by Diana Orgain
I jammed my key into the lock of the door and said, “Come on inside. I don’t really want anyone to see you here.”
He followed me inside and said, “Yeah, good idea.” He waved the folder around. “Besides, I have something for you.”
He didn’t wait for me to offer him a seat or a beverage; he just plopped down on the bench at my small table and placed the folder in front of him.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I can’t believe you’re still on this show,” he said.
I shrugged and sat across from him, reaching for the folder. “Do you have info for me or not?”
He laid a palm on top of the folder, keeping it in front of himself. “Oh, yeah, I have a full dossier.”
“On who?” I asked.
He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Tell me first why you’re still on the show. Paul loves you. He wants you back.”
This time I did snort, unable to contain myself any longer.
“He does,” Martinez said. “You two were good together—”
“No, we really weren’t. Now tell me what you’ve found. Is it about Aaron? Is it about Teresa Valens?”
Martinez was Paul’s right-hand man and he’d been doing the footwork while Paul had been in L.A.
“Teresa Valens was released on parole eighteen months ago,” Martinez said.
My blood rushed straight to my head, leaving me light-headed and a bit winded.
It’s true, then?
All this time, I’d suspected that was the case, but part of me was in denial. I supposed I hadn’t really thought it possible that she would be released.
“How come . . . how was it . . . I . . .” I pressed my hands to my temples and tried to form the right words. After a moment I asked, “Why wasn’t I notified about her release?”
Martinez shrugged his shoulders. “Lots of stuff was going on in the department eighteen months ago. Remember?”
It was true. We’d had a change of chief of police and I’d rocked the boat a little too hard by releasing departmental overtime expenses to the public. The chief hadn’t approved the release and it tarnished the reputation of the department. It had been a very stressful time, culminating in my Skelly hearing and then finally my termination.
My head was beginning to throb. “So do we know if Teresa Valens is going by the name Florencia these days?”
Martinez nodded. “Florencia Diaz.”
My head began to ache on a whole new level and I pounded a fist on the table. “Damn!”
“I know,” Martinez said. “I don’t think anyone really thought she’d come after you. After all, you weren’t the only arresting officer—”
“Well, she’s been in L.A. working as a makeup stylist for the last year and a half. Maybe she was trying to start fresh, but then our paths crossed again—”
Martinez grumbled. “Maybe you should get off the show . . .”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just pick Paul and be done with it?”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the worst decision you made in your life.”
Something inside me snapped. “What?”
Martinez ran a finger around the edge of the folder but said nothing.
“Listen,” I said. “Can you find out if Teresa or Florencia, or whatever the heck her alias is now, was at S.F. General the night Aaron died? One of the other makeup ladies told me she’d gone to San Francisco to visit a sick mother in the hospital or something.”
“I’m on it,” Martinez said. “I’ve asked the sheriff’s department to give me an accounting of everyone who went in and out of that hospital room.”
“Have you checked SFO flights? Can we confirm that she was even in San Francisco?” I asked.
“I’m working on that now,” Martinez said. “I’ve requested copies of records from LAX but that takes time.”
“All right. Let me know what you dig up,” I said, eyeing the folder and wondering why he wasn’t offering it up.
When Martinez remained silent, I asked, “You’ll let me know what you find out, right?”
He looked surprised. “Sure. Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”
Even as he said it, I could tell it was a lie.
Paul would be the first to know. Martinez was here for something altogether different. He was in it for Paul. For Paul to win. The money or me, I wasn’t sure.
God, what an awful feeling.
If Aaron was on the show for the money and Paul had taken his place, according to the rules, Paul would get the prize money.
Considering all the effort that Paul was putting into getting me back, could it be he was interested in the prize money?
My stomach churned and suddenly I didn’t feel good.
“What’s in the folder?” I asked.
Martinez covered the folder with his palm. “Thorn, I wanted you to be able to make an informed decision—”
“You did, Martinez? What’s it to you?”
His head bounced up and down quickly. “Well, I wanted you—”
I pushed his hand off the folder and grabbed at it. “Come on. You can’t snow me. You don’t care what kind of decision I make.”
He slammed his palm down on the folder again. “I do. Of course I do. We’re all rooting for you back at the station.”
“What a load of b.s. They don’t care about me at the station. They were happy I was fired.”
Not everyone. I knew that. I’d made friends on the force during the time I’d served, but many of them hadn’t shed a tear the day I left, and everyone who had been a friend of Paul’s had seemed to draw a silent battle line when we’d broken up.
“Let me see the folder,” I said.
He passed the folder to me and said, “I hope the information helps you, Thorn. I really do. I hope you make the right decision.” He leaned closer to me as he got up. “And you and I both know the right decision is to pick Paul.”
The Prevost door slammed behind Martinez and even though I was exhausted from the drive and filming, not to mention the emotional roller coaster of the day, I still got up and locked the door. It wouldn’t do to be caught reviewing contraband information by Becca or one of the techs, or by anyone else, for that matter.
