I've Got This

by Louisa Masters

  Derek turns the TV off and sits beside me. “You’re quiet,” he says over my halfhearted protest.

  I shrug. “Tired, I guess. It’s been a crazy couple of days.” I smile when I remember for the millionth time that part of that craziness was him saying he loves me.

  “Yeah.” His gaze is searching, and a hint of something in his gorgeous blue eyes gets all my attention—worry. “But you don’t normally go all quiet when you’re tired. Uh, I guess you can’t wait to get back to New York and start auditioning, hey?”

  I lean over and kiss him, mostly because I can and it feels good, but also because I don’t like seeing him worried. “To be honest, I’m not sure.”

  He blinks, and I’m tempted to pull out my phone and take a pic, because I’ve never seen that stunned look on his face before. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “You’re not sure about what?”

  Slumping back into the comfy couch, I sigh. “Whether I want to be a Broadway star with my name in lights.”

  He shifts so he’s settled just as comfortably as I am, but facing me. The shocked expression has given way to a considering one. “You don’t want fame,” he says matter-of-factly, and my smile this time is because he already knows me so well. I point a finger at him.

  “Got it in one. Not just fame, though. I love my job, and I’ve met a lot of great people in the industry, but there’s also a lot of backbiting and bitchiness. And the higher up you get, the worse it is.” I close my eyes for a second because I am tired too. “I never wanted to be famous, not really. Appreciated for my work, yes, definitely, especially by my peers. But not famous. I don’t like having a lot of attention on me.” I make a face. “And yes, I know that sounds dumb considering I get up on stage every night for hundreds, if not thousands of people to stare at.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s different. It’s not you they’re staring at, it’s the character. Plus, you’re part of an overall production.” He looks like he’s thinking about what I’ve said, considering all the angles. I’ve gotten to know that look. His sharp, analytical mind is part of the reason Derek is so good at his job, and honestly, it’s kind of a turn-on to know he’s so smart. “But if you could have the lead roles without the fame and politics?”

  “I’d be there in a heartbeat,” I say promptly, without even thinking about it. “I would kill to have some of those parts. I….” The words stick in my throat, more out of habit than anything else. This is Derek, I remind myself. He knows. My stomach clenches nervously anyway. I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable talking about this. “There have been a lot of parts over the years that I really wanted. Two of the ones that were offered to me were….” I shake my head. I can’t even think of the words to describe how fabulous it would have been to perform those characters. “It really hurt to turn them down. And now I can go for them, and I was—am—so excited about that. But I really don’t want to deal with the rest of that shit, so….” I shrug. “Maybe I’ll just go for the ones I really want. If I’m not consistently in lead roles, it might not be as bad.”

  “That’s a good idea. And it would give you breathing space if you still took the occasional supporting role.” He takes my arm and tugs me closer, and I go willingly into his embrace.

  I have time to think about this.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Derek

  I’M AT the park when Kim calls me.

  Life’s been good—no, great. Seriously, the only fly in my ointment lately is that every passing day brings us closer to the end of July and Trav’s departure. Well, he doesn’t actually have to leave when Day Dot does, and he’s not going to, but he can’t hang around indefinitely without a job—that’s not him. I’ve yet to come up with the perfect solution to this, but I will. I’m working on it. And other than that, the month since we told each other we love each other has been… incredible. I love living with him. I love having him in my life. I love him.

  So I’m in a good mood, going along with Don as he does his routine weekly check-ins with his senior staff, when Kim’s name flashes on my iPhone screen. I’ve just wrapped up a conversation with the concessions manager and have a few minutes before we check in with the maintenance supervisor, so I excuse myself to Don and answer.

  “Hi, Kim.” Maybe my tone is just a bit breezy. It’s that kind of day, sunny, with a light wind to keep things from getting too hot—although “too hot” is relative in southern Georgia in early July. How can anyone be unhappy on a day like this?

  “Derek, where are you?” Kim’s tone is not breezy, and instantly I know my day is not going to be happy for much longer.

