The fourth-floor waiting area of Cedars-Sinai seems reserved for Agent Jonas and me. Aside from a nurse who chats with a receptionist at the front desk, no one loiters among the gray upholstered chairs. Instead of elevator music playing from the ceiling speakers, rain taps against the window in the first of this season’s much-needed showers.
Agent Jonas stands to greet me. Though his pants are wrinkled, he appears properly lint-rolled and rested. The promotion I heard he got for resolving Peter’s murder spree seems like it came with a spray tan and a round of Botox, too.
Well, I solved it for him, but I try not to sweat the small stuff these days. And anyway, Connor solved it, too. His newly adopted mantra, that doing the right thing when no one’s watching counts more than public perception, is starting to rub off on me. Like cat hair.
To be clear, I’m allergic to cat hair. But I digress.
I sent Maia’s Threads a check for the clothing I pocketed years ago, quietly remedying an old wrong. And instead of announcing that I landed a very flashy French client for my new public relations agency in a big party or media blitz to kick things off, I simply livestreamed with her from a local patisserie while we grabbed espressos and discussed her goals for the year ahead. See, I told Connor. We’re doing things for the client’s benefit, which also happens to promote our firm, Six Degrees Public Relations. He only gave me a kiss, then let out his deep sigh that says he’s indulging me.
“Ms. Stern. Have a seat.” Agent Jonas offers me the well-worn upholstered chair next to him. He adjusts the blue tie with white roses that he wears.
I plaster on a smile. “I’ll stand.”
Agent Jonas nods. “I expected nothing less.”
I check my cell phone. “So, how can I help now? I have a flight to catch.”
“The Bureau has one outstanding question we were hoping you could answer.”
“Good. Because I have one for you.”
“Oh?” Agent Jonas stands with me. Thick, gray-flecked hair shines in the fluorescent lighting.
“What was the purpose of the business card that I found in Phinneas’s office? Why were my initials and the closing date of Fashion Week written on it?”
“Yeah, that was for you. The voice notes we found on his computer confirmed Mr. Redwood suspected Mr. Huxton was planning to hurt someone else. Possibly at the closing ceremony. He wanted to warn you. Thought you had it in you to stop the additional violence.”
“Really?” I lift my chin.
“I know, I was extremely surprised too.”
I arch my eyebrow. “Well, Phinneas knew me much better than you do.”
Although I meant to listen to the final voice note in Phinneas’s cloud, Connor’s careful tutelage in toeing the line won out. I haven’t touched the files since Beverly Hills. I knew the FBI would notice. Well, that, and Connor finally changed his password on his laptop, and I knew accessing the cloud from my own computer was out of the question.
Agent Jonas folds thick arms across his chest. “And no one, it seems, knew Mr. Huxton. Not really. There’s a lot that Mr. Huxton planned out over several months. Before Mr. Redwood was killed, Mr. Huxton actually sent in an anonymous tip to the Bureau to investigate Thrive’s marketing, suggesting consumer fraud was at play.”
“That may have been true, at least,” I reply. “Connor discovered that himself, but he didn’t think Phinneas was totally up to speed about it. Phinneas wasn’t the most hands-on CEO.”
Agent Jonas narrows his eyes. “Connor Windell knew about the late-night commercials and didn’t think to report them?”
“Sweetie, if Connor did all the work, where would that leave you? Besides, Connor had a busy year. He didn’t get a chance to tell anyone.” Largely because Connor was waiting to get paid by Phinneas for previously completed work—and Connor felt bad for the guy. A bleeding heart, that one.
Agent Jonas purses his mouth. “Lucky for my job security, then. It also seems that Mr. Huxton acted as an anonymous source to Variety magazine recently. We subpoenaed his phone records and dug into all the late-night calls as due diligence. An editor there explained Mr. Huxton refused to provide a name, blocked his number, and disguised his voice while he provided details on certain ruthless tactics of yours.”
“I’ll bet Peter was getting nervous. Anxious that Connor and I were getting too close to the truth and he meant to force a rift between us.” It worked temporarily, but I won’t tell this federal agent that.
I check my cell again. I really must be going. “I’d say that this is all quite fascinating, but that would be a lie. And my business partner is insistent on integrity these days.”
“Then I’ll give you my question: Why was Genevieve Aspen at Emilia Winthrop’s house that day?”
