The GPS on Rees’s phone directed us down a long, gravel drive through a thick copse of large old growth oaks. Leaves scattered around on the grass and ahead, at the peak of a slow hill, sat a large house with white shutters and a porch all around. Several cars were scattered out front, and a young woman sat on a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a mason jar.
Rees parked and killed the engine. “This might get tense,” he said.
“You told them we’re coming, right?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, and ran his fingers down the steeringwheel absently. “But that doesn’t mean they want us to show up anyway.”
I craned my neck to look at the girl on the porch. She was in her early twenties, tan, flawless skin, thick head of hair piled up in a messy bun, full, pouty lips, and I knew it had to be her. Rees avoided her gaze, but she kept staring, with a haunted, angry look. I tried to imagine what she might be feeling: rage toward Desmond, loathing toward Rees, and an exhausted bitterness toward a world that was overly obsessed with celebrity.
“We should go talk to her,” I said.
Rees glanced up and sucked in a breath. “It’s funny,” he said, without smiling. “Me and her were good friends before this happened.”
“That’s probably why it happened.”
“You don’t think men and women can be friends?” He tilted his head toward me.
“I didn’t say that.” I pushed open the door. “But she’s famous, and the media loves a story, even a fake one.”
I climbed out before he could answer and stood leaning against the roof of the car. The girl raised her glass toward me then took a drag on her cigarette. Rees got out a second later and glanced at me before waving once at the girl.
It was her, all right. She stood as we approached. Even in sweats, I could tell she was gorgeous, and I had a strange, dizzying sensation, like meeting an idol in real life. Except I didn’t really know her, not really. She was mostly famous in Italy.
“Hello, Rees,” she said without a hint of an accent. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Hello, Giana.” He stopped at the base of the steps. Giana leaned up against the railing and stared down at him. She had dark brown eyes and wasn’t wearing a bit of make up—and that made me all the more jealous. Behind her, some noise from inside wafted out through the windows: a guitar strumming a complicated sequence of chords. “We need to get some things straightened out.”
She laughed and shook her head. It was almost coy. She took another drag of her cigarette then stubbed it out on the wooden floor and kicked it off the side. “You know Linus isn’t happy with you.”
“I assume you told him about the letter from Desmond.”
She made a vague gesture then looked down at me. “Who is this pretty girl?”
“Giana, this is my assistant, Millie.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Giana touched her fingers to her hair. “Assistant? To this man? Must be a difficult job.”
“So far, it’s not so bad,” I said. “But he doesn’t make it easy.”
She laughed, easy and light, and I liked her right away. She had that certain magnetic quality some charming people gave off in waves, like even her mere presence was somehow special. It was in the way she looked at us, a little smile, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed, trying to study our faces, and really listening, or at least seeming like she was.
“I’ve known Rees for years now,” she said. “From back when I was a young singer without any fans. Do you know he’s always been like this?”
“Been like what?” Rees asked, looking up toward the sky. “Brilliant and handsome?”
“Angry,” Giana said. “Wait, no, not angry. In a bad mood. He’s the wealthiest man his age and yet he acts like the world is against him.”
“Because it is,” Rees said, climbing up the steps. “Come on, let’s find Linus and get this over with.”
I wished he hadn’t stopped her, but she only shrugged and turned to the house. I wanted to know more about what Rees was like before I knew him. Maybe that could give me some clues as to why he was so angry all the time, and why he acted like the world was on the brink of constant collapse.
I followed them up and in through the front door and into a large open living room strewn with couches and rugs. People lounged around: men and women in jeans and t-shirts, smoking cigarettes and drinking. They nodded as we passed, and Rees only spared them the briefest glance. Guitars were perched on the walls, and more audio gears, like cables and speakers, were piled up on the floor. More music echoed from the basement: someone singing words I couldn’t understand, a piano hammering runs and trills, and drums like sledgehammers. The whole house seemed to shake with it.