I put on some water to boil and waited for my tea to steep before sitting down with the file. Playing a little game with myself about guessing what I’d find in it. I’d been hoping it would be information on Teresa/Florencia, but, judging from Martinez’s last comments . . . did he have information on the contestants? Could it be that I would actually know who was on the show for which motive?
The first pages were on Edward. He’d received excellent marks in medical school. Been recruited by the finest. Well regarded and well liked. Seemingly an outstanding citizen.
The only mark against him was his outstanding bills.
The dossier on Edward showed medical school bills of $250,000.
Exactly the amount of the prize money.
How convenient and easy it would be for him to win the prize and pay off his bills.
I sat with the information for a moment, sipping my tea.
I liked Edward. He seemed gentle and kind. But did I think we were a match in the long run? Probably not. He’d want a career in the city, and right now, living in the city was the last thing on my list. Not to mention, the pill popping. There was no future for me and a guy with a habit.
So if Edward was on the show for money, then the contest was really between Scott and Paul. Or better said, between Scott and Aaron.
The next pages in the dossier were on Aaron. He’d been a wealth management adviser, which, from what I gathered, was a fancy title for stockbroker. He also had a huge whopping bank account.
There’s wasn’t much information on his personal life, except that someone had filed suit against him. Well, if the guy had a lot of money, that wasn’t so unusual. Lots of vultures out there . . .
So had he come on the show for love?
Impatiently I flipped the pages; the
next part was on Ty. Martinez must have put this together before he’d known that Ty was out of the competition. I already knew Ty had been on the show looking for money, so I scanned the pages on him quickly. He’d won a few rodeos and invested the prize money poorly. His balance sheet and credit were ruined. I made a mental note to tell Becca.
She was a big girl and able to look out for herself, but still I felt it was something that I should at least share with her. Although, maybe she already knew. Who knew how much the contestants had already confessed in front of the cameras or otherwise?
The next pages were on Scott. My breath caught. I wanted so badly to find something in here that might justify my growing feelings for him. He was funny and smart and made me think, always keeping me on my toes with his unexpected remarks.
There was a list of his books. All bestsellers.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
He probably isn’t on the show for money.
Except that the figures on the bank accounts were low. Had he also invested his money poorly like Ty? Lost it all?
A nervous sensation rumbled through my belly and I tried to focus on the following pages, more on his career. Then a credit and background check, all clean. There was something that caught my eye, though. In the marital status column, it read, “single.”
Not widowed, not divorced, not married, but single . . .
Where was the marriage license record?
I flipped through the biography section near the list of his books. It said, “Scott lives in northern California with his beagle, Benny.” No mention of his wife.
Suddenly I felt like a stone was sitting in my stomach. If I was reading this correctly Scott had never been married.
What was all the talk about his wife who died from cancer?
All a lie?
Why? Maybe his novels hadn’t been so successful after all. Maybe he’d made bad investments like Ty. But one thing was clear: If he’d made up a dead wife, then he certainly wasn’t on the show to find love.
I felt so distressed that I ran to the bathroom feeling as if I could vomit at any moment.
But that would’ve been a mercy not allowed for someone like me.
I only dry heaved into the toilet, making my throat hurt and my head pound.
I’d asked for this problem and now I had it. Feelings for a guy who was a complete and total liar. I remembered our date at the carnival when he first told me about her, how his eyes had teared up and his expression of complete sorrow.
Now I felt foolish. Scott, the only guy out of ten that I was actually developing real feelings for, was in it to win the money.
Of course he’d told me a complete fiction! He was a writer. A novelist—that was what he did for a living. How naive could I get?
My nausea disappeared, replaced by a feeling of rage. My body shook and it felt like my blood was boiling. He was a horror writer and had carried out the worst horror upon me. A complete lie about having been married to a cancer patient.
A complete lie about losing a beloved wife.
Is it all a joke to him?
I washed my face with cold water, yet the heat rising inside me seemed unquenchable.
I wanted to see him now. Demand answers from him, pound my fists into his chest, hurt him like he’d hurt me.
The worst part, of course, was that I’d believed him.
What a fool I’d been.
Tears exploded from my eyes and I wept into my hands feeling more alone than ever. Why was it that when I was finally feeling hopeful about finding love, something like this would have to come along and crush me?
Martinez’s words echoed in my head. “Paul still loves you.”
My hands shook when I thought of Scott, and anger coursed through my body, but now, in contrast, when I thought about Paul I felt nothing. No aching in my chest, no hope for reconciliation, not even a zing of attraction.
I was more sure than I’d ever been that Paul and I were done.
Of my three remaining bachelors, there was Edward, who was likely in it for the prize money. Scott, who I’d been on the verge of falling in love with but now suspected was a total liar. And my ex-fiancé, Paul, who’d replaced the guy most likely looking for a love connection. Certainly America would be laughing at me.
