Page 85 of Your Secret to Keep

Running up to her door, I knock. No one answers. I go back down to the front of the building and annoyingly ring a doorbell until a neighbor, who happened to be outside the apartment the night of the flooding, opens the door.

“I’m a friend of Lia’s,” I rush to say. “We were going to check on her apartment progress today. Do you know if she beat me here?”

They shake their head. “No. Haven’t seen her.”

I go back to my car and doing a quick loop through the parking lot, making sure I haven’t missed Lia’ car.

She’s not here.

I get back in the car, try to call her, and it goes to voicemail. Her phone still isn’t on.

Before I can try again, Megan’s number flashes on my car display.

“Now isn’t a good time, Megan,” I snap.

“Are you with Lia? I can’t get a hold of her.”

“No. I’m not.” I don’t know what else to say. It feels like I should be careful, or maybe I just say fuck it and tell her everything.

“Are you looking for her?” Her voice is loud over the car speakers.

“I’m obviously looking for her,” I shout. “You can yell at me, and fire her, or whatever the fuck you plan to do after I make sure she’s safe. And if you think—”

“Brooks. Let me stop you there. The only reason I’m calling is to make sure she’s okay. Please let me know when you do find her.”

Well, shit. I’m caught off guard and try to switch from the asshole I sounded like to someone nicer, and it isn’t easy. But I try.

“Good. Okay. Yeah, I can do that.” I practically trip over my words, trying to soften them for Megan, who cares about Lia and is only checking on her.

“We’ll talk later about whatever comes next, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then she hangs up, and I can’t help but hit the steering wheel.

Where the fuck is Lia?

I head back to my house because I don’t know where else to go. Maybe she came back? Even as the thought is going through my head, I don’t buy it. The pit in my stomach is deep and filled with worry and anxiety. I just want to make sure she’s okay.

When I pull down my street and see the paparazzi outside my fence, rage burrows in my skin, hot and fiery. I get into my gate and call the police, letting them know I may need some help.

I get inside and the paparazzi are ruthless, even when the door is fucking closed. Rocky greets me but his ears are back and he’s hesitant.

Leaning down, I pet him and pull him to my chest. “You don’t like all of this, do you?”

Rocky looks at me, and for the first time since I adopted him, he looks almost like he did at the event when we first met. Scared. Nervous. The pit in my stomach opens.

I walk to the kitchen, making sure all the curtains are pulled shut. I don’t know how or when, but someone took photos of us when we were here—in the safety of our own home.

Home. The word feels foreign, like it doesn’t quite fit when Lia isn’t here.

Sitting on the floor with my back against the fridge, Rocky sits between my legs. I wrap my arms around him and take a few slow breaths.

What does this mean? There’s no way Lia can think I’d leak these photos. This has to be something we can work through. What does this mean for the Jags? Will they fire her?

There are too many questions, not enough answers, and a crippling amount of anxiety. This was her fear, or maybe it’s worse. People are questioning her work because we may or may not be hooking up? What the fuck is that? She’s talented all on her own, and people who work with her know that.

My chest squeezes, thinking about Lia being alone and looking at the comments on these posts. Fucking trolls. They don’t know the first thing about her. Or what she means to me.

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