Retool, p.14
Retool, page 14
part #12 of The Last Picks Series
Margaux stared at me, disbelief sharpening her features until they were almost vulpine. And then she laughed. It went on and on. And when she stopped, she said, “You’re as stupid and arrogant as she was. Did you know that? It worked out rather well, how you took over for her. The same bumbling questions. The same arrogance. You are just like her.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But you’ll still have to explain this to the sheriff.”
“I didn’t kill Robert. God knows I wanted to.”
“You’ll have to do better—”
“I was with Simona,” Margaux said. For a moment, the façade cracked, and the pain rushed to the surface. “That’s where I was the night Robert died.”
It was like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Somehow, I heard myself say, “But Simona didn’t have an alibi.”
“Of course she did. She was with me. But I was too much of a coward. I begged her not to say anything. I was sure that—” Margaux’s voice broke. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, and the light rippled along her nails. “How could they convict her? She hadn’t done it. She was innocent.”
But they had. And by then, it was too late.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Vivienne hated her. Because Vivienne would have crucified me for sleeping with the enemy.” Margaux started to shake her head, then stopped. A hint of sweat showed on her upper lip. “The things I did for—for that woman.”
Staring into that grief, still raw after all these years, I tried to find a hint of deception. I couldn’t. But the part of me that had read too many detective novels said, “That’s easy to say with Simona not around to verify it. And you still don’t have an alibi for when Vivienne died.”
Margaux’s smile was bleak. “You want to know where I was?” Her gaze moved past me to Thatcher. “I went for a drive. With my newest author. Isn’t that right, Thatcher?”
I turned in time to see the confusion on Thatcher’s face—the first moment, while he was still processing, and the truth rode on the surface.
I remembered Thatcher’s excited questions the first night of the conference.
I remembered him asking me if I’d ever heard of Margaux Mendez.
And then I watched him decide.
He adjusted his beanie and said, “Yeah. We were on a drive.”
“No, you weren’t,” I said.
“Thatcher,” AJ said. “What are you talking about?”
“You were with us,” Charlie said.
“I know you think this is—” I stopped because for a moment, I didn’t have words. “I know you think this is going to help you. Help your career. But you’re making a bad choice right now.”
Thatcher gave me a sneer that was somewhere between pity and contempt. “What do you know? You’re just jealous.” More slowly, enunciating clearly, he said, “We went for a drive.”
Margaux hoisted her bag and started for the door. “There you have it.”
Chapter 20
After Margaux left, Thatcher scurried away—probably in hot pursuit of his new agent. AJ and Charlie tried to stick around, but I sent them home, with firm orders for AJ to make Charlie rest.
And once they were gone, I sat in that empty multipurpose room and felt sorry for myself.
I don’t know how long I was there, but eventually, a woman in an enormous skirt and a Mickey Mouse cardigan poked her head in and told me they needed the room for game night. I got to my feet and left. To be fair, she was nice enough to invite me to join them.
To my surprise, dark pressed up against the conference center’s big windows, and the halls were mostly empty. The day’s official programming was over, it seemed, and everyone was off having fun—or, if they were like me, lying down in a quiet room after way too much peopling. I wandered down the abandoned hall, passing a table stacked with empty pizza boxes—my friends from the other day, maybe—a fallen scarf, a tube of lip gloss, an empty tote bag. There was something post-apocalyptic to all of it. Expectations to the contrary, I’d never been all that excited about stories like the Rapture—I didn’t necessarily want to live in a world where all the people were gone. (God knows I didn’t want to be in charge of everything after they left.) But there was something weirdly pleasant about the sudden absence of people in that moment.
I was passing the bar when someone whistled.
A few small groups occupied tables and booths in the bar, but it appeared that most of the conference-goers had left for other watering holes. Julian sat at a two-top, one hand raised to flag me down. I gave a weary wave back. I wanted to keep walking, but Julian would come after me, so I headed for his table to tell him tonight wasn’t a good night.
“Hey, there he is,” Julian said, and he got out of his seat and came around the table to pat my arm. “Whoa, what’s up? What happened?”
“Uh, you know, it hasn’t been a great afternoon. I think we might have to reschedule.”
“God, I’m sorry. What happened? Here, sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t think—”
“You’re upset.” And to my surprise, Julian sounded upset. “What’s wrong?”
I let him guide me into the chair, and before I could think about what I was doing, I started to tell him all of it: my (to borrow Margaux’s word) bumbling attempt at an investigation, and the confrontation with Margaux, and Thatcher’s lie.
“And you know what?” I said when I finished. “I know the worst part is that—that she’s getting away with it. If there’s even something for her to get away with. And I hate that Thatcher lied. I mean, how shortsighted do you have to be to believe that lying for Margaux is going to get you the career you wanted? But I can’t even deal with that right now, because I feel like such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Julian said.
“Ha.”
