by Julie Kenner
“Devi…” Blake’s voice trails off. “Denial isn’t the way to go here.”
“No, no.” I wave off his comments. “I’m not in denial. I’m thinking.”
“What?” Andy says, and since he’s clearly more receptive, I turn to him.
“The strawberry came from Tobias,” I say. “There’s no way it was poisoned.”
“That’s true,” Blake says, and I hear the hope in his voice. And since he’s now backing me up, I shift a little to bring him more into my line of sight.
“Devi, don’t assume things. That’s how people end up dead.”
“It’s not an assumption,” I insist. “I know the man. It probably sat on Marcia’s desk all day until Tobias got around to writing that note and—oh, shit. The note.”
Both look at me. “What note?” Andy asks.
“There was a note with the strawberry. A Web page. I thought it was from Tobias, but now that we know about the strawberry—”
“Someone either doctored Tobias’s gift, or set it up all together,” Andy finishes, his tone all business. “So what did the note say?”
“It was a Web site. That’s all. I thought Tobias was being funny. You know, since he’s so computer-illiterate and the movie is all about computers.”
“Do you remember the site?” he asks, his Treo pulled out and ready.
I rack my brain, but I can’t remember. “I could get Lucas to go inside and find the note,” I say, pulling out my phone even as I’m suggesting it. Before I can do anything, though, the thing vibrates in my hand.
I jump, startled, my life flashing before my eyes. My mini-movie ends in seconds, though, once I realize it’s just a call coming in. And when I see the caller ID, I hurry to answer.
“Tobias!” But that’s as far as I get. Because Tobias is breathing hard, his voice both edgy and sad.
“Mac’s dead,” he says, without preamble. “Devi, I’m so sorry to tell you, but Mackenzie is dead.”
Chapter 28
This can’t be real. This can absolutely not be real.
That thought, and nothing more, goes through my head as Blake pulls his car up near the throng of people gathered outside Mac’s house. A police officer signals for him to stop, and he does, then rolls down the window to explain who we are. The officer’s expression changes from professional to sympathetic, and he waves us farther in, telling us to park just in front of the crime scene tape.
Crime scene.
Oh, dear God.
I can’t do this, I think, even as Blake strokes my cheek and murmurs, “You can do this. You’ll be okay.”
Even through his own horror, he’s thinking of me, and I can’t help but realize that he still cares for me. Maybe even loves me.
I can’t think about that now, though, and so I work up my courage and open the door. Andy’s already out, and I follow him to the tape, where we join the rest of the gawkers.
“What happened?” Andy asks a nearby woman, standing there in jogging shorts and a tank top.
“I’m not entirely sure,” the woman says. “But I think it was a mugging.”
“Mackenzie…” Her name leaves my lips before I can draw it back, and I fight the tears that I know will follow.
The woman turns compassionate eyes on me. “Oh, gosh. You’re a friend. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
I nod, my throat too dry to even thank her.
Blake has been talking to the police, and now he comes over, his face serious but his eyes soft. He holds out his arms, and I fall gratefully into them. “Shhh,” he says, along with other comforting noises, as he steers me away from the crowd to a grassy area near the house across the street. We’re in Burbank, and the little stucco houses are close together. There’s not much privacy, but no one is paying attention to us. All eyes are on the murder scene across the road.
“Do you think this has to do with…” I trail off, unable to even give voice to the thought.
“How could it?” he says. “She doesn’t have anything to do with the game.”
I nod, but I still feel uneasy. I look around for Andy and find him a few yards away, head to head with Tobias, both their expressions serious. I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. The truth is, horror fills the world every day. Random violence can take us out in the blink of an eye. Caught like I am in the game, I think I’d forgotten that. I’d focused on how much I was the victim, entirely forgetting the world outside mine.
Tonight, Mac is the victim. And, unlike me, she didn’t even see it coming.
I wipe away a tear and see that Tobias is looking at me. He says something to Andy, then they both head my way. “How are you doing?”
I want to snap that I’ll be doing a lot better if everyone quits asking me that, but I don’t. His concern is genuine, and my pain is very real.
“I’m not sure,” I finally say, giving the only honest answer I know.
He releases a noisy breath. “Well, they think it’s random.”
There’s nothing in his words to put me on alert, but I hear something in his tone, and immediately pounce on it. “But?”
He hesitates, but dives in. “It doesn’t look like your typical mugging.”
I look to Andy for confirmation or explanation, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. A cold wariness fills me, and I hold tighter to Blake. “What do you mean?”
“Her throat was slit,” Tobias says, speaking matter-of-factly, as if that will make the words hurt less. It doesn’t, of course, and it’s as if I can feel that very same knife slam into my heart, and then twist.
Blake must understand, because he steps behind me, gathering me close in his arms. “What are the police thinking?”