  “I’m at the park. What’s happened?” I’m mentally reviewing everything that’s happened lately that might make her freak out, and there’s nothing. Even if someone is suing—which happens way more than you would think, and usually over dumb shit—that wouldn’t make Kim sound like the zombie apocalypse is coming.

  “I need you back at your office now for a briefing. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the press.”

  Fuck. I gesture to Don, and he walks toward me.

  “Kim, give me a hint here.”

  “Kylie Rutherford has made a statement to the press. I’m sorry, Derek, I have to make a couple more calls. I’ll see you ASAP, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I manage to get in before she ends the call. I still don’t quite understand—what the heck can Kylie Rutherford have said to make Kim panic like that?—but Kim’s the best, so if she’s worried, I should be too. I turn to Don. “I’m sorry, I’ve been called back to HQ. I’ll try and get back out later in the week to talk to the others.” I don’t actually have to, but since I’ve spoken with some of the team leaders, it looks bad for me to leave others out.

  “No worries,” he assures me, and I take off for the staff entrance and my car.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m parking at the main admin building, and I’m seriously worried. My phone’s rung twice with calls from enterprising members of the press who managed to get hold of the number. I referred them both to the media office, telling them I wasn’t at liberty to discuss the situation. Never mind that I don’t actually know what the damn situation is.

  I stride into the foyer, and the place hushes. Seriously. It goes quiet. I can’t remember the last time that happened—oh, wait. I do. It was earlier this year, right after JU had to close down a park for a few days. The news went out, and when the AD of that district walked into the building the next morning, everyone shut up. I wasn’t actually there, but I heard all about it. Several hours later, he got fired.

  I shake that thought from my head as I bypass the elevators and head for the stairs, ignoring all the stares. I could grab one of the bystanders and demand to know what’s going on, but that’s just going to delay me, and Kim will have the most current and accurate information anyway. Plus, nobody sees me sweat. Always in control, that’s me.

  By the time I reach my office, adrenaline is pumping through me. I’m ready. Whatever’s happened, I’m taking it down.

  Gina is standing by her desk, talking on the phone, her face pale. When she sees me, she covers the microphone of her headset and says, “Kim and Dimi are in your office.”

  “Thanks, Gina.” That’s a relief. Dimi will have things in hand. I walk in to find them both on the phone—separately—with Dimi also tapping away at his tablet. He looks up, and his expression gives me pause.

  This might be even worse than I thought.

  He ends the call and scrambles up from his seat. Kim gives me a distracted nod and paces over to the window. “Derek, I need you to authorize this,” Dimi says urgently, thrusting the tablet at me. I take it and scan the district-wide memo he wants to send with a red flag. It’s the red flag that needs my authorization—I’m the only one who can send those to the whole district at once.

  The memo tells me nothing—it basically just reminds all staff that if they are approached by a member of the press, they need to refer them to the media office, and that the
y are contractually obliged not to discuss anything related to JU with anyone not employed by JU. That sounds innocent enough, right? But Dimi wouldn’t be red flagging something like this if the shit wasn’t about to hit the fan.

  I tap in the code to authorize it, and send the memo.

  “Derek,” Kim says, finally off the phone. Thank God, because I don’t think my nerves can take waiting any longer. “Thanks for getting back here so fast.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask her point-blank, and in response she holds out her tablet. I take it and see what appears to be a press release on the screen. Right. She said Kylie Rutherford issued a statement to the press. I read it.

  Then read it again.

  And one more time, because I must be imagining it. This cannot be fucking real. I pin Kim with an incredulous look. “She’s claiming to have been drugged and forced to kill her husband by JU employees?”

