure?” Blood drains from her face.
“Are you okay, Bella?” What a ridiculous question to ask her, given what’s going on between us. This whole conversation is ridiculous. Our sharing air in this elevator is ridiculous.
“Answer my question.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. We step into the foyer of my condo, and I reach for the letter, but she holds it from my grasp like a bully on a playground.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why’s this different than half the weird fan mail Tom gets?”
Bella swallows and drops her gaze to the paper again. “Have you talked to Courtney or Jo lately?”
Courtney or Jo. The reminder makes the contents of my stomach curdle. This woman didn’t just steal my husband, she stole my life—including my best friends. Courtney and Jo were my costars on Roommates, and my best friends in this city until Bella swooped in and stole them out from under me. I open my mouth to make some smartass comment about it when she lifts her eyes to mine and I see her panic. “I haven’t seen them since the SAG Awards last winter.” It hurts me to admit that, but not as much as it hurt to be around them and know Bella’s a better fit for their lives than I am. As much as I wanted to, I never clicked with them.
“They’ve been getting these too,” Bella says, running her thumb over one of the daisies. “I had lunch with them last week. We were talking about weird things that happened with fans, and somehow Court and Jo put two and two together and realized they were getting the same notes.” She holds the letter higher and turns it to me. Her hand shakes. “Jo had a picture of one of hers. It looked just like this.”
“A Roommates fan, obviously,” I say. “Why does this have you so freaked out?”
“Court was supposed to meet me for breakfast this morning, and she didn’t show. She’s not answering her phone either. I went to the police and they said they can’t consider her missing yet.”
Missing a social event isn’t like Courtney at all, but everyone has off days. “You’re sure you were supposed to meet her today?”
“Yes. Today. She wanted to talk to me about . . .” She drops her gaze to the floor and swallows. “I don’t think she cared for my interview.”
Something surges in my chest—the mini-triumph of knowing your friend is sticking up for you.
“I came here because I thought maybe you convinced her to ditch me.” She stares at me for a long minute.
“She’s not with me. Like I said, I haven’t seen her for months.”
“I hoped that she was with you. Because I believe she’s missing. Like for real missing. Maybe it has something to do with those letters.” She flicks her wrist and waves the paper. “These letters.”
I fold my arms against the chills racing up my spine. I have to admit that maybe Bella was right to come here. “That’s really creepy. Have you talked to Courtney’s husband?”
“He’s in Vegas. Hasn’t talked to her since last night. He’s coming home today to head in to talk to the police. In the meantime, Jo handed over the letters in case there’s a connection and hired a security guard.”
“Maybe she got trashed at some club last night and hasn’t slept it off yet.” At Bella’s look, I shrug and say, “Or maybe something bad happened. We don’t know yet.” I take the letter back from her and lay the stack of mail on my entry table. “Thanks for letting me know. Please give me a call if you hear from her.”
Bella stares at me for a beat, then she slides the sunglasses back onto her face, presses the button, and steps back into the elevator.
I’ll have to give Jo a call and let her know I’ve been getting the letters too, but I’m not convinced there’s a connection between them and Courtney missing breakfast this morning. This isn’t the first time we’ve all gotten attention from the same nut job, and frankly, these letters aren’t nearly as creepy as a lot of the others I’ve gotten. Even so, I’ll take them to the police. Better safe than sorry, as they say.
First, I need a shower and a venti triple latte.
But my plans fizzle away when I walk into my bedroom. There on the bed are dozens of daisies with the petals removed and scattered around each stem. Above the headboard, written in red lipstick, are the words Loves Me Not.
* * *
Cade
“Is actress Janelle Crane having an affair with a married man? Or is her real passion for this hunky small-town cop?” the woman on the television above the bar asks. “All the details after this break.”
Lizzy Bradshaw hops off her barstool, and throws a napkin at the screen and scowls. “I swear these gossip journalists have nothing better to do with their time than spread lies that ruin people’s lives.”
Sam, her husband, wraps his hand around her arm, tugs her into his side, and whispers something into her ear that makes her giggle, sigh, and then melt into him.
She looks to me. “Sorry about my outburst. I’m still a little bitter.”
“Don’t apologize to him,” Hanna says from the other side of Sam. “I think he believes the crap they’re saying about Elle.” She lowers her voice. “I think he broke up with her this morning.”
