by Bishop, Ally
Fiona’s number on my phone rouses me from my inventive theories.
“I have good news and bad news, sweetpea. Which d’ya want first?”
“How about alphabetical order?”
Fiona chortles after a brief pause. “I knew I liked you. But I only do A-B-Cs for a fee, so I’ll just lay it on you: the butler did it.”
Her cheesy joke forces a smile on my face. “Haha. Okay, give it to me straight.”
“I ran a few quick checks on the list you sent me today, as well as the one you gave me yesterday. The good news is the folks you work with have clear records.”
My heart sinks. “Which means Noah’s the obvious suspect.”
“I’m afraid so, darlin’. I’m going to do a bit more checking on the list you sent me earlier, as I didn’t have time to do more than a cursory search. And I don’t have in-depth details to begin with. But if I had point the finger at someone to investigate…”
“I was afraid of that.” I don’t know what else to say, so we sit on the line, only the soft shush of cell phone interference between us.
Fiona breathes a sigh. “You know, my daddy had a colorful background. We’ll say it politely for the sake of today’s story, but trust me when I say, I know something about loving someone with a penchant for other people’s things. One thing I did know was when he was telling me a tale. I didn’t want to admit it, mind you, not for many years. And that man could sell snow to Eskimos, sweetpea, let me tell you. But hindsight really is twenty-twenty, as they say. And I knew, as sure as I know my little girl’s sweet face, when he was telling stories.”
I appreciate her attempt to soften the blow. “Don’t get me wrong, Noah’s given me reason over the years to want to think less of him.” I bite my lip, pondering her words. “I might be blind to it. I can’t say I’m always the best judge of character. But I really don’t think he lied, Fiona. And it was eight years ago. There’s been no indication of anything like that since.”
“Fair enough. I don’t envy your position, that’s for damn sure. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
“Fiona,” I say quickly before she hangs up. “I’ll pay you to keep digging. Whatever the next step is: do that.”
“Will do, sugarplum. I’m on it.”
Regardless of what else Fiona finds, I need to have a conversation I really don’t want to have.
CHAPTER 18
FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS DRINK & DIAL
I wait until Noah stumbles downstairs in search of food.
“Hot tea?” I ask as he slumps at the kitchen table.
“Please.” He crosses his arms on the tabletop and rests his head on them. “I feel like death.”
“We could probably get you a walk-on role as a corpse on CSI this week,” I tease.
He coughs, a racking, vicious sound that makes his chair squeak.
“Then again, maybe not.” I turn on the burner beneath the teapot, then join him at the table with a pad and pen. “I need to talk to you.”
He narrows a groggy eye at me. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I shake my head. “It’s not good.”
He pulls himself upright, though he still lists to the right a bit. “What is it? What happened?”
I inhale, wishing I didn’t have to tell him right now—at all, really. “A valuable comic book was stolen from Ian Crane’s apartment Saturday night. There’s every chance it happened while we were there.”
It takes a few moments, and then suspicion gathers his brows. “And you think I had something to do with it.”
“No, I don’t. But everyone will because of your background. So I need to know what you remember from that night.”
He sits still for a moment, until a cough won’t let him be pensive. When he recovers, he pins me with a hard stare and details his memory of that night. I take notes, trying to compare what he remembers to Justin’s version. They seem close, though he thinks Justin went downstairs before him.
“I was getting sick, so I’m not sure.” He shrugs, his voice emotionless.
I fix the tea, then rejoin him with a cup for both of us. “I’m not blaming you, Noah.”
“You’ve said that already.” Despite the rasp in his voice, the hard edge cuts me.
“I know. And I’ll keep saying it. I don’t believe you did this. But you are the only person who was present who has a background. I have to question you.”
“Why you and not the police?”
I bite down hard on my inner cheek, determined not to cry. “Because I’ve been seeing Ian, and I asked him not to call, to give me a week to see if I could figure out what happened.”
