There was one way to find out.
I gathered the articles together, picking up the ones that had fallen on the floor, and crammed all but one of them back where they had been, then settled the cassette recorder on top of them and repositioned the bandage box. As far as Dad knew, nothing had been disturbed. Exactly the way I wanted it.
I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around the fact that my dad was standing right next to the man who’d rushed Luna away from Tesori Antico. There was no denying it now—Dad had something to do with the Hollises. He had something to do with Luna’s getaway driver.
Goose bumps raced up and down my arms and my stomach knotted. I swallowed and swallowed, as the once-familiar scent of my father’s closet began to choke me. Ink. The air felt thick as ink to me. Even if, by some miracle, my father hadn’t betrayed my mother, he had betrayed me.
I stumbled out of the closet, my feet getting tangled on each other. I landed on my butt, sucking in fresh air, starting to feel swimmy. Don’t pass out, Nikki. Don’t pass out.
Oh, I had no intention of passing out.
I had every intention of figuring out how this guy was linked to my family.
DAD WOULD PROBABLY be pissed that I didn’t leave a note. But at this point I was just trying to avoid him as much as humanly possible. Besides, what was there to say? I’ve gone to get to the bottom of your lies, and hopefully find Luna along the way, all while avoiding the drug dealer who probably wants my cop friend dead. Something told me he wouldn’t be in love with that idea.
I was just glad to get out of the house before he got home.
I wanted to confront him with what I knew. I wanted to make him come clean. But what if he didn’t? What if he still clung to his story, called me crazy, refused to admit anything?
I tried to call Chris again, to tell him I was headed to Pear Magic. But he didn’t answer. Meeting, he texted as soon as I hung up. For the briefest moment, I considered waiting for him to get out of the meeting. But I guessed he wouldn’t be too excited about going back to the studio, given how it went last time we were there. It was best for me to go alone.
I grabbed a bandanna and rummaged through the kitchen drawers until I found an old apron that Dad used to wear when he was going through his weekend cookout phase. It was plain black, and still dirty from years-old food grime that had never been washed out. I put on a black T-shirt and jeans and tied the bandanna around my hair like I’d seen cooks on TV do. I tied the apron around my waist, knotting it in front, and headed out.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It was just before one o’clock. Lunchtime. I drove to Fat Sal’s and ordered random items—a couple of heroes, a couple of wraps, some fries—enough to fill two sacks—then made a beeline to Pear Magic.
The same security guard was working. He waved me through without even questioning me—apparently nobody had alerted him about my previous visit being bogus. This time I pulled into a parking spot right in front of the studio. My palms were sweating, but I had to act like I belonged here if I was going to pull off getting inside again. I was already counting on nobody recognizing me, and on avoiding the blond man, who definitely would. I pulled down the visor and gave myself one last look, tucking loose strands of hair up into the bandanna, took two deep breaths, grabbed the Fat Sal’s sacks, and got out.
You can do this, Nikki.
A young man was standing behind the front desk. He barely looked up when I walked inside. I had a whole spiel practiced in my head about getting a lunch order and wanting to deliver it in person to make sure I hadn’t made any errors, but it turned out I didn’t even need to. I had just opened my mouth when he motioned over his shoulder with his pencil, not tearing his eyes away from the magazine open on the desk in front of him. “Go ahead,” he said.
I closed my mouth, paused for the tiniest second—seriously, my luck was never that good—and walked past him, ducking my head so I didn’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone.
Once I was inside, I realized I had no idea what I was really looking for. Something, anything that would tell me who the blond man was. That would be a start, anyway.
As luck would have it, they were mid-take, the set full of extras, with Celeste Day in the center of the crowd. The white-blond man was sitting in a tall chair with his legs crossed, looking completely bored as he tapped on a tablet. A handful of people stood around the edges of the set, at the ready should their services be needed. But nobody was really hanging around the dressing area.
I snuck back through the area where I’d pretended to be Celeste’s makeup artist and set the bags on a chair. I had to move fast, so I tried hard to focus on colors as I scanned the dressing tables, nudging bottles and tubes and hairbrushes aside so I could riffle through any papers I found. Mostly scripts, the occasional memo or printed list, a press pass. Nothing useful. I crouched and duckwalked to check under each table, looking for open bags or purses. I pawed through what I recognized as Celeste Day’s bag, where I’d found the matchbook before. Nothing. Less than nothing, actually. Nothing, with a side of not having a clue what something would look like even if I found it.
“What are you doing?” I heard. I jerked upright so quickly I nearly smacked the back of my head on the underside of the table. I slapped one hand over my heart.
“Oh my gosh, you scared me,” I said, trying to give myself a southern accent, with no idea why. I pinched my finger and thumb together and held them up like I was holding something tiny between them. “My contact lens.” I gave a nervous, breathy laugh. “They’re new and I don’t really know what I’m doing. They keep popping right out.”
The woman, who was adjusting her zombie costume, appeared to have just come out of the bathroom. She looked unconvinced, but she also looked like she didn’t have time to press it.
“Can I use the mirror to put it back in?” I asked. “It might take me a while.”
“I guess,” she said. She leaned down to check her reflection, pressing her fingers gently under her eyes to smooth her makeup. Satisfied, she started to head toward the set.
“I’m supposed to drop this in the director’s office?” I said, pointing to the Fat Sal’s bags. She looked at the bags and then took a few steps back to look at the blond man, and for a moment I feared she was going to call him over. But instead she just pointed in the direction of the set.
“That guy right there,” she said.
“Yeah, but I have strict instructions not to bother him on set. I’m supposed to leave it on his desk. He already paid.” This was the sketchiest-sounding story, even to myself, but fortunately, the zombie girl was too worried about getting back to filming to think it through. Part of me wanted to just ask her who he was, if she’d ever heard of Luna Fairchild, if she had any idea what his connection was to her. But she looked impatient and annoyed to even be talking to some sandwich delivery girl, and the last thing I wanted to do was arouse suspicion again—or worse, make her call him over. I felt lucky enough to have gotten away from him last time.
“Down that hall,” she said, pointing toward the dark hallway where the blond man had caught me before. “Go left. His is the first door.”
“Thanks,” I said. I leaned over and pulled down my lower lid, bringing one finger up to my eye like I was getting ready to insert a contact. She wasted no time hurrying away, and I wasted no time grabbing my shit and getting out of there.
The hallway was quiet. My footsteps sounded loud in comparison. Every wrinkle of the bags I was holding sounded like a crack of thunder. I could hear my heartbeat. I chewed my bottom lip as I scurried to the left, and then stopped and gave a quick look around before I pushed open the door.