by T. K. Leigh
I swallow hard, my stomach rolling. To Viv, it was a rough draft. For me, it was the result of hours of writing, rewriting, revising, and editing. I wanted Viv to be so impressed by the initial draft that her suggestions were merely stylistic. Based on the displeasure on her face, that’s not the case.
“And?” My voice is shaky, hesitant. I brace for her to rip it apart, as she’s been known to do.
“It’s good. But good doesn’t sell magazines, Evie. The picture of this August Laurent character you’ve drawn is compelling, and the idea of a male escort empowering women is one that will intrigue readers. Many women will empathize with what his clients have experienced. He’s helped all kinds of women, from the single woman left in a circle of friends to women whose spouses never appreciated them. You’ve painted him in a light that will make readers think twice about judging him as merely a male escort taking advantage of women. Hell, I’ve thought twice about judging him as a male escort who takes advantage of women.”
“Thank you?” My voice lifts, waiting for the punchline.
“But it’s one-dimensional. I want more August Laurent.”
“The whole article’s about August Laurent.”
She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “No. It’s about the women who’ve hired him.”
“And through each of them, you learn something about him.”
“I learn about the man he is when he’s with each woman. That’s not who he really is. I want the real August Laurent. I want to know what makes him do what he does, what makes him want to sacrifice friends, family, love.”
“The article talks about that,” I protest, although she’s right. There’s no big insight into who August Laurent truly is, which is why I pressed to talk to some of his clients. There’s still a piece missing. The why is missing.
“Something must drive him to choose this path, to help the women he does. There’s a story there. I want to know what that is. And so do your readers.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns, walking away. I open my mouth to argue, but it won’t do any good. After all, this is her magazine. If I want this promotion, I need to give her the story she wants…and then some.
Mentally exhausted, I return my attention to my laptop, opening the file I’d amassed on August Laurent and the handful of women who agreed to let me interview them. My notepad in hand, I scour through everything once more, searching for something I may have overlooked or deemed unimportant. The more I review my email exchanges and phone conversations with August, the more it hits me. He seemed to evade all my questions about his younger years, often shifting the focus back on me. It almost reminds me of how Julian used to do the same thing until I convinced him to open up.
As I consider what I can do to persuade August to share what caused him to get into this line of work, Chloe flies into my cubicle, her eyes wide, expression grave. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” I peer at her, brows furrowed. This level of excitement could mean Diego in accounting finally asked out Rachel in design. Or it could be actual news.
“Sonia Moreno was murdered. She was a friend of Julian’s, wasn’t she? I thought I saw a photograph of them together at some fundraiser earlier in the year.”
Blinking repeatedly, my heart drops to the pit of my stomach as a chill rushes over me.
“Yes,” I answer in a small voice. But her connection to Julian isn’t what has me out of sorts. It’s the fact that she’s a client of August Laurent’s. And not just any client. A woman who claimed he saved her from an abusive marriage. During a few follow-up interviews, she mentioned she was getting her affairs in order before going public with her abuse and officially filing for divorce. I wonder if she finally did it.
“How was she killed?” My voice trembles, tears forming in my eyes. She seemed so confident, so happy, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders at the thought of starting over, even if she never worked another day in Hollywood again.
“Details are still sketchy, but a few of my sources say she had stab wounds covering her chest and abdomen. Police are operating under the theory it was a burglary gone wrong. She’d just returned from being on location for the past month, so authorities think her place had been scouted for a break-in. She must have surprised them by being home.”
I shake my head, my heart squeezing under the weight of everything I know. It could have been a robbery, but my gut tells me it’s not. Not after everything Sonia shared with me.
Jumping to my feet, I grab my coat and my bag, needing to do something, anything. I can’t remain silent about this.
“Where are you going?” Chloe calls after me.
I whirl around, meeting her questioning stare. She probably came into my cubicle to share the juicy gossip before it hit the airwaves. Never could she have predicted my response, or the fact I may hold the missing link to what happened. I refuse to believe Sonia went through everything she did, survived everything she had, just for some thugs to kill her. It’s too much of a coincidence.
“I have to go.” It’s all I can tell her, at least for now.
I spin on my heels, about to race to the elevator when Viv approaches, her own expression frantic. She doesn’t even have to utter a word. I know she’s here because of the news about Sonia. Viv is the only other person who’s aware of the identity of the women I interviewed, including everything they’ve been through.
“It’s okay.” Her voice is a low whisper. She squeezes my biceps, giving me a reassuring smile. “Go. Be her voice.”
I nod, then hurry from the office, doing everything to keep my emotions under control. I barely knew the woman, but in the brief time we spent together, I felt a connection to her. I can only imagine how August feels, if he even knows.
I stop in my tracks, imagining him watching this story break on the news. I can’t stomach that. No one deserves to learn about the death of a loved one that way. So I reach out to him the only way I can.
To: August Laurent
From: Evie Fitzgerald
Subject: Sonia Moreno
Dear August,
Please call me as soon as you receive this message. It’s about Sonia. News just came over the wire. I’d rather tell you over the phone instead of through email.
