Ryan shifts uncomfortably. “There were rumors going around the office. Doop had a secret, special lab locked behind retina scan. We were told not to go there and not to ask questions,” he says. “But everybody had their own theory. Everything from embezzling to cultish offerings to witchcraft.”
“See!” I say to Drew, pointing right at Ryan. “The Go to Sleep, Bitch candle!”
“Those candles came out of the lab,” Ryan confirms. “What did they do?”
“They made me pass the fuck out and start a fire. That’s what they did!” I shout, spiraling over this situation and the fact that my suspicion about that secret back hallway had been right. Did CeeCee know that and was covering, or did she seriously think snooping wasn’t worth her time and energy?
“Look, I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you. I kikied with the cult camp. That’s how I got the idea for the novel, fictionalized the details, and skewed them just enough to get away with it.”
I deflate. “Basically you’re saying you can’t help me get back.”
He gives me a half-shrug. “Have you tried the crystals again?”
“They disappeared,” I tell him, at a loss. Every time I say it, I feel salvation slipping away. “I’ve been trying to remember which ones were included so we could start a new collection. Try them out.” Drew is pacing behind his desk, biting his thumbnail, probably lost in thought. In contrast, I’m unable to move for fear our only informant might bolt.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Ryan says earnestly.
“The problem is that the internet has been no help, my memory is unreliable, and Doop has completely disappeared.” I sigh. “We think we’re on track, but there’s no way to know for sure without that damn scroll.”
There’s a knock at the door. Jolene pokes her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Low, Nolan, but they’re ready for your signings.”
I almost forgot that there’s a room full of people out there waiting for us to be on. Smiles. Signatures. How am I supposed to care about all that shit when I feel hopelessly stuck without any more answers?
“They’ll be out in a moment,” Drew says, crossing to the door and shutting it behind Jolene. He presses his back to the wood and looks at us both, understanding passing wordlessly between us.
Before we compose ourselves enough to get back to it, Ryan adds, “Doop shut down because they were bleeding money and didn’t want an investigation.” His voice dips almost as if he misses it. “I kept a journal during my time there, a personal one, completely unrelated. I did occasionally jot down information, a lot of which I used to write the book.” He offers us an apologetic half smile. “If I remember correctly, I think there was some stuff about crystals in there around the time of your sister’s wedding. It wasn’t relevant at the time, but I might be able to dig it up if that would be helpful.”
“Yeah, it would,” I say, burrowing my claws into any shred of promise. “Thanks.”
Chapter Thirty
A day later, an email arrives during rehearsal.
I excuse myself, stepping out of the pool of pink light the designer is trying to adjust. My stand-in—a man who could be my twin—switches with me, offering a warm smile. For a second, I consider the possibility that he’s another me, and instead of time-jumping, he got flung through a portal and stumbled into my universe, which isn’t evenmyuniverse.
After my conversation with Ryan, the possibilities seem endless.
In the wings, I click into the email. There’s no signature, and the address is a series of jumbled, random numbers and letters, but the attachments tell me everything I need to know.
Scanned in are pages from Ryan’s journal with information about the crystals and CeeCee’s wedding.
Pulling up the most recent photo of my own crystal collection, I cross-reference Ryan’s notes with my stash. His handwriting is crooked and sloppy, but I decode the gist, and when I get to the part about the goody bags, I’m reassured that the ones we collected are right and there are only two left to find: malachite and pyrite.
The images that populate from my search for malachite show stones with mesmerizing emerald and black swirls. They are meant to be used for transformation—fitting in more ways than one—butalso for letting go of negative habits and unhealthy patterns. How, then, have I found myself in the life of a playboy?
The other stone, pyrite, is considered “fool’s gold.” Its shiny exterior makes me laugh. This sucker is the one. I can feel it. The stone that twisted my intentions into theBlack Mirrorversion of my life. Though, in fairness, my intentions may not have been all that pure to begin with.
What’s my next move? With only two-and-a-half days left before the special taping, I want to meet my deadline, even if there’s an anxious heartbeat thrumming underneath every step I make, I can’t live with the uncertainty of what these crystals could do.
I race to the bathroom to put on a performance that rivals anything I’ve ever done onstage. After locking the door, I fake-retch and groan, loud enough so the PA stationed outside the door sends for help.
Right on time, Jessalynn is banging their fist and calling through the door, “You all right in there?”
“Not really,” I yell back, clutching my stomach even though nobody can see me. “I think I ate something bad.”
“Ate something bad,” they shout back over the whirring of the fan I flicked on, “or drank too many something goods?”
“Jesus, Jessalynn, it’s not even noon.” The playboy conundrum comes barreling back at me. How did crystals meant for healing make me into a giant bruise on the back of society? Would I be able to undo that completely if I got stuck here?
