Tossing down my phone, I slide from the covers, blocking out any thoughts of Mackenzie.
And the guilt that follows like a shadow.
I take a quick shower before pulling on comfy jeans and a T-shirt. No need to “glam up,” since I’m trying to be incognito.
With a frown, I dig in my bag for the ball cap and glasses Lin insisted I bring. Just a precaution. A quick and easy disguise employed by celebrities.
I’m not a celebrity, not on magazine covers, and probably the last person paparazzi would try to track down. There are far more famous people embroiled in the scandal, but it’s smarter not to take chances.
Sun brightens the world outside and pulls me to the window. The street in front of the mansion ends at a permanent blockade, metal bollards blocking cars from the park. Only a small section of the park is visible, but I can tell people are out in droves—children playing, a woman reading on a green metal bench, and busy pedestrians on the walking paths.
Everyone’s moving. Except for one person. A blonde woman beside a lamppost across the street. Her stiff posture stands out in the buzzing activity. She’s rigid, intense, and staring at Maison Marteau.
There’s nothing remarkable about her clothes. A black ball cap and jacket with a red and gold patch emblazoned on the sleeve.
But there’s something about her body language, the tension and unwavering stare.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t glance around. Doesn’t check her phone. She leans casually against the pole, as if she’s exactly where she wants to be. Waiting. Watching.
Like paparazzi.
I whirl from the window and press close to the wall. Is she a photographer? A reporter? How did she find me? Lin said she’d handled everything discreetly.
I risk another peek out the window. The woman is still there, still leaning against the lamppost, but her head is turned the other way. No longer fixated on Maison Marteau.
And probably not stalking the B-list actress no one even knows is here.
The quick shot of panic drains to my bare feet. Humility returns, and I rub my face. I need to get a grip on myself. Paranoia’s not helpful.
As I grab my shoes, phone, and purse, I shake my head. Paparazzi aren’t searching for me. Reporters don’t want an interview.
Why would they?
They don’t realize how much I know.
5
I slip on my shoes and take the stairs at a jog. On the main level, I walk through the kitchen to the dining room, where the French doors open to the private grounds.
Paranoid or not, I won’t risk exiting through the front.
In the sheltered garden, I hurry to the pebbled path, winding through evergreens and budding blooms. When I round a corner, I find a woman standing in silence.
Shiny blonde hair styled to perfection, she wears a navy jacket over a silk blouse. When she sees me, she goes rigid, her gaze narrowing with sharp accusation.
“Hello,” I say, frozen in place.
She scowls. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Her scathing eyes travel over me, and I shrink inside my T-shirt, feeling every stray thread of my frayed blue jeans. It doesn’t matter if that’s how they’re designed. Beneath her withering stare, I don’t feel fashionable. Only disheveled and inferior.
“I’m…I’m Brooke,” I stutter, pulling off the hat and glasses. “I’m staying in the end unit.”
My explanation changes nothing. She continues to level me with a glare. “The gardens are for family.” She punctuates every word, each knocking me down an inch.
“I’m sorry.” Flustered, I step back, the one and only rule sounding in my brain like a siren.
Don’t disturb the family. Don’t disturb the family.
