Chapter 15
I’ve lost the morning light but think I have what I need.
“I should,” I mumble to myself, stripping the camera from the tripod. “I’ve only done a hundred takes.” The number is probably closer to thirty, but still excessive.
Yesterday is a blur in my mind—meeting Alice, searching for the journal, breaking down the scene, filming rehearsal clips. And watching them over and over until I couldn’t see straight. Micro-expressions. Word emphasis. Timing. Obsessively fine-tuning every detail.
Then this morning, I let it all go, allowing practice and emotion to blend, to create something new. Raw and authentic. Hoping to capture Claudia’s character the way I’d planned.
And I think I got it. I feel good.
If casting directors walked in right now, I’d be ready. If they asked me to read like I were auditioning for Stephen Spielberg? I can do that.
For M. Night Shyamalan? Of course.
For Joyce Sandman? No fucking problem.
Even if I don’t get the part, I know I did good work. I understand the material. I’m fully prepared.
And my mother would be proud.
A sound rises from the floor, interrupting my dreams of success. Clairee stares at me from the doorway, her meow full-throated and insistent.
“Ready to go out?” She’s getting a little too comfortable, but I don’t mind. I’m growing attached to her little face and her gentle purrs. And honestly, I feel less alone in this giant apartment.
I fold the tripod and follow her to the door. I need a break. Some food. Time to recharge before I review the videos, a grueling process of elimination that might take hours.
She trails behind me down the stairs to the front door. We’ve developed something of a routine, and she rubs my calf as she passes. “See you later.”
I grin after her, pleased with my productive morning and the sunny day.
“Good morning.” Noah stands on the walkway, watching me.
And the cat scampering down my steps.
“I . . . hey,” I say, fumbling my words. I’m sure pets are forbidden, especially with velvet sofas and teak tables, all begging to become scratching posts. I gesture to the bushes where Clairee disappeared. “She just showed up the other night. And it was so rainy and cold and…”
Embarrassed, I falter, tugging on the hem of my shirt.
His chuckle surprises me. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
He slides his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “All of your secrets. Brooke Summers.”
My face goes slack. “How did you find out my name?”
“I talked to my aunt last night.” He indicates the building. “This is her place. She told me not to bother the actress staying here, because she wanted to keep a low profile.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “After that, I couldn’t help searching for actresses named Brooke.”
I lick my lips. “Does anyone else know?”
“I haven’t told them. And I won’t,” he says, giving me a look of camaraderie and shared secrets.
“Okay. Thank you.” I relax in a way I didn’t expect. His knowing my secret should be upsetting, but it’s not. Maybe because he’s American. Or maybe it’s all the ways he’s different from the other Marteaus. And the fact they exclude him.
“I thought you might like to join me for coffee,” he says. “I also have croissants,” he adds, before I can reply. “Fresh from the bakery.” His voice lifts, teasing, as if he’s offering something I can’t refuse.
And he’s right, because I’m starving.
“You picked the perfect morning, because I haven’t eaten yet.” My shoes sit by the door, so I slip them on and grab the keys to lock up.
I join him on the walk, and we make small talk as we cross the courtyard. Safe subjects only, like the cat and the weather and if I take coffee or tea.
The layout of his apartment is different from mine, a less conspicuous set of stairs climbing one wall. The décor is stylish but more modern, dark-gray walls and sleek furniture. We pass a sitting room on one side, and an office on the other, windows framing a view of the courtyard.
“I’ve set up in the kitchen,” he says, walking slightly ahead of me, not leading as much as guiding.
In the kitchen, Noah points to a high stool at the island. “Have a seat, and I’ll pour your coffee.” The granite is covered with dishes—meats, cheeses, fruits, jams, and of course, the famous croissants.
Did he lay this out for himself? Or did he go to all this trouble on the chance I’d join him? The effort strikes me as more than a neighborly gesture, and a strange warmth settles in my chest.
I’m suddenly glad I filmed this morning, that I put on makeup and wore real clothes. Not my usual yoga pants and T-shirt.
He sets a cup in front of me, along with cream and sugar. “How did it go the other night?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Dinner with Dora.” His voice is casual as he fills a plate, but I detect an underlying strain.
“Fine,” I say, but my face must tell a different story.
“That bad?” Judging by his tone, I’d guess he understands exactly what dining with the family is like.
I use the tiny fork to take some cheese. “There were some strange moments.” I avoid eye contact as I gloss over the truth, but when I look up, Noah is studying me.
“Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s just say I understand your warning about Ric.”
He tenses, a glower tightening his face. “What did he do?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Nothing too bad. But I can tell he’s used to getting what he wants.” A diplomatic answer. Better than saying Ric’s a leering, hand-wandering perv.
Noah’s expression remains dark. “I’m sorry. He’s a real . . . piece of work.” Switching to a more polite description, he nods. But I can tell another word was on his tongue.
“Ric always thought a lot of himself, even when we were kids. He wants to be next in line to rule Maison Marteau, even before Victor.”
“His own father?”
Noah shrugs and shakes his head.
Smearing butter on my croissant, I paste a pleasant expression on my face and shift the conversation away from Ric. “Did you visit here much when you were younger?”
He takes a moment, then finally says, “My mother and I stayed away for a long time. She’s from the States, so after my father died, we didn’t have much reason to return.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine.” He waves away my concern. “My aunt and uncle live in California. They’re good people, and we stayed close.”
Good people. The phrase sits oddly. As if he needs to separate them from the rest of the Marteaus.
“I can’t imagine living somewhere else when you’ve got a literal mansion in Paris.” I try to make my tone light and playful, but Noah remains pensive.
“Family life here can be complicated, especially if you’re like me.” He meets my eyes. “Not the right bloodline.”
He puts emphasis on the word, as if he’s heard it from someone else. My bet would be Dora.
He angles his head toward my apartment. “My aunt and uncle in California are the ones who own your unit.”
“Do they rent it out often?” I keep trying to avoid negative topics, but as soon as I ask the question, I think of Rose.
I didn’t mean to open this particular door, wasn’t planning to interrogate Noah.
But now I’m on edge, waiting to hear what he says.
Staring over my head, he sips his coffee and squints in thought. “They used to rent it more, but it’s been a while.”
I stir the scrambled eggs on my plate and scoop some up. “Such a beautiful place to sit empty. I’m lucky my agent could get me in. She has connections and, apparently, one of them led to your aunt.” I hold my fork but don’t take a bite.
I’m too busy phrasing my next question, following the natural path of the conversation. “Was the last person who stayed in the apartment family, or a family friend?”
The eggs wobble on my fork as I hold my breath.
“I’m not sure. I was away on business a lot during that time, but I did speak to the last tenant once. I remember she was a Brit.”
My skin prickles.
Rose.
Should I ask when he last saw her? Was he here when she left? Was she alone or with someone else?
I’m close, much closer to answers than Alice has ever been. No one in the family will talk to her.
They probably wouldn’t tell me much, either.
But Noah’s not like the others. He grew up somewhere else, somewhere sheltered from the lifestyle of Maison Marteau. Protected from the privilege that created a creep like Ric.
He has different values, his own moral code, unsullied by the corrupting influence of wealth.
Can I trust him?
Rubbing my hands on my thighs, I sit up straight. “Were you here when she—”
Laughter cuts through the moment.
We both turn our heads.
Noah crosses to the window and shoves the curtain aside. “We’ve got company.”