My date the next day was set with Edward and Scott. How would I get through it? And was I really supposed to pick my ex at the end of the show?
Cheryl would be having a field day with me in the editing room.
I suddenly felt a burning need to talk to her. I wanted to cancel the whole show. But I knew it would never fly. If they refused to cancel the show for two deaths, it seemed unlikely that my wanting to back out because someone had lied to me would be a good enough excuse.
I felt angry with myself. Of course Scott had lied to me—that was the whole premise of the show, to see who could fool the stupid girl and get away with it.
Well, I wasn’t a stupid girl. I would get to the bottom of this. I may not have found love, but I wouldn’t be duped.
And I would figure out who had killed Aaron and Pietro. I wasn’t buying the Pietro suicide thing. The two deaths were connected, of that I was sure.
I was done following the rules. I’d get my dad to smuggle me in a smartphone. After all, he couldn’t be fired like Becca. I glanced at my watch. It was only seven forty-five. Still early enough to pay him a visit.
Twenty-four
I pounded on the door of my father’s hotel room and whispered, “Dad.”
While the cast and producers were staying in luxury at La Playa Carmel, Dad and most of the crew were stuck at a budget hotel. I didn’t want to be seen or heard by anyone, but I was desperate to see Dad. I knocked again on the door and called out a bit louder, “Dad!”
There was a significant amount of shuffling around behind the door, while all sorts of thoughts crept through my mind.
What if he isn’t alone?
He opened the door, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt. Totally not my dad’s normal farmer attire of flannel shirts and suspenders.
“Hey, peaches,” he said.
“You’re looking mighty spiffy tonight, Dad,” I said.
He laughed. “I guess I got into the L.A. scene a little.”
I squinted at him. “Are you going out tonight?”
“I am, honey, but I’ve always got time for you. Come in.”
“Got a hot date, Dad?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yeah.”
“With who?” I was already dreading his answer.
“With the little lady that’s running the show, Cheryl. She’s a hoot.”
The now familiar pit in my stomach returned. “Oh, I’m glad you like her,” I said, trying to remove the sarcasm from my tone. “I haven’t really been getting along with her.”
Dad seemed surprised. “Really? She seems to like you very much. Why aren’t you getting along?”
“She’s very domineering,” I said.
Dad grinned. “Well, she has to run the show. Sometimes in order for people to listen you have to—”
“Don’t go there,” I said.
He laughed. “I’m just saying sometimes a man likes a woman who knows her own mind.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is it serious?”
I tried not to let my face show the trepidation I felt. Of course I wanted him to be happy. He had a right to it, more than most, but I couldn’t picture Cheryl in my life after the show. A vision of her passing me the cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving was enough to send goose bumps up my spine.
He waved a hand at me. “I like her, but we just met, peaches.”
While I was growing up, after my mom had passed, Dad hadn’t dated very much, and while I certainly didn’t want to stand in the way of his finding true happiness, I was relieved that he’d said it wasn’t anything serious.
“I need a favor, Daddy.”
Dad’s face showed concern and he immediately replied, “What is it, honey?”
> I sat on the edge of his bed and pulled out the dossier that Martinez had brought to me. I handed it to Dad.
He took the folder from me and asked, “Should I pour us a bourbon?”
I nodded.
He crossed over to the small hotel fridge and pulled out two mini bottles of Jim Beam.
I grabbed his ice bucket. “I’ll get some ice.”
He took it from me. “No. I’ll go. It won’t be good if anyone spots you. You stay here.”
He returned quickly and I poured the bourbon while he opened the folder and peeked at the contents.
“What is this stuff on Teresa Valens?” he asked.
I brought Dad up to speed as best I could while medicating myself with bourbon.
He frowned when he came across Edward’s bills. “What’s this, Georgia?”
“The good doctor has medical school bills to the tune of $250,000,” I said.
“Isn’t that the same amount as the prize money?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
He took a sip of his drink. “Guess this means he’s on the show for money?”
“I guess so.”
He flipped over to Scott’s page. “What about the writer?”
“Doesn’t look like he has much money, either, but more importantly, he lied to me. Told me he’d been married and that his wife died of cancer.”
Dad frowned. “Why do you think that’s a lie?”
“The paperwork says he’s never been married.”
“Who put this together for you?” Dad asked.
“Martinez, Paul’s old partner.”
Dad frowned. “Oh. He’s got a solid motive.”
“What?”
“Can you trust this information?”
“Dad! Martinez isn’t going to lie to me.”
Dad’s face remained neutral. “He’s not? Didn’t he lie to you before about Paul?”
“What do you mean?”
“Martinez was the only one, besides Paul, who knew Paul wasn’t going to show up at the church. He stood there at the altar that day, playing us for fools.”
“He thinks I should pick Paul in the end,” I said.
Dad thumped a hand on the small hotel fridge. “No! Even if one of the others ends up with the prize money, so what? Better that than to pick Paul.”
