“Because they live at the top of the hill and it’s partially visible from their infinity pool. But only if you lean out over one edge.” He laughed. “My wife told them it was worth a fortune as is, and to buy it for us instead. They weren’t convinced untilArchitectural Digestcame out to do one of those Open Door videos.”
“Finola is the one with the eye,” Cara said. “Is she here?”
“She’s in Milan for Fashion Week.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“What, and leave you running for your life? Besides, been there, done that.” He led her into the kitchen, which, although remodeled with shiny white cabinets, gray stone floors, and quartz countertops, maintained the integrity of the original design. “The thing is, doors have always just opened to me, and believe me, I peeked behind all of them. I did the modeling thing. I tried my hand at acting, too. I had that cooking show on Bravo for one season. For a while, Finola and I had a lifestyle brand called Finedy.”
He paused, waiting to see if it registered with her.
“Oh—of course. I didn’t make the connection at the time. But of course that was you.”
“It was short-lived. Shorter than we’d hoped.”
He grabbed two water bottles from the refrigerator and a bag of Tate’s gluten-free chocolate chip cookies from a cabinet and led them back into the living room. “Everyone just thinks of me as the son of Daphne Boulet and Nico Danvers. I had to find my own thing.”
“So podcasting?”
“Ready to get after it?”
“I am if you are,” she said.
She followed as he headed for a staircase in the corner that led to the lower level of the house. “You know I was inspired by you, right?”
“I didn’t realize.”
“I was watching a story about your arrest. I could just tell by the look on your face that you were innocent. Then I did my own research to confirm it. I started thinking about innocence and how I could use my name recognition to help bring about justice.”
You never knew about people, thought Cara. No one would have looked at someone like Dylan Danvers and expected him to have this kind of awakening. Nobody would look at her and think she had changed as much as she had.
“This is only the start of what I now know is my calling—fighting for the falsely convicted. I’ve been looking into getting my law degree.”
“Law school? Wow. That’s impressive.”
Dylan shrugged. “In California, you don’t have to go to law school; you just have to pass the bar. Kim Kardashian is going to hook me up with her tutor.”
“So cool,” Cara said, even though she thought Kim K. hadn’t passed.
The downstairs hallway was a floor-to-ceiling photo gallery that included candids with countless celebs, as well as professional photo portraits of Dylan’s famous parents, his beautiful wife, and Dylan himself.
She stopped to look at one of them in particular. In it, Dylan’s hair was shoulder length.
And blond.
Realizing she wasn’t behind him, Dylan turned around and came back. When he saw what she was looking at, he shook his head. “Finola hates that picture of me. I should totally get rid of it.”
“Why does your wife hate this picture?” she asked.
“Probably because my hair is nicer than hers.”
Cara’s heartbeat pounded in her ears as she followed him into a studio that looked completely professional, from the oversized mics with pop filters to the racks of electronic equipment to the acoustic baffles on the walls.
Dylan sat down without offering her a seat. He glanced over at an open laptop that appeared to be wired into the system.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot to reboot. I’d better do it, or the sound gets glitchy. It takes about ten minutes. Want to see my parents’ house while we wait?”
She didn’t.
