by Meg Collett
She crouched outside Bode’s office, glanced in either direction down the hall, and then carefully slid the mic under his door. With the carpet, it was a tight fit, but she wedged it under and hoped the audio would be clear. She checked the volume on her tablet and hit the red button in the recording app.
The offices were soundproof. They wouldn’t hear her out in the hall, but she wouldn’t know when Maddox was leaving until the door swung open and he stepped on top of her. She’d have to time her departure just right. She wanted enough information, but not enough to get caught.
She scanned the hall again. It was a shorter one, positioned between cast bedrooms. There was no reason for anyone to come down this section—she hoped.
A few minutes passed. She bit her lip, counting in her head. Her nerves coated her palms with sweat, and her heart pitter-pattered. She breathed deep, her lungs expanding evenly in her chest. Goose bumps spread along her arms. It was exciting.
She felt alive.
A reckless grin tugged at her mouth. One more minute and she’d leave. She had to account for Maddox’s nervous stuttering and his constant need to pause and munch on antacids. After that press conference, she figured he was popping a lot of pills.
She wished she could have recorded more than audio. If she had video, she could have seen when the meeting had ended and Maddox was leaving. Instead, she stared at her tablet’s blank screen and hoped she knew enough about her mic to make it work.
She’d counted to forty seconds when a door slammed down the adjoining hall.
She startled, nearly fell over backward, and lost her grip on the mic.
Swallowing a gasp, she stuck her fingers back under the door and spread them wide, reaching, reaching. Dread washed over her in waves, capsizing any foolish excitement she’d felt seconds ago. She hooked her index finger and ran it along the door’s seam.
There.
Her fingertip brushed the mic, but it was dangerously close to slipping out on the other side of the door. If she even touched it, she’d lose it, and everyone inside the office would see a tiny black mic slide across the floor.
Had she heard someone walking down the adjoining hall? If she had, they’d be crossing in front of the shorter hall’s opening at any second. They’d see her crouched there, with her hand stuck under VidaCorp’s Head of Security’s office door.
She fiddled her fingers and reached a fraction farther under the door.
Please don’t see my hand, she prayed. Please, don’t—
She had it! The mic emerged on her side of the door, and she scooped it up. Hitting “End” on her recording, she stood and strode down the hall.
The tablet and mic were tucked safely under her arm as she rounded the corner. The hall was empty. She’d heard no one.
She paused. Should she go back? Had she recorded enough of their conversation? Bode wouldn’t tell Maddox much because the producer had no clue the Whitebirds had infiltrated his show, but she knew Bode wouldn’t tell her anything about Bolivia if it meant keeping a secret for his brother. Asking Hazen was off the table; he’d only yell at her to stay focused on finding the Whitebird insider.
But if she figured out what happened in Muja and VidaCorp’s involvement, then she might understand the Whitebirds’ motivation for going after VidaCorp. Maybe the Whitebirds were trying to tell the world something about VidaCorp. If she knew what, she could create a more complete profile of who the insider might be.
All those investigation shows she’d watched with Mak were paying off. Wren spun on her heels, nearly grinning again, ready to keep recording.
Around the corner, Bode’s door opened and Maddox’s voice spilled into the hall adjacent to the one she stood in. Wren froze.
“—best to keep it contained.”
“There’s only so much I can do,” Maddox said.
“He’s got enough on his plate, so just deal with this.”
Wren backed away from the corner and Bode’s snapped words. He spoke to Maddox as if the show’s field producer were an unpaid intern hired to fill coffee orders. She’d been right: the Whitebirds’ latest attack had revealed a side of Bode she’d never seen before, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t trust it.
Maddox said, “Yes, sir.”
Wren turned and hurried back to her room.
Closing her door behind her, she released a long breath. Roman and Hutton were still gone. She was partly surprised Hutton hadn’t tracked her down after the press conference. As for Roman, he ghosted around as much as Bode.
She went to her desk, slumped into the chair, and hit play.
A hiss of static sounded from her mic adjustments. Then, as the mic settled, she heard their voices. Hitting pause, she grabbed a pair of headphones from the desk, plugged them in, and cranked up the volume.
“—going on now?”
She winced and turned down the volume after Maddox’s question nearly split her eardrums.
“We have it under control. Hazen wants you to focus—”
“Under control?” A pill bottle opened and a crunching sound filled the recording. “That’s what you call this? All the shit that rolls down VidaCorp’s hill will land right on the network!”
“Remember,” Bode growled, “that shit saved the network and your production company. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Maddox.”
A beat of silence followed Bode’s threat. Wren imagined Maddox’s brow dotting with sweat. He said, “Just tell me VidaCorp didn’t poison an entire town then blow up the evidence.”
Wren turned the volume back up in a hurry, her lips parting in hushed shock.
“You know better than that.” Something crumpled on Bode’s desk, hopefully not another tablet. “The town’s well was poisoned by the area’s drug cartel, who wanted us gone. We took the hint and left before anyone got sick. It wouldn’t have looked good for VidaCorp to be associated with all that, so we stayed silent on the matter.”
“And the equipment?”
