Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  The three of us leave the house and stand on the elegant stone steps where I draw a breath, savoring the fresh air that fills my lungs and reminds me, once again, that there is beauty in the world.

  Phillip takes my free arm, and he and Rae help me down the steps. At the bottom, I face Rae. "What now?"

  "If you're up for it, I'd like to dig around about this affair with Harlan. I have questions. The first being: How far would Jackson Harlan go to save his presidential run?”

  48

  Rae

  * * *

  My mind is reeling. I’ve always hated that saying. Never quite understood it. Until today. Today, I have a total freaking zoo in my head and the monkeys are definitely in charge.

  I’m sitting in the backseat of Phillip’s car, watching palm trees whiz by—clearly this guy has inherited his mother’s lead foot—as we head back to Trudeau Manor. All I can think about is Rose. She’s had a rough couple of days. Between Jeremy and Simon, she has to feel like she's living in some alternate not-so-friendly universe.

  I can't get too caught up in that. Even with what happened to me after the Charlie Carter story and the subsequent vitriol spewed my way, I have to stay neutral on the Grande piece. It has to be written, I know that. All the reasons batter my mind. If I don’t do it, someone else will, the victims need justice, Rose needs answers, yada, yada. It’s all there, perfectly logical.

  Except, I don't want to destroy Rose in the process.

  And make an enemy out of Phillip, who has promised to hold me responsible if anything should happen to his mother.

  The collateral damage, like the aftermath of the Charlie Carter story, could be astronomic.

  However, I’m not even sure this Jackson Harlan thing has legs. I have extensive research—pages and pages and pages—on Loretta and the Grande fire and there's been no mention of an affair with Harlan. Rose has already said Jeremy is an accomplished liar. Couple that with my research and he could be making the whole thing up.

  I gaze out the window as Phillip pulls through the gate. On my first visit here, driving through this gate was a rush, an absolute unparalleled high.

  I’d done it.

  Bagged a meeting with the intensely private Rose Trudeau.

  Now, all I feel is sick. This story has done a 180 on me and with all the players, really big players, it's spinning from my control. Suddenly, what started out as a retrospective on a historical fire has turned into a potential political conspiracy involving murder and a former president.

  How the heck does this stuff happen to me? I’m a kid from North Dakota and once again, the story is way bigger than I am. I'm not sure I have it in me to take this on and yet, I’m pretty sure it’s too late.

  I peel my gaze from the explosion of colorful flowers lining the Manor’s driveway and look at the back of Rose's head peeping above the seat. How much does she have to sacrifice for me to get my story?

  I've broken the monster rule of journalism by becoming emotionally connected.

  Phillip comes to a stop in front of the steps, but before exiting the car, he turns to his mother. "Will you be all right?"

  "It's a lot, isn't it? What we've learned about your brother these last few days."

  Phillip exhales. "It sure is. In case you were wondering, Dad never told me. I'm as stunned as you."

  Rose reaches across the console and squeezes Phillip's arm. “Thank you. Your father’s secrets may have surprised me, but he was a tactician who shared everything on a need-to-know basis. None of this was anything you needed to know.”

  “Still. It has to sting.”

  “Without a doubt. He probably didn't consider Gayle's death and Loretta's affair connected. Perhaps they aren't. But I deserved to know about Jeremy's involvement."

  Feeling too much like a voyeur—hello, I’m a reporter—I open my door. Definitely too close to this. “I’ll wait out here so you guys can talk."

  Rose angles back. “That's not necessary, dear. I think we’re through."

  She leans in, kissing Phillip on the cheek. "I'll keep you informed if we find anything new."

  We wait for Phillip to circle around and head for the gate before climbing the stairs. "I'm sorry," I tell Rose. "I had no idea how this would affect your family."

  "You don't owe me any apologies. Besides, what good is life if it doesn’t have honesty? I’d rather know the truth about my husband. Of course, I’d prefer to have found out when he was alive and I’m angry about that. About not being able to confront him.”