  Yep, folks. That’s what it said. There’s a little more detail than that—according to Whack Job Rutherford, her husband’s murder was a JU conspiracy that began with them being advised by a concierge to have dinner at a specific restaurant, then recommended particular dishes and drinks by the waiter there, and ended with her waking from a “dazed, dreamlike state” to find that she’d been arrested and her husband was dead. There’s also some lovely editorializing warning people about JU, since clearly the conspirators must have members in high places, perhaps even in senior management, to have gotten away with it. Personally, I think she overplays it a bit with the line where she wonders how often it’s happened in the past and been covered up, but it’s the sort of thing the press and the public will eat up.

  I take a deep breath, hand Kim back her tablet, and take another deep breath. I open my mouth to speak, then close it and take another deep breath.

  “Does Ken know?” I finally say, starting to pace in front of my desk.

  “Yes,” Kim tells me. “I managed to get a copy of the press release before it went live anywhere, but it got out about five minutes after I called you. Ken knows, and so does corporate.” She’s referring to Joy Incorporated’s corporate head office in LA. “Ken was out”—oh fuck, it’s golf day—“but he’s on his way in. I’ve got a call in to the local police to see if there’s any possible way what she says can be true.”

  What the FUCK! I turn so fast she takes a step back. “You don’t really think—” I begin hotly, but she interrupts.

  “No. I honestly don’t. And even if by some freak chance it turns out that a couple of employees did conspire to commit murder, there’s no way in hell it’s as widespread as she says. But, Derek, I have to cover all angles. When we release our statement, and that has to be soon, I need to be able to say with complete honesty that what she claims is impossible. We can’t backtrack on something like this later if it turns out she pissed off a server and they slipped a roofie in her drink to get her back, and it all spiraled out of control from there.”

  I suck in a deep breath, then another. The technique appears to be failing for the first time ever. She’s right, but that doesn’t stop my anger.

  Her phone rings, and we all stop. “This is Kim,” she answers, and then her expression changes and she waves at me. “Detective, thank you for calling. Do you mind if I put you on speaker? I have AD Derek Bryer here with me. Thank you.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and taps the screen. “Detective Gooding is in charge of the investigation into the Rutherford murder, Derek,” she says by way of introduction.

  “Yes, we met.” I remember him as a tall, thin, balding man with a hard stare. He struck me at the time as a man who didn’t care about social niceties and politics so much as getting the job done. “Hello, Detective.”

  “Mr. Bryer,” he says shortly. I seem to remember telling him to call me Derek, but that’s not important now.

  “Detective, I’m not sure if you’ve seen—” Kim begins, but she’s cut off.

  “Our media liaison sent me the press release, and my phone’s been ringing off the hook. I know why you called.” The words are abrupt, but I hear a slight softening in his tone. “The investigation is closed and charges have been laid, so this is all a matter of public record, but I’ll save you the time reading the report. We have the security camera footage of the area around the bungalow where the Rutherfords were staying. It shows them leaving for dinner, a maid entering shortly after, which we were advised was for the requested turn-down service, the maid departing, the Rutherfords returning, neither showing obvious signs of being drugged or intoxicated, and then nothing until the maid entered the next morning. A toxicology screen was performed on Kylie Rutherford and on the remains of Peter Rutherford, and no drugs were found. They’d both consumed alcohol but were well under the legal limit. I just spoke with our toxicology expert, and she confirms that if Mrs. Rutherford had been under the influence to the degree she describes in her statement—that she didn’t regain full awareness until after her arrest—the substance would definitely have still been in her system at the time the sample was taken.”

  My knees weaken, and I lean against the desk. This is good, and his rapid, facts-only monotone is reassuring. I take a deep breath and open my mouth to thank him, but he’s not done.

