Petra fires, the bullet thunking into the frame of the bedroom door. There is no one there. Her hands shake, the gun loosening then falling from her grasp as she slips down the wall. The gun hits the floor first, and I fight my instinct to catch her, instead keeping my weapon up, trained on the empty doorway.
Michael must be in there.
I move forward slowly. When I am next to Petra, I glance down at her. A tranquilizer dart protrudes from her jacket. But it shouldn’t be able to penetrate that thick coat.
Her breath is coming easily, steadily. Fear races down my spine. She’s faking it.
Petra’s hands lay limp, pale against the dark softness of her long coat. Her face is relaxed, all the lines smoothed out of it. I return my attention to the bedroom entryway but keep Petra in my peripheral vision.
A movement on the floor beyond the doorway catches my eye, and the sharp sting of a needle hits my leg. He lay on the ground and shot me. Fuck.
I put out a hand, thumping into the wall, my vision blurring. Michael steps into the hall, a satisfied smile on his face. The edge of my vision darkens. I hold onto the wall, but it’s tipping sideways. I try to fire, but I’ve dropped my gun; my hands have gone numb.
Michael advances, slow and confident. I’m going to sleep and never wake.
My mother’s voice whispers in my ear… “I love you, my sweet boy.”
I failed her.
I slide down the wall, slumping against it in a pile of numb limbs. The weight of my eyelids bears down on me. Michael looms above, grinning, his face blurring from the tears pooling in my eyes.
The bang of a shot jolts me, and Michael stumbles back. Petra leaps after him, a blur of loose hair and flapping overcoat. A caged animal released.
My breath comes easily, my eyes drift almost shut. I can’t fight it.
Petra’s face, blood drops sprayed across her cheek, appears in front of me. She’s grabbing my shoulder, lowering me to the ground.
“Sleep, sweet Lenox,” she says. “I will take care of you.”
My eyes shut, my brain descends into darkness. But one last thought…a warning bubbles up from the depths of my mind...
She will betray you.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sydney
I should have gotten my period a week ago.
Buying the pregnancy test reminds me of my youth…of pregnancy scares with boyfriends. Of the flitter in my heart at the idea of becoming a mother before I was ready.
But this—this lack of ready—is nothing I could’ve imagined.
Mulberry is the father. I have no idea how to reach him. He will find me.
The pharmacy is bright and cold, the air-conditioning blasting as I step through the sliding glass doors. It’s hot in Miami today. Blue, Nila, and Frank follow me in, leashless as always. The woman behind the check-out counter widens her eyes but does not comment.
Dan
It only takes me a few moments to hack into the CVS camera. By then Sydney is moving down an aisle, her dogs in her wake. In blurry grayscale, their progress looks jerky, but I know if I was actually there in that CVS, I’d see how smooth Sydney’s movements are…how her dogs almost glide behind her.
She stops and turns to a display. I squint my eyes. What is she buying?
She picks up a box and reads it. On another screen, I pull up a layout of the store. Family planning. Is she buying condoms. But for who?
Sydney puts the box down and picks up another. She looks down the aisle, checking in both directions. No one coming. She turns the box, and that’s when I see it…a pregnancy test.
My heart starts to hammer and sweat breaks out on my palms. Holy shit.
Sydney turns to check out. Who the hell is the possible father?
Sydney
I pay with cash and accept the bag the cashier gives me. It’s so light. Stepping back out into the warm night, I turn toward the hotel. I couldn’t be anywhere near Robert’s house with this. Up in my room, I drop the key on the bed and pull the box out of the bag.
No time like the present.
In the bathroom, I read the directions. Hold the stick under my pee for five seconds. I do as instructed. If there is a plus sign in the first results window and a vertical line in the second, I’m pregnant.
Liquid seeps across the first window, and a horizontal blue line appears. In the second window a vertical line materializes. No plus sign.
I put the stick down on the countertop and glance up at my reflection then quickly back down to the test…where a second line has emerged in the first window. A cross.
An image of my mother’s face flashes before my eyes.
I’m pregnant.
I cover my mouth with a hand to stifle the sob welling up. My heart is thundering in my chest. I might be sick again. My eyes jump to my reflection. Is this joy? Am I happy? Terrified.
I have not felt fear like this since my brother died. I have not had this much to lose since then. My God. I’m pregnant.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for continuing the adventure with Sydney Rye! I know that’s a hell of an ending. You might hate me a little right now—maybe a lot. But the thing is, I don’t have much of a say on how these things go. I’m along for the ride as much as all of you.
When I started this series, I only knew a couple of things for sure—Sydney would be a killer and, at some point, become a mother. When James died in the first book, I cried like a baby. I didn't see it coming at all, but it gave Sydney the conviction to kill and began the process for how she evolves through the entire series. And I have no idea what’s going to happen with the next book. I’ll find out when I start writing it .
But explaining my writing process is not the real reason I’m including this note. It’s actually to talk about Ketamine. Maybe some of you raved your problems away with it in the 90’s, but for those of you who don't know about Ketamine, it’s a powerful drug that is now being used to treat depression and other mental health issues. Research is still being done about how and why it helps, but a couple of people very close to me have recently been treated with Ketamine and found it relieved their debilitating depression. It’s kind of a miracle, actually. It is even being administered in some Emergency Rooms for suicidal thoughts with great results.