  We reach the top step and Rose slides her key into the door lock. "I'll have time later, to process that. Right now, we need to move forward. We're unraveling bits about George and Loretta, but Gayle is getting lost. I want to know who killed my friend."

  She pushes the door open and the alarm beep-beeps. I wait while Rose walks to a painting near the staircase, swings the frame out like a door and reveals the keypad hidden underneath. Now I turn away, completely giving her my back so she knows I won’t see her alarm code.

  A perky female voice announces the system is off, so I face Rose again. She points to Simon's study. “Let’s go in here and you can tell me what’s next."

  "Research, Rose. On Harlan and Loretta. I think we should go through Sanchez's notes again and see if there's any mention of Harlan. Maybe I missed it. If not, we'll call Sanchez. See if he remembers anything. Someone, somewhere has to remember Harlan being there. We can also look into his security team. It may have been too early for Secret Service protection, but I’m sure he hired a private company. Jeremy said that ‘one of Harlan’s guys’ carried Loretta to her room."

  “Oh, yes. I remember he had security. I assumed they were Secret Service, but they could have been private.”

  I set my messenger bag on the floor next to one of the guest chairs in front of Simon’s desk. “We should be able to find something on it.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I have to run down to the cottage and grab the rest of my notes.”

  “All right. I’ll wait here.”

  “Good. Because when I get back, we'll need to figure out if a man about to be elected president murdered a national treasure."

  49

  Rose

  * * *

  Beep-beep.

  Out in the hallway, the alarm alerts me of the front door opening. That can't be Rae, she's just left via the back door. Phillip, perhaps, returning for whatever reason and using his key.

  "In the office, darling.”

  "Hello, Rose."

  George Hopper is standing in the doorway, smiling at me. It's the headshot smile, the crooked one that's just the right amount of flash and innocent, prepubescent boy. George built a career on that smile. I've seen it thousands of times in newspapers and magazines and on red carpets. What I know for sure is there is nothing genuine about it.

  There's something else, too. Despite his usual glowing skin, perfectly groomed hair, and custom-made blazer, shirt, and slacks, he looks… different. George, but not George.

  His eyes.

  There's a dullness. As if the switch has been flipped. My pulse echoes in my ears and I draw a quiet breath to center myself. Whatever he wants, it can’t be good. Not with those dead eyes.

  I set my hands on the desk and push out of my chair, conjuring my version of the headshot smile. "George, hello. This is a surprise. I thought you were Phillip. Did I somehow not hear you ring the bell?"

  And how the hell did he get through my gate?

  George takes two steps into the room and the oxygen vanishes. Poof. My mind trips back to the Grande. Standing in that casino while the hot, smoky air singed my lungs.

  "Phil just left,” George says. “I saw him pull out of the drive."

  "And you decided to come through my gate and walk into my home?"

  The corner of his mouth ticks up. The cocky smile. "Come now, Rose. We've been friends nearly thirty-five years. Surely you can't be offended."

  "Last I checked, we didn't have that sort of famili
arity. Don't you agree?"

  He takes two steps closer. His hands are loose at his sides, but his shoulders are stiff. To the casual observer, he may appear relaxed, but I've spent enough time with him to know he's off.

  I step to the front of the desk and lean back on the edge. "Forgive me for saying this, but you're acting rather strange."

  "We need to talk, Rose."

  In all our years of acquaintance, the discussions in the last week have been chart-toppers in terms of our personal business. Between the affair with Loretta and the counterfeiting, I can’t even guess what this might be about. "Certainly. What's on your mind?"

  "I just spoke with Jeremy."

  "Ah. You two have quite the open dialogue going."

  "He's been a good friend."

  Just how good is the thing that terrifies me. "Simon would be happy to hear that."

  "Simon. Your beloved, perfect Simon."