“Wait,” Noah holds up a hand, “you’ve been dating Ian Crane? Seriously? The guy’s a total asshole.”
My lip is going to be bloody if I keep pressing my teeth into it, but I recognize Noah’s mulish expression. He’s already decided what he thinks of Ian, and it will take an act of God to change it. “I understand how you might have that view, but—”
“Don’t act patronizing towards me.” Noah bites off the words. “That creep’s been all over the news with his shitty behavior. You haven’t Googled him?” When I don’t answer, he shakes his head. “Jesus, Ella. Haven’t you learned? Do you really need this lesson? He’s a goddamned two-timer. Why the hell do you think Mia What’s-Her-Name broke up with him? That was on the front cover of almost every magazine.”
My mind reels with his words, but I force rational thought forward and away from Ian. “Regardless, Noah, it’s why the police aren’t involved. Not yet, anyway. I have a private investigator doing some research for us. I need to know if there’s anything else,” I work hard to keep my gaze impassive, “you need to tell me.”
He hacks again, his whole body shuddering with effort. Then he glares at me, betrayal hot in his eyes. “No, Ella. I have nothing to confess. I didn’t take anything.” He stands up, probably wishing he could move a bit more fluidly to add to his point, but instead he has to hold himself upright as he sways on his feet. “I’m not the one here who has anything to admit to. But clearly you need to have an honest conversation with Crane.” He seems to lose his steam.
“Noah, you know how the gossip columns love to—”
“No, Ella. Not every paper, not when there are pictures to prove it.” He wags his head slowly. “I don’t get it. How can you be so damn smart and so damn gullible at the same time?”
His words smack hard. He leaves the kitchen, and I’m vaguely aware of his footfalls as he returns to his room.
I sit at the table, unable to make myself get up or go be productive. It’s easy to forget the pain you put others through when you’ve moved past it. After all, it was your sorrow, and in the midst of our suffering, we are often at our most selfish, pulling all of our energies inward to comfort our misery. Despite our largely unequal relationship due to age and personality, it was Noah who had to nurse me through losing Jonathan. Despite Noah’s hatred for him after the fact, Noah listened as I cried, held me when I vomited from the intensity of the emotion, and tucked me into bed when I’d been so overcome with sorrow, I was nearly comatose.
I don’t handle breakups well.
So while his words smart, they aren’t unfair. I should know better. Especially since I’ve been seeing someone who is in the public eye.
With mechanical movements, I go to my computer and pull up a search page. And with surprising detachment, I scroll through all the “news” about Ian. He’s usually in the background, with Mick as the focus. But after a few clicks, I discover the images that Noah referred to. A gorgeous blonde—who might have been mistaken for Mia Tratori at first glance—straddles Ian, her long hair blowing in the breeze. The photographer got close-ups, proving that this woman was definitely not Ian’s supermodel girlfriend. I would argue this woman is actually prettier, but I’ve never been a fan of Mia Tratori, even when she hit the big time. Every photo offers a different angle, different moments in time, as the two kissed, laughed, and tou
ched each other.
I keep searching, finding every article I can on Ian and Mia’s breakup. The stories detail their relationship, their common interests, the woman who drove them apart. Images of Mia sobbing pepper the articles, her statements about the situation—”we ask that the public respect our request for privacy as we work through the difficult end of our relationship”—and later, her reflections as to what went wrong—”we both worked long hours. Of course, I thought we could make it. I was in love, but for some people, love isn’t enough to pull them through temptation.”
Each word is like a dagger thrust right into my heart.
I down a shot of vodka—okay, two— before I have the guts to call Ian. Not that I should. I have plenty of other things to worry about, besides whether or not my soon-to-be-former lover cheated on his ex-girlfriend. But logic isn’t running the show.
“Hey,” he answers, his voice soft and sexy, though concerned.
“Why’d you cheat on Mia? Was the other woman really that much hotter? I mean, I’ll give you she was more attractive, but really?”
