“I called the ambulance,”Jack just said—but that wasn’t his story years ago. At Natalie’s funeral, he claimed he was at a press conference promoting her tour. He returned to the hotel to find flashing sirens. Hem sworn it.
Was that a lie?
And if not, why rewrite history now? Does he think it sounds better to say he was with her in her final moments?
I stand abruptly. The movement startles everyone. Even Jack stops talking.
“You said you were at a press conference on her behalf,” I say, watching him closely.
Jack straightens off the mantelpiece, unblinking as he returns my stare. “I was. Earlier in the day.”
“When we spoke at her funeral, you said she was already dead when you returned to the hotel.”
People stare. It might be my harsh tone, or my bluntness, but I won’t mince my words now.
“Yeah…” Jack says slowly. “I mean, she was in a bad state. She was basically gone when I called the ambulance.”
My head tilts, a predator cornering its prey.
“Youtold me the ambulances were already there.”
Silence stretches, taut as wire.
Just when I think I have him, he laughs—a bashful, endearing sound—as he rubs the back of his neck. “Ah. One of us must not be remembering right.” He sighs, offering a helpless shrug. “I don’t know, mate. It’s been a few years. Traumatic day for all of us.”
Eyes flick between us, no one daring to speak.
“You said you attended a press conference…” I begin.
He put his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Earlier that day.”
“See, I don’t recall it being televised.”
Not that I went looking for it. Seeing Jack stand on a podium, answering questions about his love life with Nova, was the last thing I wanted to do in the wake of her death. But it’s strange—I never came across the interviewby accident. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, I assumed it was out of respect for Nova. But with a room full of journalists, that doesn’t seem likely.
His expression barely flickers, but I catch it: a quick flash of unease before he smooths it away. “Well. It was more of an internal PR meeting, really. But Nova’s publicist was there. Just to discuss a possible rebrand she’d been thinking of. Nothing major.”
I scrutinise him, trying to tell the truth from the lies.
“Publicist?” I prompt, floating the word.
“Yep. Becky. Did you meet Becky? Top girl. Knows how to get shit done—”
“Rebecca Navarro?” I cut in.
“Yep. That’s her.”
A senior publicist, if I recall correctly, if not the head of PR. She would have been in touch with Natalie day in, day out.
“Getting warmer.”Nova’s singsong voice ripples through me, silken and mocking as I watch the light fade outside the window.“Getting…very…hot.”
“Excuse me,” I mutter. Before anyone can stop me, I exit to the back garden.
My head throbs with thoughts that won’t quiet. The night air offers no relief. It’s cool, but airless, like breathing through glass.
I plunge through the chaos of the garden, dodging swamps and gargoyles as my mind races, chest tight, vision swimming.
I take out my phone. I don’t even think before pressing a name long dormant in my contacts:Rebecca Navarro.