  He spits my husband's name like it leaves a rancid taste on his tongue. Odd, since Simon’s counsel on movie contracts saved George millions over the years. "He was definitely beloved, but far from perfect. I've learned that this week."

  George rocks forward on his toes, then moves to his right, wandering to the window that looks out on the front lawn. "Funny," he says. "I remember when you bought this house. As I recall, it was outside of your budget."

  I keep my gaze on him. I’ve been in Hollywood long enough to know he's trying for a reaction. Trying to knock me off guard by confronting me with his intimate knowledge of something so intensely personal. "It was indeed."

  He tears his gaze from the window and lets out a sigh. "Rose, Rose, Rose. You never let anyone see you sweat. I always admired that about you." He waves it away. "Anyway, the house. Ask me how I know."

  When I fail to respond, he plows ahead.

  "Did you never wonder where the money came from to pay for this house? Simon's career was just ramping up. Hitting the big time, as they say."

  He's right. I won’t—can’t—deny it. The house had been $200,000 over our budget. But I wanted it and Simon assured me we could afford it. That he'd make it happen.

  And he did.

  Which had always been a point of pride for me. That my husband had managed it. That he gave me what I wanted.

  The tiny hairs on my neck dance. This is what George wants. For me to wonder. To question Simon.

  "Okay, George. Clearly you have something on your mind. Why don't you tell me what that is so we can move on to more important matters? Because, while you're here I have a few questions about Loretta. And you using my son."

  He puts his back to the window, leaning against the frame and wagging a finger at me. "Now, Rose. Let's not skip ahead. We'll get to that soon enough. Now. This house. After you bought it, my accountant was working on my taxes and found some… interesting… invoices from Simon. Turns out, he was padding his hours."

  Oh, please. I lived with the man over thirty years. I’d know if he was a crook. "George, this is beneath you. What is it you're here for?"

  "To enlighten you, Rose. And keep you from making a mistake. Simon and I had an agreement. He'd help me with delicate matters and I’d keep my mouth shut about his tendency to overbill clients. Half of Hollywood should be thanking me because I got him to stop. After I caught him, I bet his books were clean as a whistle."

  I think back thirty-two years to when we moved into this home. We were thrilled to host parties and game nights and to sit by the pool for candlelit dinners. We’d spend hours out there, putting voice to our goals and aspirations. The lives we wanted to lead.

  But there were stressors, too. Simon obsessing over the checkbook, Simon cracking down on my decorating, Simon spending more time working. The change in his behavior had lasted five months and then suddenly he was my Simon again. I attributed it to time he needed for adjusting to a bigger, more financially draining lifestyle.

  If what George is saying is true—our sudden ability to afford a house out of our price range and Simon's foul mood—it makes sense.

  The hairs on my skin aren’t just dancing, they’re standing at full attention. I lift my chin and anchor my feet to the floor of a room—an entire damned house—that is suddenly closing in, the walls coming down.

  My God. My devoted and beloved husband had embezzled from his clients and gotten caught.

  Oh, Simon.

  "You don't need to thank me, Rose."

  Thank him? Not in this lifetime. If this is true, he perpetuated the situation. I’d have rather known the truth than lived a lie. "I hadn't intended to. Whatever wrongs Simon committed, you obviously capitalized on them. That hardly needs thanking. I am, in fact, ashamed of both of you."

  "It gets better. I kept Simon's secret. You were so caught up in your reputation, the man turned out to be an easy mark. Poor slob was terrified of disappointing you. Heaven forbid anyone gossip about the great Rose Trudeau. Between you, the threat of disbarment, and possibly jail time, Simon was right where I needed him."

  Bastard. How had I never seen this snake for what he was? "And where was that?"

  He holds his hands wide, flashes that movie-star smile. "Ready to serve, of course. It was a good thing I saved that chip all those years. It came in handy when I needed Jeremy’s help."

  My mind spins back to what Jeremy has told me. Ah. "Let me guess, you and Myles used Jeremy with the counterfeiting situation. Then when Simon told you to stop, you threatened him."