“She was getting something for Velvet Eastman. They’re friends.”
Agent Jonas tilts his head down in thought. “Interesting. Since Aspen’s first husband was Gerald Ovid, I wondered if maybe there was something else there. Did you know that?”
Slowly, I shake my head. Connor mentioned that Genevieve was a widow—not that she held that title twice over. “No.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Aspen never legally changed her name to Ovid—she was known as Jenna Miller throughout their five years of marriage. Then Gerald Ovid died and Jenna met her second husband, to become Genevieve Aspen within six months.”
“A quick turnaround.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Agent Jonas snorts. “Much like Mr. Windell might say these days—I gather you two are together now.”
“We work together, yes. And, play together, too.”
Agent Jonas frowns. “Well, if I find anything else unusual and related to you and him—don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”
I shake his hand, immediately regretting putting my hand in his limp, moist grasp. “I hope not.”
Without another look at my former pursuer, I stride down the tile hallway to the final patient room on the right. Agent Jonas, and the drama he represents, is behind me now.
The last time I was here I only had to march past the reception desk of the ICU to my destination, but I welcome the extra steps. All the donuts Connor and I have been eating, since Jamie Mendez hired us for the last few weeks of his pre-election PR, are starting to show. On Connor, that is. Not me.
Mendez has been an interesting client. Lots of enemies, some backroom deals, and the kind of two-faced conversations I would expect of a man in politics with ties to organized crime in Vegas. What I did not anticipate was the pull he still exerted in the desert: Thanks to Connor and me publicly clearing Mendez of responsibility for his rival’s death, he made some calls and got Connor’s bookie Gianni to forgive his debts. Now, Connor only looks over his shoulder to check whether I’m following him or I stopped to take videos for our social media accounts, again.
Velvet Eastman nearly drops her pudding cup when I enter her room. Black hair is tied back in a smooth ponytail, and she appears only a shade or two tanner than the white paper gown she wears. This woman needs some sun.
“Addison,” she cries. “What are you doing here?”
“I was here a few times, actually. But you were still out of it, so I doubt you’d remember.”
I adjust the jade pendant I wear that Connor had custom-made by Mendez’s mother. Although it’s beautiful and exactly my style, I told him that a gift was unnecessary. If I want a bauble, I’ll buy it myself. For some reason, he insisted.
A cushioned chair lies at the foot of her bed. I take a seat. “How are you feeling?”
Velvet winces. “Lots of aches and pains. The infection that set in after the overdose nearly reached sepsis. I knew that I was allergic to Valium, but I had no clue it was to such a crazy extent.”
“I’m sure that was a shock.”
“Emilia, though. She’s been so sweet.” Velvet smiles. “She’s still recovering, but she’s out of the ICU, too, at least. She rolled over in a wheelchair on Monday.”
When the EMTs arrived at Emilia’s house and declared her still alive, my small heart grew three sizes. There was a chance, at least, that I wouldn’t have her death on my conscience. Plus, I genuinely liked her work. A sequel for the erotic thriller she starred in last summer was just announced.
“The doctors said you’ve been improving steadily, too.” I nod. “You ready to go home soon?”
Velvet frowns. “To what, though? I’ve been too afraid to look at reviews of my fashion line, but my assistant said they weren’t good. I didn’t even get any sympathy praise since I collapsed on the runway. I mean, come on.”
I offer my most compassionate sigh. “Velvet, sweetie. Would you want sympathy praise after all the hard work and creativity you poured into your designs and the stage production of Fashion Week?”
She lowers her eyes, clean of any makeup, nearly pouting. “No. I guess not.”
“Good. Because I’m going to help you get the positive reception you deserve.”
“Really? But how? They told me everything that happened with Peter. Ovid Blackwell must be in total chaos.”
“All true. The FBI found voice note recordings that showed Peter targeted you for being…unruly.”
She laughs. “Me? The slander.”
I adopt a wry smile. “We’ll sue him in civil court for every penny—after his lawyers wring him dry during the criminal trial.”
“I’m going to count on it,” she replies, almost appearing her usual lively self.
“And you’re spot-on about Ovid being a mess. Which is why, for our relaunch of your line, you’ll be working with my very own new PR firm.”
