Page 120 of Love Me Tomorrow

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Owen

As instructed, the cameraman drops me off in waiting room B. Unlike the producer, however, who looked ready to bite off the head of anyone who crossed her, this guy only shrugs his shoulders loosely on his way out the door. “Try not to get into any trouble, yeah?”

He says it like he expects me to do just that.

I don’t bother to correct him. With a sarcastic two-finger salute, I reply, “Yeah, man. I’m all good here.”

And then I’m left alone.

Considering that I’ve spent a lifetime being surrounded by cops, I’ve never been all that good at following orders. I wait a solid five minutes before making my move.

On silent feet, I hit up the narrow corridor that leads from Room B down to the rest of the prep rooms. With all the crew and contestants on stage filming the show, the hallway is blessedly empty.

My gut is telling me to take advantage of being the one left behind. One rather big problem is: I don’t know who the hell I’m looking for.

WhoeverCelebrity Teais, he’s done a real good job of covering his tracks.

In nine days, we’ve discovered a whole lot of nothing. No new breaks, no new leads, nothing but the very obvious realization that we may be chasing our own tails forever with this case.

But I’ve never been the sort of person who sits back and lets shit fly. I take what I want, no matter the obstacles standing in the way. Which means I’m going to snag this opportunity for what it is: a chance to do a little digging of my own.

From my pocket, I pull out the list Savannah scraped together on our flight over from New Orleans. Mentally, I take off the producer’s name—Matilda Houghton. The only vibes I was getting from her werefuck-off-and-let-me-liveones.

It takes me two different tries to find the hallway that houses all of the main crew’s personal dressing rooms. With Savannah’s list clutched in hand and my gaze trained on the doors, I note the paper taped to each one, indicating who the room belongs to.

Matilda Houghton, Producer.

Greg Wilson, Assistant Producer.

Allie Jenkins, Set Designer.

Joe Devonsson, Director, Creator, and Host.

Martin Quell, Casting director and Producer.

The sole of my shoe squeals against the laminate tile as I stop abruptly. Martin Quell. Wasn’t he the one Amelie put me in touch with, the one who got me onPut A Ring On Itin the first place? I try to recall the conversation, only to come up mostly blank.

I’d been nervous as fuck during that call, nearly as shy and uncomfortable as back in high school when it came to Maryanne. I’d stammered, at least once, but Quell had laughed my concerns off.“Talk about big, romantic gestures,”I remember him telling me,“she’s gonna eat this shit up, man.”

We hadn’t stayed on the phone for much longer after that, but hadn’t he emailed me the next day? Immediately, my hand goes to the pocket of my slacks.Shit. No phone. We’d exchanged cell phones for microphones when we first entered the studio, as was protocol.

Glancing down the length of the hall, I check to make sure that no one is coming before putting a hand to Quell’s doorknob and giving it a shimmy. No go. “Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, “think,think.”

The casting director never made it onto Savannah’s list, but my gut is telling me something is way off here. That email . . . part of the application process had been to submit all kinds of information. While Quell had let me skip the audition tapes, since he personally was inviting me on the show, I hadn’t been able to avoid the other prerequisites demanded from every contestant.

Health records, criminal records.

Wait.

Fuck.

In that original article—the one whereCelebrity Teafirst put my jail time on blast—hadn’t the asshole claimed he’d discovered the information based on an old article from the Orleans Parish Prison? Which would be impossible because New Orleans’ main lockup doesn’t have a blog, of all things, and it sure as hell isn’t going to spend the time and money hiring someone to detail every digression that goes on behind bars. The list would never end, which means . . .

Hell,Celebrity Teamust have had the information leaked from another source while using the supposed blog as a coverup, hoping that no one would notice. Except, theonlypeople who knew about that instance are Gage, the other inmates who joined the fight, and . . . Quell. He promised the information would remain confidential.

I feel like an absolute idiot for not connecting the dots sooner.

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