Page 188 of Chandelier Enthralled
“You’re not a serious journalist.” He pushed his plate away.
The barb hurt me. “That’s not fair.”
I had literally entered Pendulum and put myself in harm’s way.
Sensing their disapproval that I hadn’t touched my food, like I thought I was too good to eat a burger, I lifted the top half of the bun and squirted ketchup on it. Then I ate a fry, the saltiness filling my mouth and stirring my appetite at last. Lifting the burger with both hands, I took a bite and chewed, juice dripping down my chin.
I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, self-conscious of making a mess. But it was delicious, and I was hungry. I took a few more bites, trying not to notice their scrutiny.
Chad leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Dean gave his life to journalism. He deserves the same dignity that he gave others.”
I set my burger down. “I agree.”
Chloe pointed to my mouth. I used my napkin to dab the ketchup there.
“You ready?” Chad asked Chloe.
She glanced at me. “Go on. Ask her.”
I wiped my hands on a fresh napkin. “Ask me what?”
“This is too important to fuck up,” he said, glancing at Chloe. “I don’t trust her not to snitch.”
Confused, I glanced from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you truly serious about journalism?” Chloe asked.
That made me flinch. “Yes, I am.”
“Then fucking prove it,” said Chad.
Dean Hersey’s apartment was conveniently around the corner from the diner. They’d chosen the restaurant on purpose, since it was an easy walk to his place.
His four-story building was tucked down a treelined street. It would have been a good location, with a Ralphs down the road so he could easily shop and get back to his busy life—the same life that had been snatched cruelly away.
The apartment building exuded a cozy charm. Many of the units had balconies, and I also noticed a pool, a gym, and a communal seating area. I wondered if Dean had found happiness here.
Thinking about this was preferable to what we were heading toward—breaking into someone’s home was nerve-wracking. Even if Dean had dated Chad, it was still a potential crime scene. Dean’s body had been discovered in the L.A. River, with the sad conclusion he had fallen in and drowned. Dean gave up drinking twenty years ago and often boasted about his sobriety, according to Chad. And of course, it had also been Chad who had witnessed Dean getting into Lance Merrill’s car, right before he went missing.
Amelia had also drowned, so there was a pattern here.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I said, trying not to show my nervousness in front of them.
Chad looked at me, doubt showing on his face.
I had spent countless hours trying to imagine what it would feel like to step into the field for the first time. But nothing, not a single scenario I’d conjured, had prepared me for the thundering of my heart, or the knot of anxiety in my throat. It was as if I was doing something right, but at the same time, something terribly wrong.
We made it to Dean’s front door and stood silently for a moment, glancing at each other, as though to see if one of us would decide to back out.
“Okay,” Chad said. “Touch nothing.”
We were doing this.
Chad pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door.
It was a dreadful kind of excitement, breaking into someone’s apartment on the hunt for evidence. All guilt was pushed aside because I was doing this for Dean, the journalist who’d relentlessly pursued the truth.
Chad entered the apartment first, signaling for us to follow.