  “The psychological assessment found Mrs. Rutherford to be entirely sane. Ruthless, amoral, arrogant, and completely self-serving, but sane. Interviews we conducted with staff at the Rutherford home indicated that in June of last year, Mrs. Rutherford discovered that Mr. Rutherford was having an affair. The staff are aware of this because it was the topic of many screaming arguments for weeks. Eventually the fighting stopped, and Mrs. Rutherford gave her husband the cold shoulder for about six months, ending abruptly in late January, when she became happy again. They will testify to that. Her change in mood coincides with an online order of a custom-made suitcase with a hidden compartment containing a built-in knife sheath, and a credit card charge at a custom knifemaker store. The owner remembers her well and has confirmed that the knife used in the murder is the one he made to her specifications. We have the order forms, and he will testify also. These all speak to premeditation. Even with her very expensive lawyers, Mrs. Rutherford will have a tough time convincing a jury that she was pissed at her husband, bought these items, brought them with her to Joy Universe, but that his death was a result of her being drugged by a magic drug that leaves no traces and coerced by people who were never there.”

  “So why is she doing this, then?” Kim asks, beginning to pace. Me, I’m still leaning against the desk for support. “I mean, what’s the point? It sounds like she never even tried to hide what she was planning, and then she throws out this story?”

  Gooding sighs. “I don’t know exactly,” he admits. “I can tell you that she never spoke a word about any conspiracy or of being coerced while she was in custody, and her attorneys never mentioned it either. Maybe she just wants some media attention? Maybe someone at JU annoyed her, and she wants revenge. Or maybe this is a tactic to sway a future jury in her favor, muddy the waters. She’s had a few minor charges laid against her in the past—D and D, minor assault, DUI—and they all went away, either withdrawn by the complainant or dealt with by some expensive lawyers. The impression I got when I interviewed her was that she thought she could throw enough money at this to make it go away, too. She was arrogant beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “So we’re just collateral damage to her?” I can hear the bitterness in my voice. Even when the accusations are shown to be groundless, this is going to affect us. People believe what they see on TV, and they love to believe the worst of large corporations.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bryer.”

  “Derek,” I mutter. It’s reflexive, I swear. “Thank you for telling us this, Detective. We really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he says, then hesitates. “Look, when I was out there for the investigation, I saw how you run that place. Your staff were as helpful as they could be. Sure, sometimes when I asked for stuff, they had me wait w
hile they got permission, but I never had to wait long, and I never had to jump through hoops. And the service they gave the customers was better than anywhere I’ve seen. If I can see that without having stayed at the hotel, then people who’ve stayed in the past will remember it. This is going to blow over.”

  I grimace. It’s supposed to be a smile, but never quite makes it. There’s a lead weight in my stomach.

  “Thank you, Detective.” Kim comes to my rescue. “If you could send me a copy of the police report, I’d really appreciate it. We have a request in, but it’s still working through the system.” She winds up the call while I stare at my feet, taking deep breaths. I can hear the soft tap-tap of Dimi on his tablet. He’s been working away industriously all through the call.

  “It’s not so bad,” Kim tries to reassure me. I give her a flat look. “It’s not,” she insists. “It’s not good, in fact it’s terrible, but it could be worse. It could be true.”

  She has a point.

  “So what happens now?”

  Kim sighs and sits in one of the visitor chairs. “We release a statement denying it all. It’s tricky, because her husband has just been brutally murdered. We don’t want to seem insensitive to that.”

  What? I run the sentence through in my head. Nope, still weird. “Her husband was brutally murdered by her,” I point out incredulously. “How sensitive can she be?”

  “Allegedly,” Kim reminds me. “Until she’s convicted, it’s all alleged.”

  My groan is forestalled by a knock. Gina pokes her head around the door. “Ken is waiting for you in the conference room,” she says.

  I stand. It’s going to be a long day.

  IT GOT worse, of course. Kylie Rutherford didn’t go quite as far as calling a press conference, but she didn’t lock the front gates of her megamansion, and when the media came swarming at her door, she opened it and answered questions—selected ones, of course, like “Kylie, did you hear any of your attackers call each other by name?” Amazingly, she did—according to her statement, she can’t remember exactly what happened while she was “drugged,” but she can remember the names used by “attackers” who didn’t exist. Do I sound bitter? That might be because the names she tossed out there are Paul, Chris, and Kate, of which we have numerous at just Tiki and the restaurant she frequented that night, and…. Derek. Apparently, “Derek” was in charge.