30. Sean
SEAN
The lie sits sour in my mouth. I hate lying to her. I hate it enough that my jaw aches from holding still.
Gravel crunches behind me. Wesley comes up on my right, hands in his pockets, eyes tracking the SUV like he can pull it back with a look. The heat has started to bleed out of the day. The shadows from the palms reach almost to our boots. “You’re not going to let her do this, are you?”
“She needs some alone time.” I shrug. “She can have it. In her car. The car I planted a tracker on while I was checking for a bomb.”
That knocks a grin out of him. “You’ve always been my kind of bastard.”
“I am what I am.” I flick my phone awake. A small green dot slides toward the gate on the map. She wants space. She can have it inside a net I control.
Wesley tilts his head. “So we’re going after her?”
“No.” I don’t take my eyes off the drive. “We still need eyes in the house. If someone’s counting on her to leave, this is the window they’ll use.”
“You’re taking your truck? You can use mine?—”
“She’d spot me before I hit the street.” I pocket the phone. “I’m taking Chief’s jeep.”
“You think she won’t clock you anyway?”
“She won’t if I do my job.” I finally look at him. “And even if she does—better angry than missing. I’ll take the first over the second every time. Plus, she doesn’t know Chief’s jeep. It’s black, like half of them in the city. I’ll blend.”
Wesley shifts, the last of the grin fading. “You know she’ll be pissed.”
“She’ll be alive. That’s all I care about.” I text Chief for her keys, and like a phantom, she shows up not ten seconds later.
“Following your girl?” she asks as she passes the keys to me.
I nod once. “Don’t give me shit about it, okay?”
“I’m more annoyed that you’re not already on her six.”
I hold up my phone to display the tracker screen.
“I knew you were smarter than that.” That’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever gotten out of her. She resumes her post, disappearing into the trees at the edge of the property.
I turn to Wes. “You know the drill. Chief’s got the outside. Rotate the guards on the west hedge. The neighbor’s landscapers like to leave a gap at the corner. I want that patched.”
“Already done,” he says, automatic. He studies my face for a beat. “You really think she’s walking into something?”
“Doesn’t matter. I want eyes-on.” I keep my voice even.
He nods once, all business again. “We’ll keep the lights on.”
I circle the jeep, check what Chief left in the back—med kit, field glasses, a coil of line, bottled water that tastes like plastic but keeps you alive, a poncho rolled tight with a rubber band I don’t trust. Good enough.
I slide into the driver’s seat. The vinyl has a late-day warmth that seeps through my shirt.
Wesley rests his hand on the doorframe. “She’ll find out. Be prepared for the fallout.”
“She might. But if nothing goes wrong, I can keep my distance, and she never needs to know.” I thumb the ignition, the engine coughing into a steady idle. The map on my phone redraws as the jeep’s Bluetooth grabs it—her dot already beyond the mouth of the neighborhood, sliding toward the highway.
He leans down, lower voice. “You’re sure you don’t want backup? Two cars are harder to spot if they look like traffic.”
“Two cars double the chance she sees us.” I glance past him to the house.
Through the glass I catch a sliver of Bailey’s hallway, the stripe of late-afternoon light laid across the floor like a blade.
“Keep Huck inside. He’s bleeding again even if he won’t admit it.
If something comes to the door, I want him fresh. ”
Wesley smirks without humor. “He’ll love that.” He taps the roof twice, the old signal we never unlearned. “Bring her back safe.”
“That’s the plan.”
I back out into the slanting light. The driveway looks longer in the late hour, the shadows from the palms banding across it like stripes.
At the street I pause, watching the neighborhood exhale into evening—dog walkers, sprinklers ticking, a kid on a scooter dragging his heel for sparks. Normal. A cover for everything uglier.
I pull out and keep it easy until I’m clear of the blocks that know our plates.
Then I pick up speed, staying two, three turns behind the green dot, never crowding it, never letting it get so far I can’t correct if she does something unexpected.
The guilt rides shotgun, quiet and pointed. I let it. I earned it.
I told her we’d follow her lead. I am. She’s leading me right now.
She can be angry with me later. She can call me a liar to my face and I’ll take it standing still. What I won’t do is watch a headline bloom on my phone with her name in it and wonder if I could have stopped it by swallowing my pride and breaking the rules we’re pretending to live by.