“You’re not.” He leaned across the table and put his hand on my forearm. “You’ve worked harder on this investigation than anyone.”
“To prove I’m innocent,” I said. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
Julian shook his head. “Because you care about people. And because you believe in justice. And those are good, powerful traits.”
“Yeah, well.” (And I fully admit that at this point, I was veering into a real pity party.) “It looks like I’m not exactly TV detective material. I mean, you can’t have a show based on all the murders I solved when I biff the big one.”
“You didn’t biff it,” Julian said. “It’s ongoing. You had a setback.” He frowned. “Where’d you learn all this negative self-talk?”
“Uh—Sesame Street?”
Julian laughed. “God, and you have a sense of humor too.” He almost sounded despairing about that fact. “Why are you so hard on yourself? Look at what you’ve done. Look at everything you’ve accomplished. My God, Dash, you outsmarted Vivienne Carver. You’ve faced down psycho killers—”
“I don’t know about ‘psycho’—”
“—and you’ve kept your friends and family safe, and you’ve done all of it while writing this amazing book. I mean, is there anything you can’t do?”
“Fold the laundry. It’s going to give Bobby a stroke one of these days.”
A grin glowed on Julian’s face. His hand still lay on my arm. But he said, “Bobby needs to check his priorities.”
“I’m pretty sure Bobby’s always got his priorities in line. I’m usually the problem.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re great.”
And maybe it was the mention of Bobby’s name, but I was suddenly aware of Julian’s hand on my arm, and something spiny twisted through me.
“Since we’re on the topic,” Julian said, “I wanted to mention something. When you come to L.A., maybe—maybe play down the boyfriend bit.” Whatever he saw on my face made him rush to add, “I’m not saying lie. But you’re a hot commodity, Dash. You’re young. You’re attractive. You’re smart. And you’re going to find that a lot of powerful people are going to want to have—well, they’re going to want to hope, you know? They want to believe it’s at least a possibility.”
“But I do have a boyfriend.” I slid my arm out from under Julian’s touch. “Bobby.”
“I know. And you can do whatever you want; that was free advice, so take it for what it’s worth.”
“Okay.”
“I know tonight’s not the night to talk business. But I’m going to kick myself if I don’t make one last pitch.” He flattened his hands on the table. “Dash, I’m a huge fan of yours. Personally and professionally. I mean, this isn’t standard operating procedure. You get that, right? It’s not like we fly out to meet someone every time we’re interested in a property. But you’re different. You’re special. And that’s why I’m here: because I believe in you, and I believe in this idea, and I want to make it happen. Whatever I can do to make it happen, you tell me; I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make this—” And he gestured between us. “—happen?”
That spiny thing twisted inside me again, but I said, “You don’t have to make a pitch or sell me or anything. I ran the offer by some people I trust, and I’m interested. I’m excited about the premise. The show sounds amazing. And the terms are good, although I want to talk some more about contingent bonuses for key milestones, like series pickup and season renewals.”
Julian glowed. “Really?”
Somehow, in spite of the day I’d had, I smiled. “Really.”
“Dash, that’s incredible. That’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.” He turned around to flag down the server. “We have to celebrate.”
And then I remembered.
The dinner.
I took out my phone.
“Everything okay?” Julian asked.
I had two missed messages from Bobby and a missed call. I wasn’t sure how I’d missed them, but there they were.
Are you okay? said the first one.
And the second: Dash, I’m worried. Please call me.
Bobby picked up on the first ring. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Bobby, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time. And then he said, “I thought something had happened.”
“No, I—” I almost said, I forgot, but I managed not to. “I’ll be right there, and I promise I can explain.”
The silence was longer this time. And then Bobby said, “They won’t hold our table.”
“I’ll call Talmage. I’ll explain.”
“No,” Bobby said. “I’ll see you at home.”
And then he clicked off.
Chapter 21
When I pulled into the drive, Hemlock House was dark.
No lights glowed in the windows, and under the thick clouds, the night was so deep that the house itself was barely more than a shadowy bulk at the top of the hill. I parked in the coach house and went inside.
Darkened hall.
Darkened stairs.
Darkened landing.
A thin strip of yellow showed under the door to the bedroom I shared with Bobby.
He was undressing—peeling off an oatmeal-colored sweater to stand in his undershirt and jeans. He glanced over his shoulder, and his face showed nothing.
“They let me do takeout. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Bobby, I’m so sorry.”
He shed his undershirt next. Broad shoulders drawing down to a tightly defined waist, a well-muscled back, the flex of biceps as he bent his arms.
“Something came up,” I said.
“What?”
I could have said, Something about the murders. It would have been an easy out. It also would have been a lie.
“The TV show,” Bobby said. “Your new friend from L.A.”
I actually had to wait a minute for the sting to fade. It left the world slightly red, filled my head with fog so that it was hard to think.
“Wow,” I said.
