Page 25 of Stolen Love

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s probably some jingle from the radio or TV. I collect my phone from the nightstand before I leave the bedroom.

There’s a message from Dizzy about how last night was fun. She still feels guilty for scaring the crap out of me with the roses.

It was so weird how she appeared out of thin air. And the way she was standing with her hands out… for a minute I’d thought she’d pushed them to make them fall. I’m the one who has something to feel guilty about. Imagining she did it on purpose when she’s one of my closest friends.

I text her back, telling her she doesn’t need to feel guilty about anything.

I move on to a message from Adira, who wants to know if I’ve had any more random hang up calls from my dad’s old number. He’s spending the day at Mojito because he’s craving some normal drama, but will drop everything if I need him.

I crave the queens’ level of drama too. It was so much easier than this mess that Rogue and I are in.

I start typing out a message to tell Adira we need to speak, but when I’m done I darken my phone and don’t send it. My dad was his biggest supporter. Adira was devastated when he died. And I’m not ready to open up that wound for him again. Not when it feels this awful. Not until we know more.

I slide my phone into the top of my boot before I enter the living room where everyone has gathered. Rebel and Rogue stand like twin statues. Their eyes are wide, jaws formed from granite as the screen shows images of firefighters attending to a burnt out vehicle on a desert highway. There are cops everywhere too.

“…her body was found early this morning when firefighters were called to put out a car blaze on…”

“Oh God.” Summer clutches at the pendant around her neck. Her eyes are watery-bright.

Riot drops onto the arm of the sofa and cradles his head between his hands. “It can’t be her. It can’t be.”

“There had to be identifying markers. They’d have to be certain.” Jason’s back is rigid, his arms crossed at his chest.

I move closer to Rogue.

“The woman was burned beyond recognition,” the reporter drones on.

Rogue reaches for me without taking his eyes off the scene on the screen. His movements are stilted, but he hangs onto me like I’m his lifeline.

“What we’ve learned is the car is registered to Hollywood Juice’s beloved celebrity gossip queen, Marty Kendall.” The reporter touches his earpiece as his face falls and he forgets for a second that he’s on air. “Is this accurate? It’s Marty Kendall?” Then he shutters his emotions and straightens his spine. “At this point in time it’s not certain whether the deceased is in fact Marty Kendall. Police are trying to locate her.”

I didn’t know Marty well. Or at least I don’t recall getting to know her. But my heart hurts at the pain I see in the faces surrounding me. She was a good person, who was trying to help us… trying to help me. “She didn’t deserve this.”

“It’s not her.” Rebel shakes his head. His blue eyes are stormy and a little wild. “She was onto that bitch before any of us. She’s too cunning to dig a hole big enough to bury Nicole in without being prepared for the possibility that someone would try to put her in a grave of her own. It’s definitely not her.”

“What if it is?” Rogue says, his voice almost deserting him. “The implications…”

Are too much. If Marty is dead we have nothing. No evidence to our theory. No dirt to paint Nicole with. And what’s to say she won’t find a way to pin this on Rogue too. Make this another way to get me to do what she wants.

Summer lowers herself onto the sofa. “How long do you think it will take them to identify the body?”

“Usually a couple of weeks. But it’s Marty. They won’t want to sit on this,” Jason says. “I suspect we’ll have an answer before the day is over.”

“We have more information.” The reporter clears his throat. His eyes grow glassy. “It’s now been confirmed. The woman has been identified… It’s Marty Kendall.”

Chapter Eleven

Rogue

I place my phone on the bar and pick up the decanter. My hand is shaking so much as I pour several fingers of whiskey into cut glass tumblers that the glossy surface of the bar cart darkens from the drips.

I can barely screw the lid back on the bottle or swallow around the lump in the back of my throat. I thought for sure that she would call by now to set the record straight.

The car blaze, the body…. It’s all an elaborate set up to protect her cover. There is no doubt in my mind that she’s running around behind the scenes gathering the evidence we need to prove Nicole Hawthorne is as much of a monster, if not more of one, than her son.

Well, almost no doubt. Because that is the only thing that makes sense.

Except she hasn’t called to tell us that. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t found a way to contact us via fucking Morse code.

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