Tobias shifts his focus from me to Blake, and I can almost feel his relief that he doesn’t have to look me in the eye anymore. He clears his throat. “They…well, they just don’t know. It could be random. But the knife had a serrated edge, and considering who Mac looks like…”
He doesn’t have to say any more. I’ve already broken free of Blake and am squatting at the side of the road, my arms tight around my stomach to keep me from puking my guts up.
Blake immediately crouches down beside me, Tobias and Andy right there with him.
“We don’t know anything for certain, babe,” Blake says. “Not a goddamn thing.”
“We know you need to be careful,” Tobias says. “I want someone with you all the time. Just a precaution until the police can do a little more investigation. Maybe she broke it off with a psycho boyfriend.” He pulls out his phone and starts to dial.
I reach up, trying to take the phone from his hand. “Don’t.”
“Devi, you need protection.”
“I’ve got it,” I say. And I do. I have Andy, my official protector. And Blake, who’s promised not to leave my side. One thing I don’t need is another person being dragged into this mess.
Tobias hesitates, then looks to Blake. “Does she?”
“You know the boys in her guardhouse. They’ll pull together whatever’s necessary.” It’s a nice lie, and I’m impressed with how quickly it comes to his tongue.
Satisfied, Tobias slips his phone back in his pocket. “I want you two keeping a low profile the next few days, you understand?”
“I thought you wanted the PR machine to crank,” Blake says. “Happy couple and all that.”
“Time for that later. Right now, just lay low. Shouldn’t be too hard since you’re on hiatus for the near future.”
“We’re—Wait, what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Bonding company requirements,” he says. “And we have to find you a new stunt double. Damn insurance bullshit, but it’s for the best. Your head won’t be in the right place if you show up on the set tomorrow.”
He’s got that right.
“So, we just wait for your call?”
“That’s about it. I’m going to fly to New York. Use this downtime to get things ready for the location shots next month. Okay?”
&nbs
p; Now, his eyes are fully on me, and I recognize the man who for years I’ve thought of as a father. “Sure.” The idea of having a set call time didn’t sit well with me, anyway. It would be too much like shooting ducks in a barrel.
“Come here,” he says, holding out his arms.
I go, breathing in the scent of his cigarettes. A very gauche habit in uber-healthy L.A., but Tobias hasn’t ever been one to care about what the masses are doing. He captures me in a bear hug, then releases me, hooking an arm around my shoulder as he steers me a few feet from Andy and Blake.
“I haven’t read your notes yet,” I say, which is my way of trying to pry out the truth. “I guess now I can wait a while.”
I desperately hope that he will brush off my comment and tell me to go to the Web site in the note some other time. That there’s no rush at all. Instead he just looks confused, confirming what I already knew in my heart—Tobias didn’t send the strawberry or the note.
“What notes?” he asks.
I force out a laugh. And then—before he can latch on in that oh-so-Tobias way of his—I wave my hand, dissipating the dust of the entire conversation. “I’m such an idiot,” I say. “Someone sent candy and a note. And even though Blake said something about giving me a treat, I just assumed the note was from you. You know. Story notes. That kind of thing.”
“No need for notes,” he says. “You did great.”
“Thanks.”
“As for Blake, though. The man really is sweet on you,” Tobias says. “Are things…?”
I shrug, because I’m not entirely sure how things are.
“I’m glad you’re with him. He’s a good guy, Devi.”
I know that, but at the same time, I’m tired of everyone telling me so.
He waits a moment for me to respond, and when I don’t, he shakes his head. “Well, anyway, tomorrow is off. And even though I said I want you to keep a low profile, I want you laying low together. This movie has enough scandal without your breakup heating up in the news again.”
“Right. Sure. Whatever you want, Toby.”
“I want you to be careful,” he says, then kisses my forehead.
“I will,” I promise, which is quite the understatement.
“I’ll be back in about a week. We’ll probably start up again then.”
“Right,” I say, then watch as he walks back toward the huddle of policemen by Mac’s fence line. I hug myself, even though I know that I can take a few steps backward and lose myself in the warmth of Blake’s arms.
One week before Tobias wants me back on the job. One short week. I think of the strawberry note that leads to a Web site I didn’t bother checking, and I wonder what it says there.
One week.
I only hope I’ll still be alive by then.
Chapter 29
I kept it together in Burbank, but lost it during the drive back to Beverly Hills. I’d simply broken down and cried. A rush of tears for Mac, and all she’d lost. And, yes, tears for me and my fears that I would soon be joining her. I don’t know if that’s selfish or not, but I honestly don’t care. I just needed to get it out, and in the backseat, curled up against Andy, who patted my back and said soft things, turned out to be the place to do it.
We’re turning onto my street when I finally feel in control enough to get down to business. Or, rather, I’m ready to fake it. Actress, remember? And the show must go on.
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Was she killed because of this?”
“You asked that earlier,” Blake says.
“And now I’m asking it without the police and half of Burbank standing nearby.”
“No,” he said. “That would be against the rules. Why would she get pulled in?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer it. But I do look at Andy. “Well?”
