“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.