“Cover up your manager’s death. Or at least not report it for a while. Find the asshole who’s stalking you. Make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again.”
She sniffles—I think—and reaches for the small plastic case on the table before withdrawing a single white pill. “These are Xanax. I take one before a lot of my shoots, and whenever I feel a panic attack coming on. The blue ones on the other side are Zoloft, and I take one of those every night at bedtime.”
I file that information away, hoping I won’t need it, but I hate how defeated she looks. “Sloane, I don’t care if you need meds to get you through some of this shit. Or even everyday life. There’s no shame in it.”
“You don’t spend your time with photographers yelling at you and documenting your every move,”she says, washing down one of the pills with a few sips of her smoothie. “And you haven’t seen the worst of the side effects.” Her lips roll together, she rubs her jaw absently, and her shoulders heave.“Shit. Until now.”
“What? The nervous tics? Those are caused by your meds? I thought it was just stress.”
“Oh, God. You noticed. When? At the bar?”
“Yeah. And before you went up to the party.”
“Tardive dyskinesia.”Sloane’s fingers dance across her thighs until she shoves her hands under her legs. “I can control it for short periods of time. But stress makes it worse. I need to switch my meds, but I have to titrate down off of Zoloft, and when I do, I’ll have vertigo and dizzy spells for a couple of weeks. Not something I can do while working.”
Shit. She’s so matter-of-fact, so calm. I thought getting her to talk to me would help, but now, I’m not so sure.
“I don’t know shit about your job, Sloane. But how much have you eaten today? Total. Be honest.”
“A handful of strawberries. Iced tea. A banana. Coffee. I hate international travel.”
“You’re not the only one.” I toss back half the bottle of water and a couple more fries, Sloane’s gaze following my every movement. “You can have whatever you want off my plate. I won’t tell anyone.”
Sloane smiles, and though it’s weak—weary even—the light it brings to her face is something I want to see more of.
But before that can happen, we have to get through the bad stuff first.
“One french fry. It’s been months since I let myself have carbs.”
* * *
She ate three.And half the smoothie. No one said a word while we finished the food, and Marina used the suite’s electric kettle to make a big pot of chamomile tea. She’s perched in an armchair a few feet away, hovering like a mother hen. Her nervous energy isn’t doing a damn thing for Sloane’s peace of mind, but then again…after what she saw? Would anything?
“I need you to respond to that text message,” I say after setting the room service tray back outside the door and returning to the couch.
“What?” Her shoulders hike halfway up to her ears, and she starts chewing on her lip again. “I can’t.”
Covering her hand with mine, I hold her gaze. “Yes. You can. You have to. Volkov—or whoever he’s working with—wouldn’t have sent the photo of Max if he’d been certain you’d seen the body. This is good news. It makes it a hell of a lot easier for us to keep Max’s death quiet.”
She jerks her hand away. “Keep it quiet? Why? He’s dead! We have to call the police.” A trio of fresh tears tumble from her eyes, and she reaches for the handkerchief again. I should have brought her a fresh one.
“No, we don’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “The call I made earlier? Clive’s boss—Dax—is going to send a couple of cleaners posing as housekeeping to Max’s room tomorrow. They’ll send me video of the room so we can piece together what happened and when. But their main purpose? To make it look like housekeeping discovered the body in the morning, and the hotel covered it up to avoid any bad press for the event. A place this swanky? They’re not going to want the news getting wind of a murder on the premises. I can’t imagineBeauty and Stylewould be happy about that either.”
“Dimitri knows I told Max about the blackmail. Max texted me. Why wouldn’t I go to his room?”
“Because your boyfriend showed up and kept you thoroughly distracted.”
Sloane sits up straight, her eyes narrowed. “Boyfriend? What are you talking about?”
“My cover story.” With a quick tap to the tablet screen, I bring up the file Austin, Clive, and Wren worked up for me. “Officially, my name is Harry Griffin—nickname Griff—and I work for the Ulstrum Agency as a junior agent. That’s how we met, a little over a month ago.” Swiping to the next page, I click the link to her Instagram. “We altered two of the photos you posted over the past couple of weeks to show me in the background.”
“Oh my God. How do you even know how to do this stuff?”She pulls out her phone and checks her account, zooming in on the most recent photo Wren swapped out—one of her on the beach in San Diego. Somehow, Austin’s graphics guy managed to put me in a t-shirt and board shorts in the background, and even got the details of my prosthetic arm right. It’s blurry, but it’s most definitely me.
“Austin—my boss—has a kick ass designer on the payroll. How do you think I got a fake passport, driver’s license, and my own social media accounts in less than a day? I should be tagged in that photo of yours.”
Hell, I haven’t even browsed my own fake Instagram yet, so I peer over Sloane’s shoulder while she scrolls through Harry’s feed. Pictures from the Ulstrum Agency’s New York City office, random dogs at Central Park, latte art, me smiling behind a couple different pairs of Dax’s special glasses. And a shot I took from the window of the plane as we were about to touch down in Zurich.
Landing in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, about to meet up with my girl and see her dream come true. #blessed
