“And how to break out of zip ties,” she agreed. “I had a character in my third book do that. I thought it would be good for my writing if I experienced it firsthand, so I had a friend teach me.”
Again, so many layers. He picked the one that would give him better insight into her. Assuming she answered. “You don’t talk about your writing much. Callie mentioned it once, not sure she meant to, but she did. How many people know thatNew York Timesbest-selling author DL Callahan is the same person as supermodel Daphne Sancerre who is the same person as Daphne Parks?”
She wrapped her hands around the coffee mug and stared at the fire. A full minute passed before she answered.
“More people know that Daphne Parks and Daphne Sancerre are the same person. The change was made by the agency that represented me and was through the more standard process. It’s not hard to connect the two if you have basic internet skills. And by now, you can probably Google it.”
“But DL Callahan?”
She took a sip of her drink. “I was much savvier by then and had people who could bury things like that. And it wasn’t really a name change like Sancerre and Parks, but more the creation of an entirely fictional person.”
“If I Google the name, what will I find?”
“A generic bio about growing up in Pennsylvania, living in Paris, loving to travel. All of which is true. Nothing posted is a lie or misleading, it’s just very surface.”
“Why?” The real question he hoped she would answer.
“A lot of reasons, really. Thrillers are primarily, though not exclusively, the domain of men. I don’t need the money I make from the books, but I 100 percent believe artists should be paid for their work. Having an ambiguous name lets people picture me however they want, which then allows them to judge my work on the work and not my gender. Privacy is another reason. I had enough of the limelight when I was modeling. I still have obligations related to that, along with a few spin-off companies I’m involved in. I don’t need or want to be in the public eye any more than those engagements require.” She paused and took another sip. “Then there’s the prejudice against this,” she said, gesturing to her face.
“Being Black or beautiful?” he asked. He imagined, as a writer, both could be a barrier.
She huffed a laugh. “Both,” she answered, not surprising him. “But mostly the whole ‘a model can’t also possibly be smart enough to write a good book’ thing.” She gazed at the fire, then slowly wagged her head. “I should be willing to take that on, tochallenge both those prejudices. But by the time I had the first draft of my first book done, I knew I didn’t want to. I just wanted to write. I wanted to enjoy the process and give people stories that provided an escape. Maybe it’s cowardly, but it is what it is.”
“You have a right to live your life the way you want to. And besides, no one can accuse you of not paving the way for others.”
She tipped her head. “Not sure how much I had to do with it, but it’s true, you do see far more women of color modeling these days than back in my heyday.”
The door swung open as Ava and Ryan entered, along with a swirl of cold, ending their conversation.
“Lovell, Daphne,” Ryan said, as he and Ava stomped snow from their boots.
“Can I get either of you something to drink?” Lovell asked, rising. “Coffee?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” Ryan answered.
“Two, please,” Ava said, hanging her coat on a hook by the door. “How are you today?” she asked, rushing to Daphne’s side. Lovell swiped up the tray from her lap and headed to the kitchen, Daphne’s response swallowed up as he pushed through the door.
When he returned with a carafe of coffee and three mugs, Ava and Ryan were seated by the fire. He set everything down on the coffee table, then poured fresh cups before topping off Daphne’s.
“You ready to start?” Ryan asked. Daphne nodded. “You don’t need to walk through what happened at the rental yesterday—we have the audio and your statement from last night. What I’d like to talk about now are the details of their conversation you heard and anything that might have come back to you now that you’ve had a chance to rest. I’ll also need more information about your escape. It’s not relevant to capturing Weeks and Beeker, but it will be important for any prosecution.”
For the next twenty minutes, Daphne walked through the hours from when she’d first woken up in the back of the car to when the Falcons found her. From breaking her zip ties to setting up the dummy body with the comforter to using her nail file to pry the nails loose to the critical role the random wool blanket she’d grabbed played.
A handful of times, she hesitated, caught in a particular moment or memory, but she didn’t once falter. And although her voice quieted during a few parts, she didn’t break down. She had every right to process her experience in whatever way worked for her, but it didn’t surprise him that tears weren’t really her thing. For good or for bad, she’d been through a lot in life—he knew from Callie how shitty their childhood had been—and this was another blip on the radar.
“Was your team able to make it to the house?” she asked when she finished relaying her experience.
Ryan made a face. “We did. We commandeered a plow after we talked last night, and a couple of cruisers followed.”
“Let me guess, they were gone?” she asked.
His chin dipped.
“Did youneeda plow to get through?” Lovell asked.
“We could have made it with the SUVs, but we didn’t want to risk it,” Ryan answered.
“If they made it out without incident, they’re experienced at driving in snow,” he said.
