“Miller,” he said, but his voice was muffled as though my ears were filled up with water.
Drowning, then. I must be drowning.
My knees buckled.
CHAPTER27
JACK
As much asI wanted to punch Chris Booker right in his gleaming teeth for telling Miller in front of everyone that his sister was dead, I did appreciate the way he pushed his way behind the front desk and into the back offices of the Chateau.
The Chateau was Bernardi territory, and I had no right to be there, but Booker had enough star power to make it not matter—for now. I followed him with a firm arm around Miller’s waist as Booker ordered the staff to clear out so Miller could sit down without a bunch of gawkers filming every tiny goddamn flicker of his face.
I even saw Booker press a large-denomination note into the hand of the manager of the place, when the manager started making some noise about me still being there.
Yeah, maybe I’d beenslightlywrong about Chris Booker.
Still. I wished he would fuck off and letmetake care of Miller. He was hovering over the kid with the kind of concern I didn’t think was helping, calling for blankets, suggesting that Miller lie down, asking if there was a doctor available to come see him.
I’d set Miller down into the large leather recliner in the manager’s office, and Booker was leaning over him, his hand on his shoulder, his face too close to Miller’s—in my opinion, anyway. I pushed him aside, a little harder than maybe I should have.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Someone get a glass of water,” Booker boomed.
“Someone get him adrink,” I snapped. “Brandy. Vodka. Whatever.”
Booker gave me this prudish, reproving look. “Alcohol is theworstthing for shock—” he began, but Miller piped up.
“Actually,” he said, his voice detached and calm, “I think Icoulddo with a drink. Chris, would you mind organizing that?”
For a moment, Miller asking Booker for help threatened to destroy me completely. Miller Beaumont would rather accept help from some flashy Hollywood asshole thanme?
Hey, it makes sense, I told myself.You barely know the kid. He barely knows you. And you’ve been holding him at arm’s length, just because—
The self-recriminations came thick and fast as I watched Booker leave the room, but they all died when Miller looked at me, said, “Thank Godhe’sgone,” and reached out a hand.
I took it and he squeezed mine. Hard. “You okay?” I asked gruffly, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“What happened?” he asked. His voice was even, but the way he was gripping my fingers told a different story. “To Annie. What happened to her?”
I didn’t want to be the one to detail these things to him. But if I didn’t, Chris Booker would—or, God forbid, Roxanne fucking Rochford would come rushing in and blurt it all out in his face.
“A few news reports are coming in that they’ve found her body,” I said carefully. Slowly. I kept my eyes on Miller, but he didn’t flinch.
“Where?”
“Off a hiking trail, up in the Hills. They’re saying…she was shot.”
“Shot,” he echoed. “Are they—sure it’s her?”
Freddy had texted me about Anaïs Beaumont, and he’d attached a photo from the paparazzo who had givenhimthe heads up. The photo showed a body being taken away on a stretcher, covered with a sheet. But there had been several long ringlets of hair falling out from under that sheet, hair that was a color I’d gotten to know way too well over the past few days.
“They seem pretty sure.”
“But who identified her? Don’t they need a formal identification from family?” He was so pale and calm. This was going to end in a bad scene. I had to get him out of the Chateau.
“There aren’t many details yet,” I hedged, because I had no idea. But I didn’t want to indulge any magical thinking from him, either. Odds were, if the paps said it was Anaïs Beaumont, itwasAnaïs Beaumont. “No doubt the cops are trying to get hold of you,” I said. “And if your parents don’t know about this yet, maybe you…” I cut that off. It would be better if the cops broke it to the Beaumont parents. Miller didn’t need any more bullshit today. “What say we get out of here and I’ll take you where you need to go?”
Chris Booker chose that time to barge back into the room with a glass a quarter full of amber liquid. “Here we go,” he said, “although like I said, I think—”
