Page 72 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

I grasp at my head, feeling some kind of sticky substance over my ear. Then, as if it’s been trying to burst out of me for days, I confess everything to her. Or at least what happened leading up to me quitting the paper. How I was finally being taken seriously. How Simon had shown up at the EP release party, stolen my work, and then weaseled his way into an amazing internship. Shelistens intently as I spill my guts, squeezing my hand when I need it the most.

“Isabella, that’s— You should’ve told me. You’ve been living with this all on your own with no one to talk to about it?”

Dave knew. I could talk to Dave. He always tried to make me feel better. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She shakes her head. “No . . . don’t be sorry. Just remember that I’m here, okay? You can talk to me.”

“Okay.”

“Now,” she says sternly, “I want you to go have a nice long shower. Then we’ll tidy this place up.”

Becks must be sent straightfrom heaven, because after an excessively long and much-needed shower, I come out to an almost entirely clean apartment.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.

She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t mind. And don’t think it’s an inconvenience. Sometimes we have to rely on our friends.”

“Thank you.”

Becks helps me change my bedsheets, put on a load of laundry down the hall, then the two of us fall back onto my newly clutter-free sofa.

“So,” Becks says. “I found this phone number on the floor for a . . . Harold Lewis?”

Crap. I completely forgot about that.

“Who’s Mister Lewis?” Becks asks teasingly. “Some hot guy? Please don’t tell me he’s a professor.”

“No, no, he’s— He called the newspaper office looking for me. Randall gave me hisnumber and told me to call him.”

“What about?”

“Randall said he was looking for the girl who wrote the Carnal Sins articles,” I say, taking the slip of paper.

“Really? Why?”

“I have no idea.”

She jumps up out of her seat. “Well, come on! Let’s call and see what Harold wants.”

Before I can stop her, she’s picking up my phone and holding it out for me. With half a smile, I dial the phone number. It rings and rings and I’m about to hang up when finally, someone answers.

“Harold Lewis speaking.”

But my throat is suddenly constricted, and I can’t force the words past my tongue.

“Hello?”

Oh no. I can’t speak.

“Hello? I swear to god, if this is Theresa again, I told you to send the papers to my lawyer—”

“Mister Lewis?” I finally blurt out.

There’s a pause. “Yes . . . ?”

Becks waves at me frantically. “Hi, sorry, my name is Isabella Rodriguez. I got your number from my editor at the Stoneman Press. He said you were looking to get in touch with me.”

“Ah, Miss Rodriguez, thank you for finally getting back to me. I’ll be honest, I’d given up hope that I’d hear from you.”

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