“Hell yes it’s related,” he says. “It’s too damn coincidental not to be.” He shoots Blake a look that makes it clear that Andy thinks that Blake is just one step above being an idiot. I fight the urge to send them to separate corners.
“But how?” I say instead. “How could Mac get pulled in? I didn’t call her for help.”
“It’s all part of the rules,” Andy says. “You pull in outside help, and there’s a risk.”
“Yes, but to just anyone? And what outside help?”
Andy doesn’t bother answering that one; he just stares at the back of Blake’s head.
“You really think that whoever is running the game knew that Blake was around? That he called? That he helped?”
“Yeah,” Andy says flatly. “I really believe that. You’re not understanding the breadth of the game here. It’s been going on for years in the real world, and no one’s been able to run it to ground. The FBI’s been involved, and Mel has more resources than you can imagine. It just keeps going. Information, clues, facts. It’s astounding and impressive and terrifying all at the same time. Most of all, whoever is running the show has access and information. You need to remember that, Devi. You need to burn it into your brain.”
I shudder, but I nod, feeling more than a little chastised. “I still don’t understand, though. Why kill Mac? I broke the rules by talking to Blake, right? So why kill Mac? Why not—” But I choke on the question, unable to give it voice.
“Why not kill Blake?” Andy asks, not nearly as squeamish.
“He couldn’t kill me,” Blake says from the front seat.
I manage a halfhearted smile despite the overpowering guilt I’m feeling from getting him involved. “You’re invincible? How convenient for me.”
“I’m your motivation, remember? I’m the one who ate the chocolate. Without me, you can just poke along, or not try to solve the clues at all.”
He’s right, of course. But still, something is off. I roll it around in my still-addled head until it bumps up against a question. “But how does our assassin know that?”
“I already told you,” Andy says. “The game told him.”
“Eyes everywhere,” I say, but mostly to myself.
I want to pull out my cell phone and call Susie. She’s the one who delivered the strawberry to me. Where did she get it? Maybe a messenger brought it by, just saying that it was from Tobias. If she could describe the messenger…
Overall, I can’t help think that there’s some bigger connection to the movie. After all, it’s not easy getting access to a studio backlot, or to the development offices. And yet whoever is pulling our strings seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.
Most of all, it all circles back to the movie. A movie about a game I’m now playing in real life.
I shudder, hating the game. And, for the moment, hating the movie, too.
We’ve arrived at my house now, and Lucas lets us in through the gate. Blake maneuvers down my long driveway, and all the while, I’m trying to remember where I put the note with the Web site.
“It must be in my old purse,” I say as soon as we’re out of the car. Once in the house, I rush upstairs to my purse closet, Blake right on my heels. We arrive together, me breathless, and him as cool as always.
“Good lord, Devi,” he says, looking into the room. I realize then that he’s never actually seen my purse closet. I suppose it is a bit overwhelming. I turned one of the spare bedrooms into the closet, then filled it with freestanding shelves for all of my bags. Since I keep each in a cloth sack, I have a picture of each purse taped on the shelf to identify what’s in the sack. A large table sits by the door, a resting place for purses in transition. Finally, there’s a bureau in the back of the room to hold my collection of wallets, cell phone cases, and the like.
All in all, the room seems perfectly reasonable to me. Blake, however, clearly thinks I’m a loon.
“I like purses,” I say.
“I guess so.” He rolls his eyes and makes a show of looking around the room. “So. Where do we start?”
I smack him, because now he’s just being a pain. “That one,” I say, pointing to the teal blue Pra
da bag I was carrying yesterday. I look around, suddenly realizing we’re missing someone. “Where’s Andy?”
“I really don’t know.” And it’s obvious he doesn’t care. Instead, he’s focused on inspecting my bag. Since I’d only transferred the essentials—and not all the little bits of detritus that gather in a purse over time—he manages to pull out quite a bit of stuff. He lays it all on the table, and we start to pick through it.
“You don’t like him,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question, but I pause, waiting for him to deny it. Because that’s what people do. They take the polite, nonconfrontational route.
I should have known Blake had to be different.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
I feel myself blush. Not because of Andy, but because of the way Blake is looking at me. “He’s just a fan,” I say. “He’s got a crush thing going on.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Blake says.
“I’m not so sure you’re entitled to an opinion,” I say, even though the mere fact that he is jealous makes my heart beat a little faster. Girlie and immature, but there you have it.
“No?” He moves around the little table until he’s right there beside me. “I don’t think entitlement matters.” He’s so close I can breathe in the scent of him, and it’s all I can do not to reach out, grab his shirt, and pull him toward me. I want him badly, desperately. I want his arms and his comfort and his humor. I want his love.
I want everything I lost, and I have no idea if we can get it back. But as I look in his eyes, I know I want to try. At the same time, though, I’m terrified of getting hurt again.
He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “I don’t like the way he looks at you. Like he has a piece of you. Like there’s a connection.”
My cheeks heat even more.
“Come on, Devi. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Mmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”