“You can’t tell him you’re okay?”
“I can’t call him.” She shifts Pookie to one arm.
“Why not?” I ask, exhaustion replacing adrenaline now that the dog is safe and sound.
Rebecca says, “I don’t have my phone.”
Not surprising since that dress clearly doesn’t have pockets, which also might mean she doesn’t have her room key. “Don’t tell me you got locked out of your room.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That would be the frosting on the sugar cookie, wouldn’t it? But I mean that it’s not here. I, uh, lost my phone.”
I raise an eyebrow. Someone like Rebecca Rios—a pop star with millions of followers, constantly posting on social media—lost her phone? Unlikely. I smell something suspicious and it’s not the aforementioned cookies wafting temptingly from somewhere in this building.
“You lost it?” I ask.
She bites her lip.
“By accident? Depending on the model, I’m sure we can track it.” I start to explain the feature, but she shakes her head.
“Not exactly.”
I ask, “Do you mean you lost your phone on purpose?”
She winces. “I, uh, threw it out the window on my way here.”
My brows pinch together because that doesn’t seem like something a person who lives and breathes for the spotlight would do.
I pull out my phone. “Brady has been worried. I’ll call him for you then.” I’m already pulling up his contact info.
“Wait.” Her hand shoots out, stopping short of grabbing my wrist.
“How did he even find out that I’m here? Nobody knows where I went.”
Panic mixed with desperation turns her smooth, smoky voice into sandpaper. That makes me pause. I study her face more carefully. Dark circles color the space under her eyes. Tension tugs at her shoulders. And she’s holding that ridiculous dog like it’s a rescue float.
This isn’t just a pop star having a diva moment. Something is wrong. My protective instincts kick in.
“Becca,” I start softly, wanting her to know she’s safe with me, whatever is going on. My mind instantly flips to worst-case scenarios, but as a first responder, I’m trained to deal with situations that go well beyond the scope of fires. “Someone named Lilith called Brady. She asked if he’d heard from you. That was a red flag. He tracked your credit card,” I admit, wondering if she’ll hold it against him. He’s her older brother and has always looked out for her. Also, he’s a cop, so there’s that.
Her throat bobs on a swallow, whether because she’s guilty or nervous, I can’t quite tell.
“Brady called me because I’m close by.”
“Of course he did.” She deflates a little, then seems to remember she’s standing in a hotel hallway in a sparkly gown and bare feet. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Thank you for finding Pookie. And for ... checking on me.”
“That’s what friends do.” The words come out soft, almost like a secret.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see the girl I used to know. The one who’d sneak extra cookies when her mom wasn’t looking. Who laughed at my terrible jokes. Who I definitely did not have a crush on, thank you very much.
“Are we … friends?” she asks quietly, as if the notion of friends of any sort is ancient history.
Before I can answer—before I can even process the question—Pookie lets out another squeaky bark, as if reminding us she’s the real star of this show.
Rebecca manages a small smile. “I should probably get her back to the room and put on actual clothes.”
I point to the snorting little animal. “On her?—?”
She exhales a baby’s breath. “No, I left Pookie’s luggage behind.”
