Page 58 of Enemies Off Camera
“Hi,” she says, but not in a sprightly way. There’s a hint of doom in her voice, like she has bad news to deliver.
“Is there anything else I need to be aware of between now and tomorrow’s ten a.m. interview withSLAYMagazine?” I ask.
“So,” she finally says, dragging the word out.
I bristle.
“I received a message from Andrew, who handles your social media. A guy named Trey Morgan DM’d three of your accounts. Does that name ring a bell?”
I steel myself against the discomfort rippling through me. “Yes.”
“Okay… do you want to hear more?”
“What does he want?” I ask.
“He says he’s your brother. And that Theo is being kept alive by a breathing machine. If you want to say goodbye, you should go see him.”
Then, Kat—being the overly competent assistant—says she’ll add Trey’s number to my contact sheet. I’m still shaking my head. How can I tell her not to do that? I don’t want to see Theo in the hospital. Especially when I vowed never to lay eyes on him again.
“Unless you want me to make a call to Trey on your behalf.”
“No,” I say quickly, then take a settling breath. “Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s all,” she happily says.
She has no idea the weight of the news she just delivered. Why didn’t I just deny knowing Trey like I usually do? Like I do his two sisters.
“Good. Talk to you in the morning.”
We end our call with our usual goodbyes, and I remain in my chair, numb on the inside.
I know what I have to do next. There’s no fighting the urge.
I need...
FORTY-ONE
1 Hours Later
Istand in front of the window of a downtown drugstore. I kept walking until I found a street with light enough foot traffic. That’s a sign not many people are inside the store I’m targeting.
This is the perfect place.
And I’m pretty sure nobody recognizes me in my baggy black sweatsuit, with my hair hidden beneath a beanie. I wrapped a scarf around my neck and threw on a pair of fake glasses. It’s a sloppy disguise, but it’ll do.
The longer I stare at the shelves inside, the more the products blur into memories of Theo.
He’s my father.
I lost my mother in a car accident when I was six years old. I was left with him—and he just couldn’t raise one damn kid on his own. So he married another woman. Stacy.
Cinderella’s stepmother was more loving than she was. She died three years ago of a heart attack. Her loveless heart had finally given out.
For some reason, I turn away from the window and retrace my steps back to Jaxon’s apartment. I drop my head in shame as I enter through the garage, just like I had earlier. It feels so... villainous. The amount of effort I put into planning the thrill—snatching something off the shelf, tucking it into my pocket, walking out like it’s nothing. Like I got away with it.
Something to put on my face later. Or under my arms.
I’ve taken deodorant.