Like I said, I don’t have a say in how Sydney Rye’s story goes, but we all have a say in our own stories. So, if you or someone you love is suffering from depression or other mood disorders, please look into Ketamine. There are clinics all over the United States and a lot of compelling research that it helps people.
It doesn’t work for everyone, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying. Even just trying to fight depression can help defeat it.
Be brave,
Emily
Sneak Peek
A Spy is Born, A Starstruck Thriller Book 1
I grip my keys, the point of one protruding between my knuckles. The entrance to my apartment is right after the dumpsters. Ten feet away. Water mists the air, swirling in grey tendrils, turning the dark alley foggy and creepy. Brick walls rise on either side of me, closing me in—the main street at my back is quiet, deserted. I’m so vulnerable.
Fear tickles over my skin, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. A scuffling comes from near my door and I freeze, my heart hammering. A shadowy figure steps out from behind the stinking trash dumpster. I freeze, breath gone, blood rushing loudly in my ears.
“Hey, cutie,” a man’s voice says behind me. There are two of them!
I whirl around, panic closing my throat, my fists tightening—one clutching my purse strap and the other my keys. My weapon. A tall man with greasy hair wearing a pea coat and a smug expression blocks my exit.
My gaze ping pongs between the two men. I know what they want. The shadowed figure by my door steps forward, revealing dark eyes and the low brow of a Neanderthal.
They move in unison, closing in on me. Pea Coat’s smug smile morph
s into a hungry grin as his gaze falls onto my heaving chest. Even through the trench coat I’m wearing, it’s obvious I’m stacked. That’s half the reason I got this job.
Crap. Stay in the moment.
I plant my feet, the stiletto thigh high boots I’m wearing both an asset and a liability—they affect my balance, but the sharp heel can hurt and even maim. Taking a deep breath, I bring my purse up fast and hard, whipping it at Neanderthal’s face. He steps back in mild, almost amused, surprise, and I lash out with my back leg at Peacoat.
My heel catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles back with a muttered curse. I pivot, twisting around, and stepping forward into a roundhouse kick that catches Neanderthal in the chin. The heel of my boot gouges him, and blood pours down his neck as he gives a cry of pain.
“CUT!!!”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward toward the actor playing Neanderthal. He is holding his chin, blood spilling between his fingers.
“What the hell, Angela?” Jack Axelrod, my director, asks from his perch above me—he and the camera woman, Darlene Jackson, are in a cherry picker, getting the scene from the air. A medic rushes up to Neanderthal.
“I’m sorry!” I yell up to him.
Jack shakes his head and says something to Darlene. She nods.
Please don’t fire me.
“Let’s take a break,” Jack says, waving his hand to be lowered to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, but no one is listening.
My manager, Mary Genovase, hurries over—heels clicking on the concrete floor, Birkin bag swinging from a well-muscled arm as she pushes past the medics. “Come on, Sweetie,” she says, taking my elbow. “Let’s get to your trailer.”
Her heavy floral perfume stings my eyes as I follow her. We move off the set, weaving through the equipment and stepping over cords. Mary pushes open the door of the studio, and bright LA sunshine blinds me for a moment. Mary keeps moving forward, talking the entire time. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to fire you for that.”
“Fire me?”
“They are not going to do that.” She pulls open my trailer door and pushes me up the few steps into the air conditioned, plastic-scented space. “Have some water,” she gestures to a row of bottles lined up on the green granite counter.
I obey, opening a bottle and taking a long sip while Mary sits on the couch and starts to type on her phone. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says in a singsongy voice. My chest tightens. What now? “A little present for completing your first week on set.”
“It’s not over yet,” I point out, sitting next to her on the white faux leather cushions. She smiles at me. Mary’s dark lashes are painted with thick layers of mascara, and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is full of energy and enthusiasm.
Mary believes in me and is one of the top agents in Hollywood, so I ignore the spray tan and the heavy perfume and the annoying way she orders me around. She got me this job. She’s convinced I can be a star.
A knock on the trailer door and Mary pops up. “Here it is!” She opens the door and a PA stands there, his long hair pulled into a man bun, his t-shirt and jeans just the right amount of distressed. He’s holding a shoe-sized box. He hands it over to Mary. “Thanks, Sweetie,” she says before closing the door.
“Here you go,” she grins, handing me the package. Something inside it moves and I screech, almost dropping it. “Careful!”
“You should have warned me it was alive,” I grumble, placing it firmly on my lap and taking off the lid. Inside is a tiny little fluff ball—a puppy. It looks up at me with giant brown eyes surrounded by soft white fur, the little black nose sniffing the air.
The puppy jumps up at me with a squeak. I don’t know what to say. I can barely handle taking care of myself, what am I going to do with a puppy?