He grabbed a polo—one of the ones he wore for work. He pulled it on. And as he did, he said, “I guess that’s a yes. What’s going on with your new friend?”
The wind at the windows. The shutters rattling. It was so loud it might have been my imagination.
“I don’t like how you’re saying that.”
Bobby turned around, arms tight across his chest. “Then you’re not going to like this: he wants to sleep with you. Or had you already figured that out?”
And then the wind died, and the only sound was our breathing.
“Bobby, I don’t understand—” I stopped. “Nothing happened.”
He looked away.
“What?” I said. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you.”
But instead of making things better, it was like a giant hole waiting for me to step into it.
“I don’t know what’s happening right now,” I said. My breaths were coming faster. The room shrank, pressed in on me. Sometimes in dreams, I couldn’t talk. I tried to scream, and nothing came out. In other dreams, people I’d known moved past me like I wasn’t there. Or fought with me, and I didn’t understand why. For a horrible minute, it was like the years had collapsed, and I was back with Hugo again, and I didn’t understand anything, and I didn’t understand why I was the only person in the world who couldn’t seem to understand what was obvious to everyone else. “Bobby, I would never—I love you.”
He nodded. And then he wiped his eyes. His voice was rough when he said, “Okay. I know. I— Dash, I know I’m not good at communicating. But tonight was important to me. And I thought I made that clear.”
“You did. I messed up. This is my fault, and I’m so sorry.”
Bobby looked like he tried to let it go, but words burst out of him, laced with pain. “We’ve got two murders, and I had to beg the sheriff to let me cut out for a couple of hours because this was more important.”
“I know. God, Bobby, I know. And I ruined it.”
“Do you know what that felt like, when you didn’t show up? The first thing I thought was what if something had happened to you? I couldn’t—”
He didn’t finish, but I knew what he’d been about to say: I couldn’t breathe. Because Bobby was so careful. He was so determined. He was so sure that he could do everything right and keep everyone safe. And when he couldn’t—when he was pushed beyond his limits—he had panic attacks. I had the sudden, vivid picture of Bobby trying desperately to breathe, alone in his car or in a public restroom or on a dark street corner, a horrible situation made even worse because he was in public when all his walls came crashing down.
“I’m so sorry. I know. I should have called or texted or—I’m so, so sorry.”
“Can you please—” He drew a breath. He tried to blink the tears away, but they were there, like little sparks in his eyes. “I know things come up. I know you get distracted. I know you have a lot going on. But you knew tonight was important to me.” His voice broke as he added, “You knew I’d be scared.”
“I didn’t think—” But I stopped, because that was all, that was it: I hadn’t thought. “Bobby, I love you.”
Bobby nodded. “I know. But sometimes, it’d be nice to feel like I’m important to you too.”
I was only vaguely aware of the room now. The space around me was barely an outline, my brain shutting down with panic, emergency functions only. But somehow, I said, “Bobby, you are important to me. You’re the most important person in my life.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until he moved, nodding his head, everything blurred by the tears.
“Okay,” he said.
“You are. I messed up. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he said, and for the first time, he sounded more like my Bobby—the stiffness that was hurt and anger yielding to a hint of gentleness in the word. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
That was worse, though. That he hadn’t meant to say it, and that it had still come out. I shook my head, but I couldn’t say anything.
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Bobby waited a moment and continued, “I— We’re both upset, and I’ve got to get back to work.” It sounded like a decision when he said, “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
And what could I do except nod?
Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I heard his breathing change, and the old floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. But then he sighed, and he turned away. He went through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connected to the room that was, technically, his bedroom. And he shut the door. A moment later came the thud of a drawer being shut hard. He didn’t come back. And after a while, his footsteps moved away through the house, and then he was gone.
Chapter 22
I cried for a long time.
Most of it was about Bobby. The fact that I’d hurt him so badly. And the fear and confusion because I didn’t understand why he’d gotten so upset. I mean, yes, I got it: I should have shown up for dinner. But Bobby had always been so patient with me. He’d always been so understanding. I knew it wasn’t fair to expect Bobby to put up with my bad behavior, and I knew it wasn’t fair to want Bobby to be, I don’t know, perfectly immune to his own doubts and fears. Bobby wasn’t a saint, and patience and understanding had their limits. But I had spent a lot of my life feeling like I wasn’t good at relationships, feeling like I’d never be good at them. And this awful fight with Bobby brought all that confusion and fear roaring back.
And it hurt, too, because Bobby had been right, at least partially. No, I hadn’t actually done anything with Julian. And I wouldn’t. Ever. But the bottom line was that I’d stopped and talked to Julian because—well, because it felt good. Because Julian liked me. He said flattering things to me. He said exactly what I wanted to hear, as a matter of fact. And in the wake of that devastating encounter with Margaux—not to mention Thatcher’s treachery—it had been a balm for my wounded ego. I might not have intentionally forgotten about dinner with Bobby, but I’d certainly been too focused on myself.