“It was plastic and contaminated after the well was poisoned. We left it. It sounds like you’re questioning VidaCorp. Are you?”
Maddox was probably blustering, jowls shaking, and waving his hands about. “Of course not! It just looks bad, Bode. Even you can admit that. It looks like VidaCorp blew those rabid people to kingdom come.”
“It only looks bad because the Whitebirds are making it look bad. They blew that town up to frame us. When my spec-ops unit privatized after we were discharged, we were stationed there,” Bode said. “If you don’t trust me, then trust them. Danny died fighting for your freedom, but there are four other soldiers from my unit who will vouch for every word I’m saying. They’re all good men with the scars to prove it. Do you think they’d lie? We all saw the proof in the well, and no one was sick when we rolled out. I swear to you.”
“I believe you.” Maddox’s weight sank into a chair, the legs squeaking in complaint, and cursed. “What does Hazen want us to do?”
“He just sent me an email a few seconds ago.” Bode paused, likely scanning the email on his computer. “He’s getting the writers on new scripts. You need the cast talking about this by the next episode.”
“But we wrap it tomorrow!”
“This says they’ll have the scripts to you in the morning. Hazen wants it all filmed.”
“And I’m just supposed to restructure an entire episode in one day? It can’t be done!”
“You’ll do it, or we’ll find a field producer who can. Understand?” Bode paused, and Wren imagined Maddox’s grudging nod. “Have the cut downstairs by six. Hazen wants to see it before he leaves on a press tour.”
“Christ, Bode. Don’t you ever get tired of this? It can’t be worth it. You’re not even a holding—”
“Did you hear something?” Bode’s chair scraped back.
The mic’s muffled static cut off Maddox’s response, and a moment later, the recording ended.
Wren played it back twice. Each time she got no closer to figuring out what M
addox had been about to say or what the Whitebirds were trying to accomplish by showing the video. She believed Bode when he said his unit had left before anyone got sick, so who had set off the bombs, killing those people? The Whitebirds?
If so, Wren was in more danger than she’d thought.
25:
Wren arrived late to the morning’s call time.
She’d been up into the early morning hours, researching cast members who were in Bolivia two years ago. By the glow of her tablet, she’d lain in bed with Roman snoring softly beside her as she accumulated a list of suspects.
Admittedly, the list surprised her. Some names she’d expected, but others …
Maddox. Sloane. Roman. Foster.
Sloane had been there, and by extension, Hutton would have been there too. Something about their presence in Bolivia during the attack on Muja bothered Wren.
But Foster Banks had been headlining a special VidaCorp Charity Water Festival tour. His name stood out the most since he was actually associated with VidaCorp’s clean water effort. Wren had decided he was her prime suspect.
Cameramen were scattered downstairs, their camera rigs secured to their shoulders. Maddox stood in the set’s center, directing assistants and assigning sound operators to their camera teams. Handlers stood around their cast members and went over the day’s revised scene list. Everyone was talking about the press conference. Their whispered words of poisoned well and eating his face off and VidaCorp’s logo followed Wren as she descended the last few steps.
Hutton strode over to check Wren’s hair and makeup and tsked at the color of her lipstick, a sweet-smelling peach shade Wren had picked out with Daisy’s approval. “You look atrocious,” she said by way of greeting. “And you’re late. Not a good impression for the second day of filming.”
“It’s really not the morning, Hutton,” Wren warned.
“Not sleeping well with Roman dearest?”
“He snores.”
“That he does,” Hutton muttered as she pulled up the scene list on her tablet.
Wren started at Hutton’s words. She knew Roman snored? Did she also know he liked the center of the bed and draping a heavy arm across his companion’s waist, which Wren may or may not have savored? But the familiar gleam in Hutton’s eyes as she stared down at her tablet and pretended not to notice Wren’s surprise suggested she knew the conclusion Wren had come to.
Hutton had slept beside Roman.
If she wasn’t lying, that meant pretty much everyone on this show had slept together at least once.
“Would you mind if we got down to business?” Hutton asked too sweetly. “We only have a few minutes to go over the new list, and your scene is first.”
“By all means.”
Hutton’s skin stretched into a mockery of a smile—too wide and with too many teeth. Wren resisted a full-body flinch at the sight. If Sloane had held a sharp edge beneath her smiling visage, then Hutton had shark teeth snapping just below the surface of calm waters. “Did you enjoy your impromptu session with Roman yesterday?”
Wren grew wary. Hutton sounded too nice; Wren never trusted her when she sounded like that. “What does that have to do with my scenes?”
“Oh, nothing. Just girl talk, you know.” Hutton lowered her voice. “Was it good?”
“Nothing happened.”
Hutton lifted a shoulder, her dark skin shining beneath the lights. “That’s not what I heard. Maddox said it started off awkward and stiff, but heated up nicely. He said it reads very authentic on screen.”
Wren tasted her morning smoothie in the back of her throat. “Hutton, stop.”
“He’s a great kisser, isn’t he?” She pressed closer to Wren. “When he kisses your neck and sucks on the skin just the teeniest bit?”
