Chapter 13
No one looked up as Rowan, Naomi, and Grace walked along the sidewalk.
Naomi paused to look in the window of a small home goods shop where candles and pottery were arranged in careful groupings behind the glass.
“This place opened last spring,” Naomi said. “Micah got me a lemon-scented candle from here for my birthday.”
“Did you like it?”
“I did. I just couldn’t tell him that because then he’d think candles were a good gift.”
Rowan chuckled.
They walked a little farther, Grace making contented sounds against Naomi’s chest.
Rowan glanced sideways at her sister. “So . . . speaking of Sheriff Sutherland.”
Naomi’s cheeks turned pink.
Rowan laughed. “Oh wow. You’ve got it that bad, huh?”
Naomi shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to hide her smile. “It’s anything but bad.”
“I can see that.”
Naomi adjusted the blanket tucked around Grace as her expression softened. “He’s just . . . he’s a good man.”
Warmth spread through Rowan’s chest at the contentment in Naomi’s voice.
After everything Naomi had been through, seeing her sister look this peaceful felt like a gift.
“I’m happy for you,” she said.
“Thanks.” A few seconds passed before Naomi’s expression turned more thoughtful. “What about you?”
Rowan frowned as they continued walking. “What about me?”
“What about your love life?”
Rowan let out a dry laugh. “Love life would be generous wording.”
“Are you sure about that? You’ve always turned heads. I thought for sure you’d find someone out there and get married. Maybe to another movie star or something. Didn’t you date John Brady for a while?”
Rowan almost snorted. “I did. But I shouldn’t have.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how he always plays tough guys on TV?”
Naomi nodded. “He seems pretty dreamy.”
“Well, in real life he’s anything but. For starters, his voice is entirely higher than it is in the movies. And he’s afraid of bugs. There’s really nothing macho about him.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?” Rowan shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her leather jacket. “Apparently, I have a knack for picking losers.”
“Not all of them have been losers.”
Rowan already knew where this was headed, and she braced herself for Naomi to continue.
“Wes wasn’t a loser,” her sister finally said.
“No,” Rowan admitted. “He wasn’t. He isn’t.”
“Then what happened? You never really told me. And you looked so sad every time his name came up that I didn’t want to ask.”
Rowan stared ahead at the road stretching through town. “Our lives were moving in completely different directions. He knew exactly who he was and where he belonged. Meanwhile I was still chasing every shiny thing that caught my attention.”
“That’s not fair.”
Rowan shrugged. “It’s not wrong either.”
Naomi studied her a second. “Do you ever regret going to Hollywood?”
Rowan’s chest tightened. On many occasions, she’d regretted it more than she wanted to admit.
But instead of saying that, she forced a shrug. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
However, the truth was that it did matter. It mattered a lot.
Their mom had always said a person’s choices defined them.
And, as usual, her mom had been absolutely correct.
The pharmacy was two doors down.
Naomi pushed inside, and Rowan followed, grateful for the dim interior after the bright mid-day light.
The store was small, with a single clerk behind the counter who nodded at Naomi when she stepped inside.
Rowan drifted toward the end of an aisle while Naomi handled what she’d come for. Rowan kept her head angled down and her sunglasses on despite being inside.
A television mounted in the corner above the register played a news program, the sound low but audible.
Rowan wasn’t paying attention to it until she heard her name.
She looked up.
Vince Furlough filled the screen behind the pharmacy counter—silver-haired and impeccably put together. He’d spent decades learning exactly how to look trustworthy on camera.
He was seated across from an interviewer in what appeared to be his own office, relaxed and unhurried, his hands folded in his lap.
The chyron along the bottom read: CELEbrITY DISPATCH EXCLUSIVE—Director Vince Furlough speaks out on missing actress Rowan King.
Her own photo appeared in the corner of the screen. Recent. Too recent.
“I’m genuinely concerned,” Vince was saying. “Rowan is enormously talented. She has been from the beginning. But the weeks leading up to her disappearance were . . . difficult. For her. For the production. I just hope she’s somewhere safe, getting the support she needs.”
The interviewer leaned forward. “There are reports of erratic behavior on set—”
“I don’t want to speak to specifics.” Vince raised one hand, appearing magnanimous and restrained.
“That wouldn’t be fair to Rowan. What I will say is that this industry asks a great deal of people.
Sometimes too much.” He paused again. “I care about her. I think everyone who worked with her does. We just want her to come home.”
Rowan stared at the screen.
She recognized every word for exactly what it was—each careful phrase a brushstroke in a portrait he was painting of her. Fragile. Unstable. Someone to be pitied rather than believed. And he’d done it without saying a single thing that could be directly challenged.
She glanced at Naomi, wondering if she’d noticed.
But her sister was too busy making goofy faces at Grace.
She released her breath. Maybe Naomi wouldn’t see. Not now.
However, she knew it was just a matter of time.
From where she stood, Rowan couldn’t make out every word the reporter said, but she caught enough.
Sources close to the production describe increasing tension on the set . . .
Colleagues express concern . . .
Whereabouts currently unknown . . .
The media wasn’t going to drop this, were they?
Rowan had thought she’d have more time. But everything had happened so fast.
Now she had decisions to make.