Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Wednesday passes in a glorious blur. I have errands all over the studio lot, so I’m able to mostly avoid Lila. Something I consider a good thing, since I’m pretty sure she’d read I Had Sex With Matthew with just one good look at my face.
Still, despite my honed and sharpened acting skills (not), I can’t help but float through the day. And while Matthew and I play it purely professional, I catch Lila’s sharp gaze more than once. And by the end of the day, I can’t shake the feeling that she knows.
“Don’t worry about it,” Matthew tells me when we’re tucked away in his office sorting documents. ( Not a euphemism.) “Lila’s a big girl, and I already told you there’s nothing between us.”
“You also told me that she’d like there to be. Which I think makes me her archnemesis.”
“And you’ll look damn cute in the bodysuit and cape.”
“Don’t make light of it.”
We’re working on the sofa in his office, the documents spread out on the coffee table. Now, he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I’m not,” he says. “I respect how she felt about me in the past. But she’s seeing someone now, remember? Whatever she might have felt for me is history.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. But if this thing between us is going to go anywhere?—”
“Thing?” He arches a brow.
“—then you need to tell her,” I finish, my voice firm.
He’s still holding my hand. Now he lifts it and kisses my knuckles. “This is more than a thing,” he says, with so much heat in his voice I feel a little undone. “And you’re right. She’s my oldest friend, and she deserves to know. I’ve got a morning meeting, but I’ll talk to her after that. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, in a voice that’s more chipper than I feel. I do think Lila deserves to know. That doesn’t mean I’m entirely certain it’s going to be all hugs and puppies and congratulations once Matthew lays it out.
But I’ll worry about that tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s something thrilling about sneaking kisses in his office when no one’s looking.
And something even more thrilling about going home with him and sharing his bed that night.
He wakes me Thursday with a kiss, and when my eyes flutter open, my heart does a little flip-flop. Not only am I looking at an exceptional face with a radiant smile, but I’m in the bed of a man I’ve fallen for fast and hard.
Although maybe it’s not that fast when I think about all the years I’ve watched and wanted, never believing I could ever have him.
The real miracle is that he’s fallen just as hard for me.
“I’ve got Lila duty,” he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and brushing my hair off my face.
My stomach flutters. Today is the day he’s telling her. “Call me after you talk,” I say.
He nods. “I will. But don’t worry. We’re all adults. It will be fine.”
I nod.
“Want me to drop you at your house on the way? Or do you want to lounge in bed a little longer?”
“Lounge,” I say. “Who knows when I’ll have another opportunity to ransack your house and learn all your secrets?”
For a second, I think I see a shadow cross his face. But by the time I say, “I’m kidding—hello?” I’m pretty sure that was my imagination.
“Just so long as you don’t sell them to Variety ,” he says, making me tap a finger on my temple and say, “Now there’s an idea.”
“Careful,” he says. “I’d love an excuse to spank you.”
I lift a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Then again, perhaps that’s not a punishment.” Mischief dances on his face, and he leans closer, his breath tickling my ear as he says, “I’ll just withhold sex.”
“I’ll be good,” I say, crossing my heart. “Nary a snoop.”
He chuckles, then gives me a goodbye kiss that is sweet and sexy and full of promise. “I’ll see you at the office,” he whispers. “And I’ll see more of you tonight.”
“Damn right,” I say, then snuggle back against the pillow as he heads out to—hopefully—not make an enemy of Lila.
Since I actually have a hefty pile of work at the office, I don’t luxuriate in the sheets for long. Instead, I luxuriate in the steam shower— how have I never experienced one of these before? —then order an Uber since my car’s been on the Hardline lot since yesterday morning.
Since I don’t have a clean outfit at the treehouse, I have the Uber driver drop me at home. I’m running later than I’d planned, and as I rush inside, I toss my purse on the entry table, accidentally knocking off the brown paper bag I’d left there after Tilda’s visit. A handful of bite-sized candy bars burst out, along with a white envelope, half-protruding from the paper bag.
A letter . I’d completely forgotten that the candy bag also held a letter for me that had been mistakenly delivered next door.