Rules get people killed every day.
The jeep hums, steady. The map ticks. The sun drags its gold down the sky until the world edges toward amber.
The farther I get from the house, the quieter it feels inside the jeep.
The radio’s dead silent, no chatter, just the low hum of tires on the road and the occasional rattle in the glove box that tells me Chief doesn’t waste time fixing cosmetic noise.
The AC stutters but it blows cold enough, and that’s good—keeps me awake, sharp, thinking.
I glance down at my phone clipped to the dash. Bailey’s green dot moves steady, heading west first, then north. She’s driving smooth, not weaving or checking her mirrors like she thinks someone’s behind her. She believes she’s alone.
That guilt chews at me again. She asked for space, demanded it, and I told her she could have it. Now here I am, lying to her with every mile.
I drum my fingers on the wheel, jaw tight. I don’t like betraying her. But letting her slip off into the world alone, not knowing who’s waiting on the other side of her meeting—that’s worse. That’s unforgivable.
She was too secretive about this meeting. I don’t like it.
A mile marker flashes past. The sun hangs lower now, gilding everything in amber, throwing long shadows across the Pacific Coast Highway. It’s beautiful, but it feels dangerous too, like the light is a trick. I stay back three cars, two lanes over, never closer than that.
I keep reminding myself that this isn’t about control. This isn’t about taking her choices away. This is about keeping her alive. I’m not David. I’m not trying to run her life for her.
I doubt she’ll see it that way.
Every time I blink, I see her at the ice cream shop.
That panic in her eyes. The way she crumpled against me, her body shaking, her skin too pale.
I see Huck on the marble, bleeding from his arm, explosives planted under her front stairs like it was nothing.
I see the way people stare at her in public—recognition first, then calculation.
Bailey doesn’t always see it. She’s used to being looked at. But I see the shift when admiration turns to opportunity. To threat.
She’s too high-profile. Too trusting. Too much of a target.
That’s why I planted the tracker. That’s why I keep following. Because no matter how badly she wants to believe the best of people, I know better.
Up ahead the ocean stretches wide, dark blue with gold sparks where the late sun hits the surface. White caps break against jagged rocks, the crash muted by distance but heavy enough that I imagine the sound through the windshield. The road curves and twists, hugging the cliffs.
She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t pull over. Doesn’t even seem to hesitate.
“Where the hell are you going, Bailey?”
David doesn’t own property out here. I know that for a fact. I’ve checked the records, both public and those buried deep where most people never get. I know his holdings, his shell companies, his rented spaces. None of them are here.
So what’s the play?
I check my mirrors again, making sure I’m not the one being followed.
You learn to layer paranoia over paranoia until it feels like armor.
No tails. Just traffic. A minivan stuffed with kids in soccer jerseys, a convertible with two tourists snapping pictures of the cliffs, a battered pickup hauling boards that rattle against the bed.
Normal. Nothing’s normal anymore, but this passes for it.
Her dot moves faster, then slows. She’s approaching something. My grip tightens on the wheel.
When the curve straightens out, the green dot turns down a private road. I pull over on the highway to watch where it goes, pulling up Google Maps to see if I can get the lay of the land. No luck. I check the address against Zillow. Nothing.
I’m an idiot. A property like this would not be listed publicly. I could have Wesley look into it, but the green dot slows to a stop, and I’m distracted. A moment later, it goes again. She must have driven through a gate. It then stops and doesn’t move again. She parked.
I can’t get through a gate. Not legitimately. So, I park the jeep off the road in some trees where no one will notice for a little while. Then, I hike.
Even the private road is grand. Huge trees on either side, all flowering and perfuming the air. I stay between them, scouting for cameras or guards and finding none.
Ahead is a wall with a gate. I skip the gate—too obvious a point of entry—and pop into the trees for a view.
Beyond the wall, a flash of terra-cotta roofline, pale stucco glowing in the last of the day’s light.
The place sprawls across the bluff, acres of manicured land stretching toward the ocean, gardens terraced down the slope, fountains throwing silver spray into the air.
Spanish-style arches rise against the sky, red tile blazing.
It’s a palatial estate, the kind of place that looks less like a home and more like a hotel.
I peer through the binoculars, exhaling slowly. I have my suspicions about the owner, and they’re confirmed when a short balding white man comes out to greet her, all grins and a pat on her back.
