Page 85 of Bad For A Weekend

“Got my morning job done, and I’m getting ready to head out to my afternoon appointments. Why?”

“Just checking on you.” He checks on me every day, something I don’t think he does with all his technicians.

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

“How is she?” I blurt out. I may be strong enough not to text Baylor, but I’m not strong enough to not ask Hudson for updates now and then.

“She’s good. Same old shit, new day.”

“She’s not upset or anything?”

“Is she crying in her Wheaties? No. But yeah, she seems a little down.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait. Did you check in to that split access to the south of River Center for graduation? If you don’t have eyes on that split, someone might get by.”

“Owen, this isn’t your job anymore, and no offense, but I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

I pinch my brow. “Just tell me. Is someone assigned to that split?”

“Yes. We got it covered. Don’t worry, we got her.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Something that sounds like a car door shuts. “Gotta run. Talk to you later.”

“’K.”

I spend my evening the way I have every night since Tulum, reading through the emails Corey has received that day. Hudson might’ve taken away my cellphone, but he forgot to restrict my access to the email account, and I’m not about to remind him.

Most of them are typical love letters, shooting their shot with the rich and famous actor. I skip those and focus on the darker ones. Some of them are ramblings of people mentally unwell, blaming Corey for things like the decline of our government or climate change. While it’s entertaining to see how they get from point A, Corey, to point B, the war in Ukraine, I only gloss over them.

The ones I’m really looking for are still from the mentally unwell but whose motives are much more sinister. I weed through the ones with detailed and gory death wishes that are only sent for self-gratification. These are concerning because of their dubious intent but are still not what I’m looking for. I’ll trust these with Hudson’s employees.

Halfway into the more than a thousand that have been uploaded to SafeBond’s server, I find it. The one from the stalker. The messages never make sense, but they’re intentional in a way that leads me to believe we’re missing something big, something that’s right in front of our noses.

Today, the cryptic message is a picture of a letter on a piece of crumbled and dirty paper that Hudson has probably already handed over to the detectives in Corey’s case.

This was supposed to work. I gave you everything and you still don’t see me, do you? What? Am I not pretty enough? Not rich enough? Not worthy enough? After all I’ve done, how could you think any of those things? Soon, it won’t matter. You’ll hate me forever but at least you’ll know who I am.

Shit. They’re ramping up for something.

We’ve had numerous interviews with Corey and gone over every single girlfriend, enemy, and co-worker. Still, we’ve come up empty. The only person who makes sense is Veronica, but there’s no proof that she has any ties to the Story brothers. According to the FBI, she handed over all her financials, and there have been no strange transactions. The only things that line up are these communications.

I pull on my sneakers, needing a run. I need to get a gym membership now that I’m not living at Corey’s house, but until I do that, running is my only method of exercise.

My feet pound the pavement in a steady rhythm that quiets my racing thoughts, and I go over everything from the beginning. Corey was born in Ohio. His parents raised him to be a God-fearing country boy. When he was eighteen, his dad died in a freak accident with some farming equipment. His mom assumed he’d take over the farm, but he had other ideas.

Somehow, he convinced her to sell the farm, keep enough profits to live on, and give him the rest for college. She agreed, and Corey left for the American Musical and Dramatic Academy in L.A. a month later, where he eventually graduated with a fine arts degree. After that, he worked three jobs to pay for classes with the best acting coaches L.A. had to offer.

He dated mostly women, even a couple men, throughout the years, but each relationship ended amicably. I know this for a fact because we interviewed each one.

It didn’t take long for an agent to recognize his talent, and things happened quickly after that. By twenty-five, he had his first major role in a movie. By thirty, he was a household name. By thirty-five, he decided he wanted a family and began to look into adoption.

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