Chapter Twenty-Three #2
My ears prick up, and I press my eye to the wicker. I can just make out Lainey’s legs, and something pink dangling from her hand.
“You can’t pay off everyone who knows something, Lainey,” Rhett says.
“I’m aware,” she says. The pink thing glints in the sunlight. I squint, pressing my eye to the wicker. She’s holding her own plastic paintball gun.
Rhett clears his throat. “Come on. You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious,” she hisses. “I have to make sure she doesn’t say a word. And if she’s difficult, then she’ll have to leave.” I hear the ominous sound of her paintball gun clicking, and then there’s a sharp splash a few feet away. “Pink,” she mutters. “My favorite.”
My heart hammers as Rhett stands, giving me a little more breathing room. “You don’t have to scare her. Georgia won’t tell. And even if she did, would that really be so bad? It’s going to happen sooner or later, especially if he keeps going like he is. He can hardly get out of bed right now.”
“Relax, Casanova,” Lainey says. “It’s a paintball gun, not a shiv. She’ll be fine.”
Lainey’s shoes click away, and Rhett jogs to catch up with her.
I breathe in relief once they’re out of earshot, but this changes everything.
After all that’s happened between us—after I told him I know about the hush money, Rhett’s gone and sold me out to Lainey, told her that the phone and jeans were mine …
The new tattoo on my wrist pricks painfully at the thought of leaving—but with Lainey out to get me, I might not have a choice.
I push up on the seat of the bench and peek out to make sure that they aren’t coming back.
Seeing no one, I crawl out and collapse onto the cool stone floor of the veranda.
My body is aching from being squashed up, but I don’t have time to lie here recovering.
This might be my last night on Love Shack, and I can’t leave without at least trying to get more intel.
Peeling myself off the ground, I totter in my boots for a second before getting my balance. I tug down my skirt and grab my plastic paintball gun, then dart inside and head straight to the forbidden producers’ wing.
If I’m going to be taken out by Lainey, I will bring her down with me.
I’m more grateful than ever for the lack of hidden cameras as I duck under the velvet rope blocking the staircase.
At the top of the stairs, the first door I pass is ajar.
I peek in, spot the beard care kit and a pair of Norbert’s familiar cargo pants on the bed, and keep moving, hoping I won’t accidentally stumble upon a sleeping Roland.
The next room has a pair of women’s loafers next to the door.
I step inside, letting the eerie quiet sink in.
A small open suitcase on the bed. A few pieces of designer clothing hanging in the closet. A huge bottle of industrial-grade hairspray on the bedside table.
I run my fingers over the bath kit in her suitcase. The handle of her toothbrush sticks out, a half-empty tube of toothpaste tucked next to it.
Her things are so impersonal, so lonely, that it takes me a moment to get my bearings. Lainey Williams, the evil producer, squeezes her toothpaste from the middle like the rest of us.
Next to her suitcase, something glints in the light coming through the window: her laptop. There’s no sound from the hallway, so I open it, and the screen comes to life.
Lainey thinks she’s so untouchable that she doesn’t even have a passcode.
I click on her messages app and scroll through the names of her contacts. Six months ago, there’s a conversation with Roland. It’s mysteriously short, like she’s deleted older messages on purpose.
Lainey: Can you give me the name of the doctor who did the test?
Roland sent the name of a Tennis Federation doctor, along with his contact information.
Lainey: I’ll talk to him tomorrow. You have to stay clean if this is going to work—nothing besides the initial prescription of pain meds.
Roland: I know and I will.
Based on what I’ve seen, Roland doesn’t seem to have kept this promise—though maybe what he’s taking now is a new prescription. I try to scroll further, but there’s no more messages in the conversation.
Next, I search for Rhett’s name and scan the results. A short exchange pops up from before we started filming, but it’s just logistics. I scroll further back in time to a year ago.
Lainey: What the hell happened last night? When are you going to grow up?
Rhett: I’m sorry, it was a mistake. Just one night.
Lainey: One night and a hell of a lot of paperwork and money.
Rhett: It’s taken care of?
Lainey: Yes. This is the last time I’m covering for you.
I scroll back to find the date, frowning. A week after I met him. So this must be about the second payoff, not the one that kept my name out of the press. I keep reading.
Lainey: She won’t say anything, don’t worry.
My eyes zero in on the first word. She.
She. She won’t say anything.
No one ever contacted me, so this must be about another woman.
The three little letters bore into my eyes as Rhett’s words echo in my ears, his voice so resigned as he sold me out to Lainey.
I take a screenshot, navigate back to the conversation with Roland, and take another screenshot.
Then I open a secret window on Lainey’s browser, sign into my email, and start a new message to Serena. I add the photos and hit Send.
I sign out of my email, close the secret window, and clear her recent search history for good measure. I delete the screenshots, do a quick check of her desktop to make sure nothing’s amiss, then shut the laptop before returning to the hall.
As I tiptoe back down into the living room, I shiver at the shadows of mounted animal heads creeping across the gleaming hardwood floor.
I inch along the wall toward the back doors, glancing repeatedly over my shoulder. How the hell does James Bond do it without having a breakdown every five seconds?
Something clatters on the veranda, and I stop in my tracks, quickly backtracking into the kitchen.
“Come on, Phil,” I hear Chloe say. “Just shoot me already!”
I’m tempted to peek around the corner and see what Chloe’s talking about, but I stay pressed against the wall, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“I can’t,” Philippa says, sounding winded.
“Why not?” Chloe asks. “You found me first. Just do it. I’m not going to win anyway.”
I inch closer to the door so I can hear better. I’d be sad to see Chloe go, but if she’s the first one shot, that might draw Lainey’s attention away from me.
“But I don’t want you to go,” Philippa says softly.
I hold my breath but I can’t hear what Chloe says next.
Philippa chuckles. “Fine. But if you leave, I’m sure as hell going with you.”
There’s a splat, and Chloe giggles loudly. “You couldn’t have aimed for a protected area?”
“That’s, like, three square inches,” Phil says.
A door slams from somewhere above and they go silent, then I hear Phil mutter, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” Their boots clack away, and I crouch down as another set of footsteps echoes down the cavernous stairwell.
“Little Miss Georgia!” a singsong voice calls. Lainey. I break out into a cold sweat as her voice grows closer. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
I try to get ahold of myself. I can either stay here, crouched against the wall, or I can meet Lainey with my head held high. Slowly, I get to my feet.
Her shoes click closer. Maybe I should run.
But I don’t have time to think of an escape strategy before Lainey enters the kitchen, a sickening smile stretching across her face.
She holds up her pink paintball gun and puts a hand on her hip. “Fancy seeing you here.”