“Ella, what are you—”
“And you knew you’d get caught. I know cheaters like to think they’re so clever, and that the rest of the world won’t catch on, but really, we do.” The alcohol launches my temper higher and harder than I thought possible. “So why? I never really got to ask Jonathan that question, so I’m asking you: why’d you do it?”
“I’m not sure we should—”
“Answer. Me.” I raise my voice, aware that I’m starting to sound shrill, but I don’t really care. Score one for Grey Goose.
“Ella, I’d rather talk about this in person.”
“Fuck that,” I sneer. “I want to know now. How long until you do the same to me? I’m way more gullible than Mia. Promise. I never see it coming. I go along like a good little girlfriend, doing everything you ask of me, until you fuck me over—literally. So how long?”
“Ella, you’re drunk, I can hear that. And you’re upset over the situation. I understand that. Why don’t I—”
“How long?” I scream into the phone, tears spilling over my cheeks. “What gave you the right? You son of a bitch. You couldn’t just break up with her? Tell her it was over, and then go fuck whomever you wished? God. Men.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t even know if he’s still on the line.
I’m sobbing now, hiccupping so hard I can barely get the words out. “G-go ahead: call th-the police. I don’t g-give a f-fuck. My b-brother didn’t st-steal from you. That I know for sure. I-it was probably one of-of your f-friends.” I can’t shake the image of the “other” woman sitting astride him, mouths slanting, caught in the heat of the moment by an ill-timed camera. “D-don’t call me e-ever again.”
I throw my phone across the room, satisfied by the sharp crack when it hits the wall.
Lux finds me passed out on our couch.
“Holy shit, Sherlock. I figured I better come check on you when no one answered my multiple texts.”
I open bleary eyes as her cool hand rests on my forehead. “I’m not sick. Just drunk.”
She picks up the vodka bottle, eyeing its contents. “I can see that. I think you downed half the bottle. Are you going to throw up?”
I nod carefully, already feeling the nausea crawling up my throat. She gets the trashcan to me in time, and thankfully, I didn’t eat much today, so there isn’t much left in me. Lux disappears into the kitchen, returning when I’m done retching.
“Try some of this,” she says as she hands me a glass of iced ginger ale.
“The emergency stash has been breached,” I joke weakly.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re the only person I know that gets hangovers within an hour of drinking. You should never drink more than one cocktail. Ever.”
I test the spicy soda on my tongue, debating whether or not I can keep it down. “I’m pretty sure I should never drink again, period.” I swallow cautiously, giving it a minute before trying another small sip.
Lux holds up my phone, spider web-like cracks shattering the screen. “I’m guessing this happened while drunk?”
I groan. “Shit. I really, really shouldn’t drink ever again.”
“The good news is that if it’s just the screen that’s damaged, it’s a pretty easy fix,” she says, laying the phone on the coffee table.
“No. No, it’s not.” I stare morosely into the fizzing soda bubbles.
Lux sits down beside me and leans back. She must’ve been worried: she’s in jeans and a sweatshirt, her face clean of makeup, her hair in a messy bun. I think she’s even more attractive this way, if that’s possible.
“I get the distinct impression this isn’t about a cracked phone screen.”
I shake my head.
“You called Ian while you were drunk, didn’t you?”
I nod miserably. “After Googling his breakup with Mia Tratori.”
“Oh.” Her voice is appropriately somber. “How did that go?” she asks slowly.
“Not well. I might have screeched obscenities at him…” the memories return with unfortunate details, “… blamed him without letting him explain his side…” I squeeze my eyes shut, “…and told him to call the police because one of his friends probably stole from him.”
“You didn’t tell him about Noah—”
She breaks off when I nod. “Sort of.”
“Oh boy.”
“And the worst thing is that I feel like I just kicked an injured puppy. Ian’s been nothing but generous to me the entire week—open, kind, funny. Which only makes me angrier. He’s a cheater, but I can never spot it, Lux. Ever. I’m the idiot who trusts that people are who they say they are.”