The envelope is only partly revealed, and as I bend down to scoop up the spilled candy, all I can see is the return label. There’s no name, just a familiar address.
Whitsett Avenue. Valley Village, California.
My whole body goes cold.
Jenny .
The letter is from Jenny .
My knees give out, and before I know it, I’m on the floor, staring at the envelope like it might explode. The postmark shows that it was mailed the day before she died, and my hands shake as I pick it up, then rip it open without any ceremony. A single sheet of paper flutters out, landing on the floor beside me. I grab it, my pulse thundering in my ears as I look at the words scrawled in green Sharpie in Jenny’s messy handwriting.
I AM THESE TORN LINES.
JG
PS: I’m driving on, driving out. Forgive me, this tangled knot.
The words blur as my stomach lurches. I drop the paper and stagger to my feet, stumbling toward the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m vomiting, my body shaking from the force of it.
When I’m done, I sit back against the cold tile, clutching my stomach as I try to catch my breath. My mind is racing, spinning with possibilities I can’t piece together.
I don’t know if I sit there for minutes or days, but finally I push myself to my feet, wipe my mouth, and stagger out of the bathroom.
Jenny.
That note.
What the hell does it mean?
The question swirls through my mind as I stumble out of the bathroom. I don’t remember heading to the back of the house, but the next thing I know I’m in my office—the room that used to be Bree’s bedroom. It’s a mess. Bookshelves crammed to the brim and papers spilling onto the desk. But I’m here for a reason, and I drop to my knees in front of one of the shelves and start pulling out books until I find my senior yearbook. I flip to the back, where dozens of autographs crowd the pages.
It’s all there—the promises, the jokes, the signatures from kids I swore I’d be friends with forever but haven’t seen in years. I flip faster, skimming the pages until I find it. The big green heart.
Inside the heart, the words jump out at me, written in that same familiar handwriting: Madam, I am Adam—and Adam, we’re the word masters.
I trace the words with my finger, my heart pounding. It’s signed by the three of us—Jenny, Bree, and me. We’d written this in each other’s yearbooks, proud of our ridiculous wordplay.
It had been Jenny’s thing at first. She’d loved word games. So, of course, she’d sucked me and Bree into the madness. We weren’t as into them as she was, but it made for a fun thing to share—and hiding messages in silly sentences turned out to be the thing I would most remember from high school.
I blink, realizing that my vision has gone blurry with tears. She sent me a message.
If I’d gotten it in time, would I have been able to save her?
I reach for my phone, thinking that I have to call Bree. But I hesitate. She’s off on the trip of a lifetime, and I don’t want to ruin that for her. Not unless I truly, desperately need the help.
I’m holding a clue in my hand, and it must lead somewhere. Either to the darkness in her head that led to suicide … or to murder. So I’ll follow it until I hit a dead end. And then—maybe—I’ll drag Bree in.
Until then? Well, I guess she can enjoy her nights having wild sex in Monaco.
I reach for a pen and a notepad, intending to start unscrambling, but as I do, my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Lila. I grimace. All I can see on the preview is Has the policy re running late slip ? —
I start to tap to open the text, but I hesitate, not sure if Matthew’s talked to her yet. But surely he would have texted me if he had.
Fuck it.
I tap, then I type back a quick reply. Sorry. I was with Matthew. He said he would tell you I would be in late.
I hit send , knowing it’s a bit passive-aggressive, but not really caring. Except it’s going to put her in a pissy mood.
I sigh, then almost text Matthew and tell him not to talk to her today. But I shove the thought aside. If I have to deal with Lila, I will. But right now, I’m going to focus on Jenny.
I tuck the note back into the envelope. I don’t know if it’s a clue or a suicide note.
Either way, I have to unscramble the message.
I only hope that I can.
By the time I get to work, my nerves are frayed. My mind keeps replaying Jenny’s note, the lines of green Sharpie etched into my memory as if I’d written them myself.
I am these torn lines.
PS: I’m driving on, driving out. Forgive me, this tangled knot.
What was she trying to say? Was it a goodbye? A warning? Something else entirely?
