Page 7 of Concerted Chaos

“Go get dressed,” I tell him, switching into damage control mode. “If we’re about to announce you lived and Jace died, you shouldn’t be in a swimsuit. Put on something somber, and I’ll get a photographer.” While Hank is gathering publicists, I need to make some calls of my own.

On my way to change into clothing more sedate and appropriate than a bikini, I grab my purse and dig through it for Tanner’s card.

Fortunately, he answers the phone.

“Tanner, it’s Cassidy. From this morning?”

“Cassidy, I saw the news. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Well, that is a sweet reaction. He sounds genuinely sympathetic.

“Are you still in the area?” I ask, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. Jace, my friend—who I sent in Powell’s stead—was blown up. I can’t let the horror of that overwhelm me. Not yet. There’s time to mourn later, but for now I need to do my job and focus on the task at hand. When he affirms his nearby location, I let out a breath of relief. Good. “If you want a picture that’s going to boost your career, come to my house right now. Call your agent on the way and tell her to be ready with an offer.”

“Cassidy, you’re in mourning. I don’t think this is the appropriate time for something like that.” A pap with a conscience? That’s new and unexpected.

“Seriously. Tanner, I have someone else I can offer it to instead, but I’m giving you a chance. Can you please come over? Quickly?”

“I’m on my way.”

Next, I call the security guard at the gate house to inform him that Tanner—and only Tanner—is allowed to be buzzed through. The guard, a lovely former Navy SEAL named Omaha—yes, like the city—was relieved to hear my voice. He has also been trying to get in touch with us. Reporters from local stations have already been by, and per protocol, he told them nobody was home, but he wanted to warn us that the vultures were circling. Omaha is the king of conspiracy theories, so his belief that smartphones are secretly government tracking devices means he wasn’t aware of what was going on and why the media were there, but he wasn’t going to offer them up any carrion.

But after that phone call comes the worst one. This is going to hurt. Jace’s closest friend and musical partner still doesn’t know about his tragic and untimely demise. I take a deep breath to prepare myself and dial Devon’s number.

“Cass, I heard about Powell. Jace and Brix and I are so sorry,” he says as soon as he picks up the phone. Wild hope flairs in my chest.

“You’ve talked to Jace?” I can’t breathe. Is it possible? Maybe this whole thing is a misunderstanding. Maybe there wasn’t a helicopter explosion at all. The witnesses were confused, or it was swamp gas or solar flares, like all those fake UFO sightings.

“No, he’s not answering his phone. But I know he’s just as devastated as I am. Powell was a brother to us.” Devon’s voice is hoarse as though he’s been crying. His words strip away that brief moment of hope.

“Devon, Powell is ... alive.” It shouldn’t be so hard to say, but it is. My brother is alive. And I’m about to change Devon’s life forever and he doesn’t see it coming.

“He’s alive?” Devon whoops with joy. “He’s alive! Cass, that’s amazing! Was this a hoax? Or ... oh, tell me this wasn’t a publicity stunt. That’s so ridiculous. Powell needs to fire whoever came up with that dumb idea.”

“No, it wasn’t a stunt. Devon, Powell wasn’t the one who went up in the helicopter. I’m so sorry.”

I can almost sense how Devon’s mind is working. He’s flitting through all the possibilities of how there could be these horrible news stories but a living Powell. And I can feel the moment he understands what I desperately don’t want to say.

“Who was it? Who was in that helicopter?” He’d be familiar with Powell’s words from earlier: One of us always has to participate in location scouting.

“Devon, I’m so sorry, I am, but—”

“Who was it Cass?” he interrupts me. His voice has risen to a vocal register I didn’t know he could reach.

“It was Jace. He went in Powell’s place.”

The sound that echoes in my ear is a scream that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

When I am able to end my call with Devon, I’m emotionally drained. I want time to mourn too. I want a quiet moment to contemplate how terrible it is that the world is still spinning and Jace is no longer on it.

But I can’t do any of that because the doorbell rings. It’s Tanner, who evidently either doesn’t believe in speed limits or was already harassing someone nearby.

I open the front door and Tanner stares at me wordlessly for a second, before repeating his earlier condolences and enveloping me in a tight hug. Now, truth be told, I am awfully devastated, and I do like a good hug. Okay, I love a good hug by a strong man who oddly smells like he’s spent the day in a bakery. But I can’t let myself enjoy it—it’s too much of a distraction from what needs to be done. When he releases me, I step back.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask, somewhat affronted at the unexpected invasion of my personal space. Also curious about the cinnamon smell, but mostly affronted.

“You looked like you needed a hug,” he says, and then raises his camera and takes a picture. Of me, because he’s an asshole. That is so not why I called him.

“Why are you taking my picture?”

“Isn’t that why you called me? To document your mourning?”

I’m not sure I like his attitude. He swung so quickly from being comforting to being snarky. Or maybe he really does think I’m the type of person who wants to publicize my own grief. If so, he’s greatly misjudged me.

“Don’t make me regret inviting you. Come with me, I’ll show you why you’re here.” I lead him into the living room.

“Holy crap,” he gasps out, rather unprofessionally, when he sees who’s sitting there. So much for him not being impressed by floppy haired ex-boyband singers.

“Yeah, he wasn’t the one on the helicopter. Want the shot?”

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