I clench my teeth. “Why do you assume there was anything to break?”
“We saw you two at the party last night,” Liz says. “You two hid it well before, but once we saw you together, the truth was clear.”
I have to shake m
y head. The naïveté of the people in this town. I swear. “She’s got you believing exactly what she wants you to believe.”
“Are you saying my sister-in-law is lying to me?” Hanna says.
I shrug. “LA is a different world. You don’t know what people are like there.”
“Oh man,” Sam says. “You didn’t just say that.”
“Janelle is a sweet girl,” Hanna says. Her face turns red. “This is about what happened with Tom, isn’t it?”
“He was my husband first.” Fuck, I don’t know if the woman is having an affair, and I don’t much care, but she’s clearly still hung up on the man.
“She kissed him and you’re hurt,” Hanna says.
“I’m hurt?” I take a deep breath and remind myself I’m not going to get involved in another Hollywood web of deception. But fuck, how long exactly has Janelle been telling people we were together? Who does that?
But I already know the answer to that question because I’ve been the schmuck before. Actresses will do whatever they have to if it means manipulating the media. It’s like a game to them.
“How could you believe this crap they’re saying about her?” Liz asks. “She didn’t sleep with her ex.”
“It was just one kiss,” Hanna adds. “And I’m not saying you shouldn’t be hurt—”
I hold up a hand. “Spare me, okay?” I turn back to the screen and the commercial for a Magic Mop.
“What did you say to her this morning?” The question comes from right by my ear, and I turn to see Hanna standing next to my stool. “What made Janelle catch the first plane out of here while there were still tears in her eyes?”
Sam clears his throat. If there’s a universal guy code for “I’m not getting involved but I suggest you tread carefully,” Sam’s speaking it.
And I’ve officially had enough. Standing, I pull my wallet from my back pocket and throw some cash on the bar. “Have a nice night.”
I’m halfway to my car when my phone rings. I’m not in the mood to talk, but the call is coming from the precinct in LA where I used to work, so I take it. “Watts speaking.”
“Cade, it’s Gormong. How are you?”
“Great. What’s going on?”
Gormong releases a long breath. “Listen, she doesn’t know I’m calling you, but your girlfriend’s here at the precinct.”
“My girlfriend?”
“Janelle Crane? I thought you might want to come out.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. Now she’s telling my old friends we’re together. I’m going to LA, all right. I’m going so I can strangle one infuriating actress and demand she put an end to this nonsense story before I have to do it myself.
“Yeah, sorry. I don’t blame you for wanting to keep it quiet. My wife told me about you two, though. She saw it online and was pretty excited. Anyway, Janelle doesn’t know I’m calling you, but I knew you’d want to know.”
“Know what, exactly?” I don’t bother trying to hide the irritation in my voice.
There’s a long pause, and when he speaks, his voice is low, as if he doesn’t want anyone but me to hear what he’s saying. “Someone’s threatening her, Cade. Some fucker has been sending letters to all the girls from Roommates, one of whom is potentially missing as of this morning. In the meantime, someone broke into Janelle’s condo. Judging by the flowers, we think that happened sometime yesterday afternoon or evening.”
“Is she okay?” I don’t want to care, but my stomach clenches despite myself.
“She’s fine. He was gone when she got there, but he left evidence of his visit. He didn’t damage anything. I think he was just trying to send a message. We’re looking into it, but her building has the best security in town and still the perp got in. I didn’t think you’d want her staying alone.”
My stomach cramps hard as memories of Cara steal my breath. She may have hurt me, but I failed her when she needed me most. I can’t fuck up like that again.
“Don’t let her leave the station,” I hear myself say. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter 5
Janelle
It’s fair to say that I’m freaked way the fuck out.
They were just daisies. I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that. Just daisies. Harmless flowers picked apart the way they might be by a child, but they were on my bed, in my home, in a place no one but I am supposed to be able to access. And that message written over the headboard?
“Here. Drink this,” someone says, and I look up. Tom shoves a cup of coffee into my hands. I haven’t seen him since our ill-conceived dinner. He looks smaller, older maybe. He seemed so strong and handsome before, but now I can’t help but compare his shoulders to Cade’s broader ones, his voice to Cade’s huskier one. “Venti triple latte,” he says. “Thought you could use it.”
“Is it spiked?” I ask, attempting a smile.