She puts her arm around me and pulls me into a hug. “Ells, you’re a good person. You believe in people. That’s what makes you, you. But don’t…” She sits up and takes my hands, which feel numb with cold. “Listen, I work in an industry that doesn’t allow for the truth to dominate in all relationships. Some people have to hide who they are to keep their families together, to keep their reputations, to meet a social norm in their private lives. Right or wrong, it’s how things are. And there are many reasons why people cheat. Jonathan is an asshole. He chose his path, and I give him no excuses. He wanted everything for himself, and he didn’t care who he hurt.”
I open my mouth to interject, but she shakes her head. “Let me finish. I don’t know Ian. I’ve never met the guy. And while you aren’t always adept at spotting assholes, I do think you see the best in people, and you’re usually right. So there’s something to this guy that attracted you—and it wasn’t just that he’s hot.” She winks with a small grin. “I’m not saying you should open yourself up to be hurt, but maybe you should hear his side of things. The media is…well, the media. And they have a tendency of shaping things in ways that allow only one interpretation. Maybe he did cheat on Mia, and maybe he regretted it. Or maybe there’s another explanation. I don’t know if I’d want the bright spotlight of newspapers on my every move, as I’m sure some of the things I’ve done over the years wouldn’t paint me in a very good light.”
I can’t argue that. But it doesn’t do much for the uncertainty in my gut. Did I just destroy something worthwhile, or did I just protect myself from getting hurt again?
“Are you going to be okay while I go check on Noah?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Trashcan at the ready. But he’s got the plague, so I wouldn’t get too close.”
Lux returns moments later. “He’s out. And Evan’s got something with the band tonight, so I’ve got a night free. So are we watching Buffy DVDs or Firefly?”
I manage a grin. “You pick.”
But even the antics of Buffy and the gang aren’t enough to soothe the ache in my chest.
CHAPTER 19
AND THE TRUTH SHALL...MAKE YOU MISERABLE
Lux sleeps in my room, as I wanted to stay on the couch. I doubted I would sleep, and I was right. Instead, I spend th
e night mulling over everything. About Ian. About Elementary. About Noah. I don’t have any conclusions by the time the sun pushes through the curtains, and that leaves me restless. So I make a full breakfast with bacon, eggs, and toast, and though sullen, Noah joins Lux and me at the table.
“You look better,” I say, despite his hair sticking up in all directions.
He grunts in my direction but stays quiet.
Lux rolls her eyes. “You know what, you spoiled brat, cut it out.” She smacks his arm. “That woman has babied you, got your medicine for you, and made you a huge breakfast. Stop being mad at her.”
By the dark look on his face, I think he’s going to snap at her, but the corners of his mouth flicker with a hint of a smile. Then he sticks his tongue out at her.
“Only if you’re going to use it.” She makes a grab for his mouth, and he nearly falls off the chair avoiding her hand.
“Children, no playing at the table,” I tease loudly. But my heart skips a beat. I can hardly stand when Noah’s mad at me, and Lux is coaxing him out of it.
By the end of the meal, Noah’s not staring daggers into my back, which gives me hope.
“I can do some work today,” he says as we clear the table.
“Only if you feel up to it. I’ve a call out for your understudies, so I’m waiting to hear back from them.”
He nods. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be up for a show until next week.”
His voice rasps over the words, and I can’t disagree. He does seem a bit better, but he’s still pale and leaning on the chair to stay upright.
“Why don’t you work on the invoices for this week, and then we’ll see how you feel?”
He wanders to his desk, and I mouth to Lux: “Thank you.”
She waves a hand and checks her phone. “All right, you crazy kids. Evan’s texting me to find out where I’ve landed, so I better get home. I have a client appointment in a few hours anyway. But play nice. Stay out of trouble.” And she leans close to whisper, “Maybe call Ian and hear his side of things?”