Friedburg. Thank fuck.
He’s not a predator. He’s a sweetheart by this industry’s standards, which isn’t saying much, but it’s enough. He wants her name attached to his projects, her face at his galas, so he won’t hurt her. Not that he would in the first place.
He’s got a reputation for being kind, an aberration in Hollywood.
His sets are places where people fall in love, where kids are welcome to roam to be with their acting parents, where animal actors are treated with the utmost respect.
Hell, he’s even helped some couples reconcile.
A lifetime in the business and the worst thing Google can say about him is that he cheated on his taxes in the eighties.
That should calm me. It doesn’t.
Because a sweetheart by industry standards is still a man with a fortress, and Bailey’s inside it without me. But at least I can breathe again.
The sun dips beyond the horizon, blanketing the world in lavender and gray. Perfect time to climb over the wall. I land with a thud on the inside, and still, no guards. No dogs. Nothing.
He’s either too trusting or too old to care about security.
A wide drive curls through manicured grounds, lined with palms that sway in the ocean breeze like performers waiting for a cue.
Fountains erupt in marble basins, their spray catching the last light and throwing diamonds into the air.
Bougainvillea drapes across walls in thick bursts of purple and red, spilling over like the place itself can’t contain its excess.
And the land. God. Acres upon acres, rolling down toward the cliffs, terraced gardens carved into the slope. Olive trees line the paths, their silvery leaves shifting like whispers. Statues dot the corners—angels, lions, Roman gods, all staring blankly out at the Pacific as if they own it.
It’s obscene. It’s beautiful.
Hollywood.
I move along the outer wall, keeping low.
I find a spot where the wall curves and a cluster of eucalyptus branches press close.
I climb, settling into the crook of a tree that leans just far enough to give me a vantage point through the branches.
From here, I can see the main house rising at the center of the estate, Bailey’s SUV tucked neatly into the circular drive.
I breathe out slow, steadying myself. Bailey doesn’t know how dangerous it is to walk into palaces like this.
She doesn’t see the teeth behind the smiles, the traps behind the gates.
She believes too easily. Trusts too fast. And me?
I’m stuck out here, perched in a tree, watching over her like some shadow she’ll never thank me for being.
Still. I’d rather break her trust than see her broken.
I shift, testing the branches under my boots, making sure they’ll hold. The binoculars are cool in my hands, lenses pulling the world closer. I sweep the grounds, cataloguing movement. A gardener hauling a hose. Two staff in pale uniforms crossing the drive with trays.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket—Wesley checking in. I thumb out a quick reply: She’s at Friedburg’s. All quiet. Hold the house.
I get a thumbs-up in return.
I adjust in the crook of the tree, stretching my legs until the bark presses rough through my pants. My body knows how to wait. I’ve done it in jungles, deserts, frozen forests—waiting is the half of the job recruiters fail to mention.
Through the binoculars, I catch a glimpse of her in the lounge. She’s in conversation, gestures animated, her hair catching the light. Even at this distance I can tell she’s nervous. She always tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s trying to cover it.
Friedburg stands with her, talking too much, hands sweeping wide, his voice carrying even faintly to me when he laughs. He’s in a good mood.
She’s fine. This is what she came for—industry business, the kind of meeting she couldn’t tell us about because we’d never let her go alone.
In the distance, tires crunch on gravel. My shoulders stiffen. Another guest at the party? A co-star perhaps?
Will they run lines? Will they kiss to check the chemistry?
My stomach twists at the thought. I know she’s an actress. It’s just a part of the job. But every time I’ve watched one of her films and she was intimate with her co-star, I saw red.
Not that I’d ever tell her. She doesn’t need to know that. I’d never taint her job with my jealousy.
Odd that it never hits with Wesley or Huck. They just feel like extensions of me, I guess.
I swing the binoculars toward the drive. My heart stops when I see an SUV I recognize.
The driver’s door opens after it parks, and out steps David. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look around like a man invited under duress. He belongs here.
My blood goes hot.
Friedburg comes forward, smiling wide, arms open. He clasps David’s hand like an old friend, pats his shoulder, ushers him inside as if this is nothing new.
I lower the binoculars, grip tightening until the rubber creaks.
Bailey’s inside. With him.