Page 28 of Her Leading Man

“How? I ran away like a coward and made a mess out of everything.”

“You were not a coward. It took a tremendous amount of strength for you to go out into the world all alone with a tiny baby and—”

“—And I’m still alone.” Jenna gulped back tears. “There were times I’ve been so lonely I couldn’t stand it.”

Patting her friend’s head, Randi began to sniffle. “No. You have your family, and me, and Janie. You arenotalone.”

Jenna looked out through a wavy blur of tears. “But I’m still lonely. And Janie is too. I never let either one of us get too close to anyone. I’ve been so unfair to her.” The words settled into hopeless sighs. “Janie is all I have, and she’s going to hate me when she learns the truth.”

Chapter Fifteen

Bree lit a cigarette and took a long drag as she sauntered out onto to the terrace of her New York penthouse. Her day would have been most women’s dream—lunch atLaVié, and a private showing at a 7th Avenue design house so new and chic Milan was envious. Bree had her recently lifted butt kissed more than any other woman on the island of Manhattan. Her mood, however, was wretched. There was still no one who knew where her husband was.

She peered out at the oppressively gray, New York sky. Steel and mortar contained within a twenty square mile piece of rock was unnatural. How could Eric even think about abandoning his life at the top of the magnificent SoCal hills? “You’re out there somewhere looking for her, aren’t you?”

She flicked her cigarette over the balustrade. “Why the hell couldn’t you ever get over her and loveme?”

Bree’s conversation with herself grated against her teeth, and she paced the terrace to calm herself. Her grudge against former teen idol Angel went bone deep. It propagated like mildew nurtured in some damp chamber, one long denied fresh air or any form of light. Years of jealousy had ripened to hatred.

Bree lit another cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling through her nose. She looked out at the water and the long span of the Queensboro Bridge. The terrace was her view from the top, and she swept her arm wide as if she alone owned the air.I didn’t spoon feed Eric Laine a lifestyle of fame and luxury so he could give all of it to another woman.

Stepping inside, she picked up the burner phone she had her maid buy downtown on Canal Street and dialed.

Stephen Powers answered, his tone all business. “Mrs. Laine?”

“Tell me something I want to hear.”

“Your hunch was right. Your husband checked into the Plaza weeks ago, but since then he’s been off the grid…no credit card action and no one has spotted him. No one at the hotel will say whether or not he’s still a guest.”

Bree huffed. “They wouldn’t. They protect the privacy of their celebrity clientele.” Outside her window, sunlight glinted against the red bucket of the Roosevelt Island tram making a slow journey across the East River. “Do you haveanygood news for me?”

“I have a lead on Chambers.”

“Follow your lead and find him.” Bree snapped the cheap phone shut and grinned. Her day had just gotten better.

****

Three days later, private investigator Stephen Powers cruised down a South Side Chicago street of row houses separated by narrow, litter filled alleys. The houses were old, neglected, shingled in asphalt, and the windows on most, covered by boards. The area had all the ingredients for another great Chicago fire.

He parked his rental car and stepped quickly to number fifty-five, pivoting his head as he walked. Inside, the hallway was strewn with filth—cigarette butts, fast food cartons, and disposable, hypodermic needles.

Door numbers were long gone, but enough of the shadows remained for him to find 204. He knocked. There was no answer, but a shuffle of footsteps scraped from inside the apartment. “Mark Chambers?” Powers called out.

No answer.

Powers identified himself. “I flew in from Los Angeles. I have a client who’s asked me to find you.”

The sound of locks turning preceded the creak of the metal door opening a few inches wide. Eyes, red rimmed and creased by bloated lids stared out through the sliver of space. A chain was in place. “Who?”

“Bree Davis Laine. She has a proposition for you.”

A death rattling cough lasted an eternity before the door closed and the chain scraped open. “C’mon in.”

Powers stepped inside. He touched nothing and refused the offer to “have a seat.”

Lighting a cigarette, Mark sucked a long lung full. His once glacially white implants were stained yellow and old scars intersected the skin of his face. Blue eyes were rheumy and unfocused. “I’m interested. Talk.”

“Like I said, she has a proposition for you. Of course it’s on the DL. Understand?”

---