  "I may have made mention of a drafted letter to the Bar Association."

  "You are a son of a bitch, aren't you?"

  He shrugs. "I do what I need to."

  Including using his so-called friend’s child. That alone is disgusting—unfathomable—but then there was Loretta. How could he drag Jeremy into that ugly situation? "When you needed help getting Loretta into her room, you called Jeremy, knowing Simon would keep him quiet."

  "Partially. Jeremy has always proven to be motivated by money. His silence was easily bought, but it was a double-edged sword when it came to Loretta. A star like that, tabloids pay big money. I couldn't risk Jeremy getting greedy on us. As much as I hate to say it, Rose, that kid was always greedy and I didn’t trust him when it came to a possible financial windfall. Simon was our backup."

  "And yet, you claim to have loved Loretta."

  "I did love her. I loved my life more."

  There it is. The Hollywood rub. I shake my head, my disillusionment firmly in place. "What happened, George? Knowing she was passed out in her room, you turned your back on her? Let her die in that fire rather than try to save her? How very convenient for Jackson Harlan."

  He moves forward, one solid step. I hold my hand up. If I’d been thinking more clearly, I would have stayed behind the desk where I’d at least have a barrier between us. “Stay where you are,” I tell him.

  Obliging me, he clucks his tongue. "It was so long ago, Rose, why do you care? Why dig all this up? Lives will be ruined. Yours will be ruined."

  That’s where he’s wrong. My life is already ruined. At least the one I thought I had.

  "Send this reporter home, Rose, or I'll find my own reporter. I have proof of Simon's embezzlement and believe me, I have no concerns over outing him."

  I lean back on Simon's desk and curl my fingers over the lip of the cool surface. He thinks he’s winning. My life may not have been what I thought, but I’m still me. And I refuse to be manipulated. "George, I never realized until today how similar we are."

  "Similar?"

  "We both take great pride in our reputation and our family. It really would be a terrible shame if Gloria were to find out all these years later about your affair with Loretta. I don't think you want that to happen."

  He lets out a barking laugh. "God, you're fantastic."

  "Thank you. It seems, in this game of ‘you tell on me and I'll tell on you,’ you have the most to lose."

  He stops laughing. "How so?"

  "Simon is dead. Although I would like to save his reputati
on, I'm not willing to let Gayle's death go without justice. The Grande fire killed more than a hundred people and injured a hundred and fifty more. That might be the biggest difference between us, George. I've got my priorities straight."

  He takes another step forward, now barely three feet from me. I have to move. I have to. I’ve never known him to be violent, but I’ve clearly not known him as well as I thought. I stand up, but stay close to the desk. If I have to run, I’m in trouble because he’s blocking the only exit.

  "You've never been a stupid woman, Rose. Don't start now. Stop this nonsense and we all go about our business. You're in way over your head. And so is this hick reporter. "

  50

  Rae

  * * *

  After grabbing my notes from the cottage, I enter through the kitchen door and head down the hallway. Voices carrying from the study halt me.

  Hick reporter? What the…

  I move quietly down the hall, the soft soles of my sneakers soundless—the bonus of being a hick who doesn’t like fancy shoes. Yes, I’m eavesdropping.

  Shoot me.

  "Actually,” Rose says, “I think you're the one who's in way over your head. You, Myles, and Jackson Harlan, from what I've heard, all used Loretta for her connections, your personal enjoyment, and for the publicity she'd bring your hotel.”

  George Hopper. That’s who she’s talking to. It has to be.

  “All of you,” Rose continues, “should've been castrated for what you did to that woman. And after what I’ve learned these last few days, if you think I give a damn about ruining any of your reputations, you are mistaken."

  "Rose, you’ve gone mad.”

  Whoa. The force, the grating harshness in his voice is so clear it shoves me from my spot. He’s not on speakerphone. He’s here.

  In the room.