I’d spun those letters around and around in my head for the entire ride to Hardline. Now, I’m in the elevator, staring at the photo of the letter I’d taken before locking the original in my desk. I try to will the letters to jump into their proper order, but nothing happens. The words are nonsense, and they’re determined to stay that way.
My stomach twists. This letter is the only hope I have of learning what happened to Jenny. She’d written out the anagram. She’d mailed the letter to me. It was some sort of cry for help. And while I have no idea why she didn’t call and just talk to me, it doesn’t matter now.
This letter is what I have left—and I will learn the truth.
But apparently not today.
With a frown, I lock my phone as the elevator doors slide open. I step out, tilt my head down, then head toward the office where another challenge awaits me: Lila.
If she’s looking, I know Lila can see me on the security camera, but I take my time, anyway. I need the extra moments to try to clear my head and make sure my face isn’t reflecting any errant thoughts. Easier said than done since I’m about as good at hiding my emotions as I am at acrobatics. As in, not at all.
I watch the pattern of the carpet as I walk, hoping that I’ll somehow grok my next best step by the time I reach the door. What I want is to show Matthew the note, and it guts me to acknowledge that I can’t. Jenny’s death is the reason I’m at Hardline. The reason I applied for the job. The reason I wanted to get close to Matthew. Well, that and my long-standing crush.
I fight the urge to fake a stomach bug and just turn around and go home. But I can’t. I got into this for Jenny, and I’m going to see it through. I can’t back off now, even if I am slowly unraveling with every step toward that door. Even if I know that there are only two people in the whole world who could help me hold it together right now. One’s in Monaco. And the other might very well be the man who took Jenny from me in the first place.
No. No, I can’t believe that.
But that’s my heart talking. My brain is quietly whispering that I can’t let myself be stupid.
Would it be stupid ?
I know the man. I’ve seen his heart.
And what about what you told Bree? That he and Ash are alike. That they could kill to protect what they love.
But how on earth could Jenny have been a threat? A wannabe actress? It makes no sense.
And it won’t. Not until you know the truth.
I hesitate at the office door, knowing the little demon in my head is right. I won’t know until I know. And I have absolutely no idea how to take the next step toward truth.
Lila says only, “Good morning,” when I walk in, but I’m sure there’s a dark message underneath. Something like, “ Welcome back, bitch, and stay away from the man I want.”
I give a slight nod of acknowledgment, keep my head down, and hurry into my office. I shut the door that leads to reception. Then I glance toward the door between me and Matthew’s private office, noting that it’s already closed.
Good. I need a few minutes to think. I even go so far as to pull up Bree on my phone. I’m about to tap the icon to call her, but then I remember two things. One, I can’t drag her into this when she’s overseas. And two, I have no idea what time it is over there, but I’m guessing that it’s not a good time to call.
And that’s when the heavens open up, angels sing, and shafts of gold light shoot down from above.
Because I know what to do.
I’ll tell Matthew .
Not that I came to Hardline because of Jenny. Not even that I know that Jenny went to Hardline’s meet-and-greets.
No, I’ll just tell him that my friend Jenny was trying to break into acting, that I need to figure out why she committed suicide, and since he’s Matthew Freaking Holt, then maybe he has a way to find out if something happened before she died. Like maybe she’d bombed an audition for Hardline or some other producer in town.
That way Matthew never has to know I suspected him for a second. Plus, he’ll be able to help me figure this out. Because, of course, he’s completely innocent.
And if I’m wrong about that … well, in that case, hopefully I’ll be able to tell. And as much as it might break my heart, I’ll take him down.
But I’m not wrong. I’ve been naked with this man. Joked with him. Made love with him. Cooked and laughed with him.
I’m not wrong.
I can’t be wrong.
And because I can’t, I open my phone to the photo of the letter, then stand up and go to our connecting door. I’m about to tap on it when I realize that it’s already slightly ajar, which means if I knock, it will just fly open. Fine if he’s alone, bad protocol if he’s got someone in there.
I bend forward, my ear to the crack. At first, I hear just a slight murmur, as if he might be on the phone. I start to push the door a bit more, just for a peek, when I freeze, every ounce of blood in my body going cold from the single word I’ve heard.
Gardner .