When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.
I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes.
I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking.
After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—
“Stop!”
I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me.
“Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint.
I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously.
“I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace.
“Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.”
His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.”
“I’m an A&R guy- was an A&R, for Majestic Records.”
“I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.”
I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little.
“Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.”
He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin.
“So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before.
“I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight.
“Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him.
“Haley Grace Cooke. Your daughter.”
I can sense his body tighten, see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. For a few seconds it seems like he could go in any direction: Crying, spitting, running… Shooting.
“It’s out in the open,” I say, seeing that he can’t decide. “The news broke last night. It’s still spreading. It’s not a secret anymore. Not unless you do something about it.”
For what feels like hours we glare at each other, no one making a move, but I know Rex isn’t really looking at me, he’s looking deep inside himself. Pulling at old memories, at whatever feelings he has about this. He looks down at the ground and pushes his lower lip out. When he raises his head, it’s high again. He sticks the hand that isn’t holding the gun into his pocket, an attempt to be cool that works only because it’s his job.
“I’ve had everything and anything written about me,” he says distantly, as if remembering all of them at once. “That I’m gay. That I’m a plagiarist. That I’m a Nazi sympathizer. That I’m part of the Illuminati. Even a pact with the devil. It doesn’t matter.”
“This time it’s different.”
Rex’s smile is both condescending and curious.
“Why should it be?” he asks.
“Because this time it’s true.”