E
I stare at my phone the entire ride toward Police Plaza, waiting for him to call.
He never does.
By the time the cab drops me off a block from police headquarters, news of Sonia’s death must have already spread. Reporters are camped out front, setting up cameras and preparing to go live to break the news, all for better ratings. As I hurry up the stairs and into the lobby, the place is a madhouse. Everyone passing appears as if they know exactly where they’re going. I’m lost and out of my element, unsure if I’m even in the right place or if they’ll take me seriously.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks in a thick New York accent as I look around.
I turn, my stare falling on a young brunette sitting behind a pane of what I imagine is bulletproof glass. My heart breaks a little at how far our society’s fallen that you can’t even feel safe in a police station anymore.
Straightening my spine, I step toward her. “My name’s Guinevere Fitzgerald. I work for Blush magazine.”
Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she points to the front doors. “Reporters have to stay outside and wait for the press conference.”
“No,” I interject. “I’m not here to get information. I’m here to give information. I just recently interviewed Sonia Moreno. I may have evidence to help in finding her killer.”
“The detectives already have someone in custody who was seen in the vicinity of her house.”
“Have you questioned her husband?” I press.
“Her husband?” She arches a brow. “The director?”
“Yes.” I retrieve my cell phone from my purse, unlocking the screen and scrolling through the audio files until I find the one I need. “She spoke of him. How she was getting ready to file
for divorce, but was worried about what he might do.” I hit play. Sonia’s voice fills the room. Her subtle Spanish accent leaves no question that it’s her.
“Turn that off,” the desk sergeant orders, glancing at people lingering close by. She gets up from her seat and walks away. A few seconds later, the secure door opens and she holds it for me. “Are you coming or not?” she presses when I don’t move.
“Right. Of course.” I walk toward her and follow the sergeant down several long corridors. I stay as close to her as possible, worried I’ll get lost or trampled by people rushing around if I stray. I barely breathe until we step into the elevator and the doors shut, allowing me a reprieve from the chaos. I love the busy atmosphere at the magazine, but it’s never like this.
When the elevator stops, we exit onto the twelfth floor, the words “Homicide Unit” in bold letters hanging on the wall in front of us.
“This way.”
We continue down several hallways, the sound of two-way radios and loud voices filling the maze-like space. Approaching a door labeled “Conference”, she points to a line of chairs against the wall.
“Wait there. Detective Mulroney will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already disappeared.
Taking a seat, I smile as a man in a dark suit with a buzz cut, a detective shield hanging from his neck, rushes past, carrying a bunch of papers. I pull my planner out of my bag, scratching down notes in one of the free pages. There’s no doubt in my mind Ethan is involved, not with the threats he’d made. What I have to say may not be useful, but I must try. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t and he continues to walk free. Julian would want me to do the same. He stood up to an injustice and protected his mother. I need to protect Sonia’s legacy.
When the door to the conference room opens, I snap my head up, looking in its direction, my hands growing clammy. I’m innocent of committing a crime, but I’m just as nervous as I would be if that weren’t the case.
“Thank you for coming in and sharing this with us, Mr… What do I even call you? Now that I know who August Laurent is…”
My pulse skyrockets when I hear that name.
“Call me whatever you’d like,” a familiar voice interjects. But it’s lacking the normal vitality I’m used to hearing during our conversations. It’s somber, solemn, not to mention the subtle French accent seems to have disappeared, as well.
The door widens and two men step out. I freeze, unsure how to act, whether August would want me to acknowledge him. He knows what I look like. But I have no idea what he looks like. Every single woman I’ve interviewed has remained incredibly tight-lipped about his appearance, about his true identity.
But as the detective moves to the side and I meet the eyes of the man I’ve spent months obsessing over, my heart plummets. The room spins, my grip on my planner loosening. It falls to the floor, pages spreading in every direction as the world seems to give out from beneath me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Julian?” I say through the thickness in my throat, fighting to capture a breath as I stand. Chills rush through me, my limbs trembling as flashes of the past several months play before me. What I thought was a coincidence when I ran into him at the Steam Room. August calling me because a “little birdie” told him I was looking for him. His sudden change of heart after he’d adamantly refused my request to interview a few of his clients. His agreeable attitude wasn’t because of any skillset I possessed. It was all because he wanted to sleep with me.
“Julian?” I squeak again when he only stares at me, his jaw slack. My expression pleads with him to finally say something. But he doesn’t. He simply bows his head, shaking it, silently confirming the awful truth. My eyes burn with the betrayal filling me and I spin from him, running down the hall, searching desperately for the elevator.
“Guinevere! Wait!” he calls out, but I continue, wheezing as my sobs remain trapped in my throat.
With each step I take, the more it makes sense. I often mentally remarked about the parallels between the two men. But I never considered Julian was August Laurent. He would have told me. Wouldn’t he? A voice in the back of my head reminds me he wouldn’t if he were trying to hide the truth. And there’s only one reason he would do that… Because on the nights he wasn’t with me, he was keeping another woman company. The thought turns my stomach.
