Priscilla’s threats are seeming more and more empty. For the first few days after our struggle in my truck, I waited for the other shoe to fall, but it just hasn’t. The FBI has stopped coming around, and Josh Smith from the LVPD has closed his case without enough evidence to make an arrest.
For the past few days, Lockwood has been at his house doing nothing but watching satellite TV. Priscilla has been fucking a cop buddy of Smith’s. If her phone conversations—recorded by Dave—are to be trusted, she’s thinking of putting him in one of her films.
Sarabelle is dead, and that can’t be changed. Her funeral was this morning. And while the FBI seems to be kicking up their heels, I’m working on my own play for Lockwood and Priscilla. Mainly Lockwood. But Priscilla will get hers, too.
Marchant calls again.
I hit ignore again.
Again five minutes later. “What is it, dude?”
“Hunter—fuck. Have you read the L.A. Times?”
“No.” My stomach pitches. “Why?”
“There’s allusions to you left and right in that story. House in California, one in Vegas. Heir who visits brothels. They’re quoting an anonymous source who says that the FBI has you as their prime suspect. I’m surprised you haven’t had them show up at your fucking house. The Times even put a bit in there about Roxanne. Wasn’t a surprise to me, but…”
“How’d you know?” I whisper.
“Dave found out. Man, are you okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You want me to catch a plane out? I’ve got Dave all over this; he’s checking with his contacts at the FBI. But he’s started acting suspicious, dude. Says he found some shit in your family’s closet that he wants to talk to me about. What do you think—”
I kill the call and walk slowly to the liquor cabinet. I’ve downed two shots when three men in gray suits ring my doorbell.
Elizabeth
“ARE YOU SURE this is a solid plan?”
Cross is sitting beside me in the Camry, wearing a ball cap and looking grumpy.
“Oh, yeah. Hunter will tell me everything he’s found about Jim Gunn. I’m willing to bet there’s something that can help you.” I look back at Cross. “Hunter trusts me enough to share info, I think, and I trust him. It might turn out to be lucky for you both.”
Cross gazes out the window, the way he’s done most of our drive, and I feel so sad for him. I take his hand before I think about which hand it is: his left one, the one whose fingers don’t work. I only have it for a second before he draws it back into his lap.
“It’ll get stronger,” I murmur.
He looks down at the hand. “Can’t draw up any new design plans.” He means for the motorcycles he designs. “Can’t steer, either.”
I want to cry for him. To scream about how unfair it is, that Cross was almost killed for knowing something he hadn’t even meant to find out. Instead, I try to keep the pity off my face and say, “I know.”
He uses his right hand to give my hand a squeeze, and then he’s looking out the window again as we roll through the valley. It’s a sunny morning, with a crisp blue sky stretching over miles of vineyards. Even the grass beside the road looks vibrant. But the pretty day doesn’t do much to calm my nerves.
“So, in and out?” Cross asks, tapping his right hand on his knee. “Wham bam?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “You said you didn’t mind—remember? And it’s worth it. I promise.”
He shrugs. I can tell he’s down, and I wish so much that I could help more. We’re almost there when he says, “Change of subject.”
“Okay.” I wait a beat and he blows a breath out.
“Suri’s been acting…a little off since I woke up. You know anything about that?”
His question throws me off so much, I actually cough. It’s everything I can do to keep my eyes from widening. “You think so?” I ask neutrally.
“C’mon, Liz. Shoot straight with me.”
She’s been acting ‘off’ because she’s developed feelings for Cross. I’m ninety-nine percent sure.
“Fine. Then yes. I do know something, but it’s just a guess. I’m guessing that she maybe…maybe she caught a case of the feels.” I’m breaking the girl code by telling him, but Cross is as good a friend to me as Suri is, and he’s got enough drama in his life at the moment without having to wonder about that.
Cross sighs. He looks out the window at the vines, and I can tell he’s not going to say anymore right now.
We’re on the last stretch of the dusty little road to Hunter’s octagonal home, and I’m getting nervous. Nervous about taking Cross back to the site of his accident, and nervous about coming here myself.
I’m quiet as we pass the spot to the right of the road where the grass is black and frayed. Cross lets out a deep breath, and I press my right arm into his left.