He looks around the police interview room—from the stark walls to the single table where I’m sitting. “It crossed my mind, but that might be frowned upon here.”
“Thanks.” He always was good at the little things—remembering how I take my coffee, what wine I prefer, and my favorite perfume. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to meet Bella. She’s heading up the search party efforts for Courtney.”
A chill runs through me, and then it’s not a chill anymore. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. It’s nearly six a.m. I’ve spent all night at the station, most of it in this same room where I gave my statement hours ago. The officer who interviewed me told me I could stay as long as I wanted, and I’ve taken him up on that. I’m nearly delirious with exhaustion, but I don’t think even a week of sleep could calm my fried nerves.
Someone broke into my home and Courtney has officially been missing for twenty-four hours. The scene in my bedroom gave them reason to think there might be foul play, so the police have been handling her case as a possible abduction since I called yesterday. “What if he . . . What if I . . . Maybe if I’d been home Courtney would be . . .” My thoughts jump and scurry around like a frantic squirrel in traffic. Every direction brings me to a path I simply can’t contemplate.
“Breathe, honey.” Tom pulls out a chair and turns it to face me. He settles in and studies me. “Elle. Breathe.” He says my name softly, the way he used to when we were in bed together. As if I’m precious to him. As if I’m the best gift he’s ever been given. I do as instructed, inhaling to the count of five and exhaling the same, repeating until the shaking subsides.
Part of my brain protests that Tom is the same lying cheater who broke my heart three years ago, but I can barely hear that part over the rest of my mind. I’m tired and scared and want nothing more than to curl into the arms of my husband—ex-husband. I can imagine what it would feel like so vividly it’s almost painful. If he were allowed to comfort me, I’d rest my head on his shoulder and take a deep breath until my head was filled with his scent. If he were still my husband, I could pretend I was safe.
The door clicks and Officer Gormong enters the room. He looks as tired as I feel. “We found her,” he says softly.
I straighten. “Courtney? Is she okay? Where was she? Did you find the guy sending the letters? Is there a connection?”
He clears his throat. “She’s giving a statement now, but I can tell you we found her returning to her home, and she doesn’t have any visible physical injuries.”
“Her house? Where was she? Did she—” I stop when Gormong gives me a look. “May I see her after she’s done?”
“Of course.” He drags a hand through his hair, then his eyes ping-pong between Tom and me. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Better now that I know Courtney’s safe.”
Something crosses over his expression. “Well, I’m right outside if you need me.” He gives a meaningful look to Tom before shooting me a final nod. He turns on his heel and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Next to me, Tom
exhales heavily. “Thank God.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “You okay?”
“I feel like someone just hauled the elephant off my chest.”
Courtney’s safe. No. Gormong’s face changed when I used the word safe. I’d guess he wouldn’t choose that word. No visible physical injuries. That’s a far cry from safe, isn’t it?
“Janelle,” Tom says. His eyes look sad. They really do. They’re the eyes of an old dog stuck at the pound, one who’s too afraid to let himself wish but can’t help hoping. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see, what I want to believe. Is it so awful when I’m this scared and alone to let myself imagine that my once-husband was telling the truth that night? Is it so wrong to wish the only man I’ve ever loved really meant it when he said leaving me was the biggest mistake of his life?
But I can’t think about that now. I can’t have Tom. So I push away those thoughts and focus on the only thing that matters. Courtney.
“They found her,” I say. I need to hear those words out loud again and again. I didn’t expect to say them so soon. I don’t want to admit what I’d imagined we might be saying instead.
Tom takes my hand and squeezes it. I don’t pull away. “This is so hard,” he says.
“What’s hard?” I study our joined hands.
“Sitting here when I want to hold you.”
“Tom—”
“I know. I won’t. I’ll behave. But we never got to talk about what happened at the restaurant.”
He’s the same lying cheater, I remind myself. But I’ve always had one hell of a time with perspective when it came to this man. “There’s nothing to talk about.” I swallow and lift my chin. Don’t let him sweet-talk you. “You lied to me and made me look like a fool.”
“Just hear me out.”
I pull my hand from his grasp. “Seriously? No way.”
“Am I really so despicable that I don’t deserve five minutes of your time to explain myself?”
“Not right now, and maybe not at all.” Jesus. Does he realize what’s happening here? He always did make everything about him.