“It’s one of those new designer dogs, part poodle, part Dachshund. Pick it up!” I glance at Mary; she’s smiling, her gold hoops swinging back and forth as she gestures for me to pick up the dog. “It’s going to be great for your image.” Her eyes widen. “People love puppies.”
I look back to the animal and scoop a hand underneath him… or her. It’s warm and soft. So tiny. Its ribs poke through the fur, and its heart beats quickly against my palm. It wriggles, and I move the box to the floor, bringing my other hand up to clutch the small thing to my chest to keep it from falling.
“You two look adorable! Hold on.” Mary whips out her phone and aims it at me. My face breaks out into a smile, the one I’ve perfected for social media. I’m so normal and happy and LOVE sharing with you.
“Perfect,” Mary says, head bending over the phone as she posts it on my accounts. “What are you naming him?”
I look down at the little guy. With the long body of a Dachshund, and the curls of a Poodle, he’s funny looking. And super cute. The puppy yawns, showing off tiny pointed teeth, then spins once before curling up on my lap. He is falling asleep on me.
I kinda melt.
“Should it be something funny?” I ask, scratching under his chin. He makes a little sound, a vibration of pleasure.
“Sure. Anything you want.”
“How about Lump?”
“Loomp?” Mary looks up from the screen, her lip raised in distaste.
“Yes, but spelled L.U.M.P. It was Picasso’s Dachshund.”
Mary shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
I scratch the puppies head and he cuddles closer. “Okay, how about Amos or Archie. Andy Warhol’s Dachshunds.”
“Those are cute. Either one will do. How do you know that anyway?”
“Remember, I was an art history major.”
She nods, and turns away. “I’m saying Archie. It’s better.”
“Okay, Archie.” The little dog blinks his eyes open. “Do you like that name?”
He whines and wiggles closer. I bring him up to lay a kiss on his head. “That’s perfect!” Mary says, holding up her phone again. “So sweet!”
Another knock at the door, and Mary goes to answer it. “Oh, hi Jack,” she says, stepping back. I wince at the sound of my director’s voice.
“Mary, can I get a moment alone with my star?” My star. I like the sound of that.
“Of course,” she reaches back into the trailer to grab her bag off the couch and raises her brows at me. This is your chance to apologize and show him you deserve to be here.
Jack steps into the trailer once Mary is gone. He’s tall and strong, with grey hair and round glasses sitting at the tip of his sculpted nose, exposing his bright blue eyes. He gives me a warm smile. “Sorry I yelled at you.”
My shoulders relax, releasing the tension gathered there. “Sorry I screwed up.”
He shrugs, sitting down next to me. “This is your first action movie.”
I nod. “My first major roll,” I say with a grateful smile. You’re giving me a chance, and I appreciate it.
“I think you’ve got a lot of potential. And I know you’ve been training hard.”
Seven days a week with my trainer and still managed to screw up. Ugh.
“I have, but I can train harder,” I say, determined to get this right.
His eyes dip down to my body for a moment. “You look great. But we need you to have.” His eyes make it back up to mine. “More control.”
“I know,” I nod, “I’ll work on it. I swear. I'm so sorry.”
His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m sure you will.” He gives my leg a squeeze before standing. “Back on in ten,” he says as he opens the door. “Oh,” he turns back to me, his hand on the knob, the door half open. “Come by for dinner tonight. My place in the hills. We can go over all this. I want to make sure you’re having a good experience.”
“Okay,” I say, my instincts whispering: That’s a bad idea. He smiles and, after one more up and down glance at my body, heads out the door.
Mary comes in, grinning. “He invited you to his house,” she says. “That’s great. Means he’
s taking an interest in your career.”
“Is that what it means?” I ask, placing Archie back in his box. He turns in a circle before nuzzling in amongst the shredded newspaper.
“Of course. Now come on. You’re needed back on set.”
I pick myself up and glance in the mirrored wall before stepping out of the trailer. Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile… I can handle whatever comes my way.
The steps up to Jack Axelrod’s house are white marble. The whole thing is classic, fashionable, 1920's Hollywood glamour. Lights twinkle in the gardens surrounding the mansion. The brick driveway behind me doesn’t have one weed creeping between the stones.
I grew up with a dirt driveway.
Taking a deep breath, I continue up the fabulous steps. The stuff old Hollywood dreams are made of... everything I want. Everything I came to this city to get. Determined to make it all work, determined to make this dinner not a disaster, I knock on the imposing wooden doors, releasing a long, slow breath.
The sun comes at me from the side, bright orange and glimmering in the smog over the ocean. The sky is that dark, luscious blue of almost night. There are just the fewest, brightest stars twinkling overhead.
Are they smiling down at me?
The door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and a woman wearing a pale blue maid uniform—including the crisp white apron—stands before me. White curls frame her smiling face. She nods to me, as if I’m important.
I'm the daughter of a welder and a laundry lady. She doesn't care. Nothing matters here except what you make of yourself.
This isn't Kansas, Toto.
I heft the bag Archie is sleeping in and smile. “Hi, I’m Angela,” I say.
“Of course, we’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to usher me in. “Please come in. Mr. Axelrod is on the back patio."
Betray the Lie Page 22