Wren’s eyes flicked to the cameras positioned along the dining room ceiling. The green light wasn’t on, meaning they weren’t hot—luckily. Hutton was perilously close to pushing Wren out of character right in the middle of the set, surrounded by cast and crew.
“It wasn’t like that. Can we just—”
“Or what about when he licks your collarbone?” Hutton shivered, as though recalling a vivid memory of Roman’s tongue on her skin.
Wren told herself Hutton could have watched the footage. It was a simple explanation. It didn’t mean Roman had kissed Hutton the exact way he’d kissed her. It didn’t.
“Anyway!” Hutton exclaimed, and Wren jumped. “Let’s get back to your scenes. The press conference has everything out of order, but Maddox wants to start you and Roman out with some B-roll.”
“Like what?” Wren asked guardedly.
“Your first scene is a fight with Roman. Maddox wants to keep you two busy and on hand while the rest of the cast film their reactions to last night’s press conference. Once he sees how those go, he’ll know better what to do with you and Roman, so keep your argument vague. No specifics. This needs to be something that can be applied to multiple situations, should the need arise. Not every day can be bumping and grinding, right?”
Wren clenched her jaw and told herself not to play into Hutton’s antics. “We’re going to fight about nothing.”
“Don’t worry. You’re a natural. Just be as good as you were yesterday.”
“Right,” she said, feeling nauseous enough to puke right there on the silver-plated table.
“Sloane!” Maddox called from across the set. “You’re with me.”
He sent the other cast members off with different crews to film their new scripted scenes. Wren wiped her sweaty palms on the tight pants she wore. A gauzy blush-colored top flowed off her shoulders and exposed half her back. Tape secured it in multiple places, but Wren still felt like a whisper of wind could expose her.
Following her conversation with Hutton, Wren wanted a baggy sweatshirt to hide in.
Roman strode out of the kitchen, chewing on an apple. “Hey,” he said to her, the word flatter than Hutton’s stomach.
Wren told herself the too-casual greeting didn’t sting. “Morning.”
“What’s the plan, Mad-dog?” Roman asked and tossed the apple core into a nearby wastebasket.
Maddox jerked a bottle out of his pocket and thumbed out a few antacids. “Start over by the window. We can paint the glass in post if we need to change the time of day.”
They all crossed the room with their assigned camera team, a boom mic dangling in the air above them. Maddox arranged her and Roman by calling out directions from his chair in front of the monitor. “Just do what feels natural, and we’ll work off it. Begin whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ll start,” Roman said. “Just follow my lead.”
“Okay?” Wren adjusted her top and ran her fingers through her hair.
“You’ve got this.”
There. That sounded more like the Roman from yesterday. Some of her nerves dissipated. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Rolling!” Maddox called. “Quiet on set!”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Roman began. His jaw flexed, causing the scar on his cheekbone to squirm.
“Ah,” Wren stuttered, her thoughts freezing up and her legs going numb. All she could think about was how much easier it would be to kiss him. “Um.”
“Cut!” Maddox shouted. The crew reset their equipment.
Roman grimaced. “Not enough coffee this morning, Sloane? You never back down from a fight.”
Aware of the crew surrounding her, Wren attempted a glower. “I’m fine. Thank you. Unless someone wants to grab me a mint tea?” She glanced around. Almost instantly, an assistant scampered off toward the black hallways.
Roman chuckled.
“Again!”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Roman repeated. He’d gone back into character almost instantly, a shuttering of one person to become another. It was almost as flawless as Hutton’s acting.
Wren pinched the underside of her arm like Hutton had taught her. She gasped at the flash of pain and
tears pooled along her bottom lashes. “We’re talking about it. Right now.”
Her line almost sounded right, and no one called for a reset.
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing happened, Sloane.”
Wren remembered her fight with Vik, how the hurt and anger had taken Wren over when she defended Sloane. She needed to get into that place again. Wren knew it would hurt, but she pictured Hutton’s body against Roman’s, Hutton’s words ringing in her ears. Wren flung the door open to that well of pain.
“Do you think I don’t know?” she shouted.
Roman uncrossed his arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maddox nod and motion for them to continue.
“I’m not hiding anything,” Roman said. His growled words made the distance between them feel infinitely smaller.
“That’s obvious. You’re not even trying!”
“And you are?”
“More than you!”
He closed the space between them, and Wren had to lean back to meet his eye, but she didn’t retreat. Her blood roared through her veins. Had he slept with Hutton? Would he do that to Sloane? Would he do that to her?
Roman’s lips twisted into a snarl. “All you care about is the cameras. When you’re with me, you’re never really with me.”
Wren had only seen Sloane’s most cutting, vicious smile once, during the world war movie interview when she set up the interviewer and he fell perfectly into her trap. Wren understood that feeling of entrapment completely, because Roman had walked right into her dagger. She spread the smile across her face and laughed at him.
“Are you jealous of me, Roman?”
He jolted, the words landing like blows against his flesh.
“You hate that you need me,” Wren added before he could recover—a twist of the knife. The anger pooling in her belly approved. But Roman’s expression concerned her. He’d turned stormy, like a bank of clouds had darkened his face, and his eyes flashed with spears of lightning.
