Page 74 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Chelsea.” Her voice goes soft, sympathetic. “I’ve been doing crisis management for eight years. I know the look of someone who’s just realized the crisis is bigger than they thought.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“More photos?”

The question hangs between us. I could lie, deny, maintain the fiction that one grainy hotel photo is the extent of my professional suicide. But Maddy’s been my only ally in this mess, and I’m tired of carrying secrets alone.

“Equipment shed,” I whisper. “During the retreat.”

“Jesus.” She’s quiet for a long moment. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” I close my eyes, remembering. His hands in my hair. My legs around his waist. The workbench creaking under our desperation. “Definitely not appropriate therapeutic positioning.”

“Blackmail?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“To do what?”

“They didn’t specify. Just... respond.”

She’s typing on her phone, fingers flying with PR efficiency. “I need to coordinate with legal. Get ahead of this before—”

“Maddy.” Something in her urgency bothers me. The way she knew exactly what questions to ask. The timing of her finding me here. “How did you know to look for more photos?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you went straight to that possibility. Like you already suspected.”

Her fingers slow on her phone. “Chelsea—”

“You knew. Somehow, you already knew there were more.”

“I suspected—”

“Bullshit.” I struggle to my feet, steadying myself against the stall wall. “You’re PR. You always know more than you let on. So what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. I’m trying to help you.”

“Are you? Or are you managing me like any other crisis?” The pieces click together with sickening clarity. “Who have you been talking to? What information have you been—”

“Stop.” She stands too, and for the first time since I’ve known her, Maddy looks genuinely rattled. “You’re paranoid. Stressed. You’re seeing conspiracies where there are none.”

“Then explain how someone knew exactly where to be to get that photo. Explain how they knew about the equipment shed. Explain—”

“I can’t.” She meets my eyes, and what I see there makes my stomach drop. “I’m on your side, Chelsea. I swear. I have nothing to do with this. The fact that you’re accusing me means you know nothing about me. I haven’t been setting you up. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “It’s getting to my head. Sorry.”

But she’s already leaving, scoffing like I have some nerve to think that of her. Am I wrong though? She’s PR and very invested in Hendrix.

My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number:

Unknown: Time’s running out, Dr. Clark. 36 hours and counting.

I slide down the wall again, but this time it’s not panic crushing my chest.

It’s rage.

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