I nod, even though I don’t believe him.
Austin begins to back out of the space, then stops abruptly.
“Get out of the fucking way...” He honks the horn.
I glance over at Cal’s truck and catch a glimpse of my best friend who looks like she’s about to burst into tears. And in the midst of the chaos, I can’t help feeling like all of this is somehow my fault.
* * *
I draw the curtains on the picture window in Cal and Holly’s living room. “That’s the last one.”
“Thanks, Kenzie.” Holly sniffles and rubs her belly.
“I can’t believe they fucking followed us here,” Austin grumbles.
“Oh, I can.” Cal stands in front of the television with his arms crossed. “Who wants to bet it’s a coincidence that Jim Davis is being interviewed on the evening news right now?”
My stomach plummets into my shoes as a familiar face appears on screen.
“Wait,” I say. “That’s the reporter who harassed me at the firm.”
“Greg fucking Wallace,” Cal says, reading off his name plate before turning up the volume.
“Holly Larkin and McKenzie Sommers have been through an unspeakable ordeal,” says the former governor. “But stressful situations can impede one’s judgment. And then you have the fact that the lead detective assigned to the case was romantically involved with one of the witnesses. It raises a lot of questions about how this case was handled.”
“Indeed,” Greg Wallace says. “And one has to wonder why they would decide to release you early if they felt you were involved in these heinous crimes.”
“I certainly don’t condone the violent acts committed against Miss Sommers by members of my family. But I have to wonder if the police cast the net too wide in this investigation, while not looking deeply enough into the backgrounds of those directly involved.”
“In light of the compromising video that was leaked today, I think it’s safe to assume this wasn’t McKenzie Sommers’ first foray into—”
“Turn it off,” Austin growls.
Cal mutes the broadcast as a series of images parades across the screen. Photographs of Hollywood and Cal holding hands. Me at the bar, dancing, drunk. Me and Austin kissing in the firm’s parking lot on our way into work.
Austin’s brow knits. “Can you rewind this?”
“For what I’m paying for cable, you bet your ass I can.” Cal pauses the broadcast and scrolls back to the start of the slideshow.
Austin studies the photos. “There,” he says. Cal hits pause on a photograph of me in a bikini at the beach. “When the hell was this taken?”
I try to think back to the last time I would have worn a swimsuit. “Last summer, maybe? You guys held the firm’s Fourth of July barbecue on the beach.”
“Could the Davises have had someone tailing us for the last year?”
“It’s possible,” Cal says. “These folks tend to think long-game. It’s how they stay ten steps ahead. I’m hesitant to look into any of this through official channels because of my involvement with the case.”
“I’ll have Mike look into it first,” Austin says, already pulling out his phone.
I don’t realize I’m digging my fingernails into my palms until Hollywood gasps.
“Kenzie, you’re bleeding,” she says.
I look down at my hand. It’s not a lot of blood; just enough to stain my palm and the undersides of my nails. Still, I’m surprised I didn’t even feel it.
Austin rushes over to inspect the damage.
“It’s nothing,” I say.