I somehow find the bank of elevators and send a prayer of thanks to the big man upstairs when there’s already one waiting. Once inside, I repeatedly hit the button for the lobby. Julian’s voice grows closer, calling my name, begging me to stop. I bang the button faster, willing the doors to close. They finally do just as he reaches the elevator, the echo of his fists slamming against the doors filling the car. I release a relieved breath and slink against the wall, needing the support to keep me upright.
When the elevator arrives on the main floor, I dash from it, keeping my head lowered, refusing to look over my shoulder in case Julian…or August…or whoever he is manages to catch up. I barrel past the front desk, ignoring the desk sergeant’s questions about how it all went, and continue through the large glass doors.
The instant I step outside, a coldness hits me like a wall, and not just from the frigid temperatures on this December morning. There’s a strange feeling in the air. The sky is a foreboding shade of gray, one I’ve grown accustomed to over the years.
I inhale a breath, tasting the impending snow in my mouth. Based on the weather report I caught earlier, that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen over the next few hours. The first snowfall of the season. Normally, I’d play hooky from work and enjoy the beauty of snow falling around New York City. But my mood’s been drastically altered.
Tugging my jacket closer, I do my best not to slip on the slick brick as I hurry past the growing number of reporters, evading their shouts asking if I know anything about Sonia Moreno. I ignore everything, until he bellows my name, his voice carrying across the plaza, echoing against the tall skyscrapers.
“Guinevere!”
I glance behind me, watching as Julian frantically runs toward me, panic and desperation covering him. His stare is distressed, neck stiff, jaw tense.
“Leave me alone!” With quick steps, I continue toward the corner, raising my hand to hail a cab. When one pulls up to the curb, I open the door to get in, but come to an abrupt stop when an arm blocks me.
“Guinevere, please. Just hear me out.”
I keep my eyes forward for a moment, my vision obscured with tears. This truth is worse than Trevor walking away after twelve years. He may have had his faults, but he never lied to me, never misled me, never used me.
“Hear you out?” I squeak, biting down at my bottom lip, hoping to transfer the pain from my heart to another part of my body. “Why? So you can make up an excuse about why you lied to me? I’ve heard them all before. I don’t need to listen to you go on about how you wanted to tell me the truth but didn’t know how. That’s a bunch of bullshit. You just wanted a guaranteed piece of ass every goddamn night.” A shiver rolls through me, acid burning my stomach. “Nothing more.”
I go to duck under his arm and into the cab, pausing when I hear his voice again.
“I haven’t taken on a client since the beginning of June.”
I have no reason to believe him, but something in his tone makes me second-guess myself. I still, one foot in the cab, one foot on the ground. So what if he hasn’t taken on a client since June? Does that change anything?
“Lady, are you in or out?” the cabbie asks in a thick Middle Eastern accent, glancing at me. I look at him, then back at Julian, torn.
“Don’t run from me, Guinevere. Not without knowing the truth. Please.”
I close my eyes, squeezing them tightly. Once again, I’m entangled in a battle between my brain and heart. My heart screams at me to stay, but my brain tells me to walk away and never look back.
“Please,” he says once more, this time softer. “‘No m
atter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.’”
The instant Julian utters that quote from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I exhale a protracted breath, shaking my head. I hate that he’s using that movie against me. It’s unfair, but it still makes me stop and think rationally for a moment. And a moment is all it takes for me to realize I’ll never move on unless I have answers.
Blowing out an exasperated sigh, I step away from the cab and close the door, but don’t turn around. If I peer into Julian’s eyes, I fear I’ll crack. “You wanted to explain. Here’s your chance. Explain.”
“Please, look at me.”
“Explain,” I repeat, this time harder.
At first, it’s silent, then he exhales deeply. I picture him running his hands through his hair in resignation. “I never intended things to get this messed up.”
“No? What was your intent then, Julian? Or is it August?” Spinning around, I throw my hands up in frustration, paying no attention to the snow beginning to fall around us. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“Julian Gage is my real name. I was born August 10, 1980, in Jersey City. I never lied to you about that.”
“But you failed to mention you also go by August Laurent, the man I was doing a story on.” With each word, my voice gets more and more agitated. “You called me repeatedly, pretending to be this other person, when all along it was you. Hell, you even used a fake French accent so I would be none the wiser. You had so many opportunities to come clean, yet you deliberately kept the truth from me. Why? Why would you do something like this?”
“I never meant to hurt you, Guinevere.”
“Bullshit! Bullshit, Julian. You did mean to hurt me! The second you made a conscious decision to lie to me, to deceive me, you intended to hurt me. You know what they say about secrets, don’t you?”
He remains silent.
“Two can only keep a secret if one of them is dead. At some point, the truth was bound to come out. Or were you going to wait until we were married to tell me you had to leave on occasion to go screw some other woman?”