Velvet’s dark brown eyes widen. “It’s about time you got your own house. Congrats. But are you sure you want to take me on? I’m pretty sure my image is beyond help. ‘Former madam turned fashion designer overdoses on Valium due to nerves,’ or whatever people are saying.”
“Sweetie, we are going to overhaul your whole brand. Leave it to me.”
Color flushes Velvet’s cheeks. “Where do I sign?”
“Plenty of time for paperwork later. Right now, I have a plane to catch.” I slide from the chair and get to my feet.
On a metal tray beside the bed, a pink eye mask nearly covers Velvet’s phone. “Did you lose your other eye mask? The black one with red trim?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where is your other one?”
Velvet smiles. “Addison, this is the only eye mask I have. My assistant, Camille, brought it a week ago when I woke up. Usually I only wear it on airplanes, but the lights from the machines at night can be so annoying.”
After promising to be in touch next week with a calendar of events and interviews, I slip from Velvet’s room, eager to reach LAX.
Yet something about our conversation doesn’t sit right. As I reach this floor’s waiting area, realization slithers between my shoulder blades. When I catch up to Agent Jonas, who stands at the parting elevator doors, I lift my phone to my ear.
“Hello?” a gravelly voice answers.
“Genevieve Aspen, how are you?”
Agent Jonas doesn’t flinch at my grip on his arm. He leans in closer as the chrome doors whisper shut without us.
“Well, in fact. Who is this?”
“Addison Stern. I just visited Velvet Eastman, your good friend to whom you delivered her favorite eye mask.”
Pause. “Interesting. I hope you gave her my best. She was so out of it when I came to visit. Both times.”
“See, that’s the thing, Gen. I don’t think you did. In fact, when I went to Emilia’s house and found you already inside, you weren’t there to retrieve an item for your friend Velvet. You had never met her before. You brought along an eye mask in your pocket as an excuse to enter Emilia’s home and question her. To see if Emilia knew anything damning.”
She scoffs through the line. Bravado. I can appreciate that. “About what, exactly?”
“You’re Gerald Ovid’s widow. You’ve lost two husbands.”
“A terrible fact. Both philanderers.”
“A motive, to make you share Peter’s fervor to take out anyone detracting from Ovid Blackwell’s good name, of which—I’m sure—you still own a percentage. Especially since Peter Huxton…” I trail off, piecing information together in real time.
A detail from my conversation with Peter before the fake party at the office resurfaces: Everyone used different names in the eighties.
In Emilia Winthrop’s house, when Peter was deflecting from the murders, he said he wanted to keep his legacy intact.
“Peter Olivier Huxton isn’t his real name, is it? The O stands for Ovid. Peter Ovid Huxton. He must have switched his surname with his middle name when he joined the firm.”
Genevieve is silent.
“Peter is your former stepson. And he never wanted Velvet Eastman as a client, did he?”
When Malina discovered Peter had invited Velvet to our offices during the week I was in Hong Kong, she remarked that there were no follow-up meetings on the calendar—no plans to pursue Velvet with gifts or additional events to court her, something Ovid did for all high-profile clients as a rule.
“Peter didn’t actually plan to sign her,” I continue, “since he suspected Velvet’s reputation would be too difficult to overcome—that she would be rebellious and he would be forced to drug her into compliance, as he did other challenging clients. He only meant to show an effort since our competitors were jockeying for her.”
More silence comes from the phone while Agent Jonas nods.
“Then, when I went behind his back and courted Velvet directly, his hands were tied. Is that why Peter poisoned her in public at her runway show, to make it look like she was unstable and to damage her credibility since our PR campaign was less effective than we planned—rather than attacking her in private?”
I turn back to the hallway that leads to Velvet’s room, half expecting her to appear in the doorframe with a thumbs-up. “It was luck that you weren’t found out at Emilia’s house and that Peter covered for you, his former stepmother.”
Papers rustle in the background over the phone. The sound cuts off abruptly, and I know Genevieve has hit the mute button. Easier to search out a passport, pack a bag, and escape to your safe house in the Seychelles that way.
“But credit must be given where it’s due, Gen. And I have to hand it to you and Peter. You purposefully brought Connor out of retirement to help you locate Devon Lim, who you knew accessed Phinneas’s memoirs, because Peter used his ‘crack research team’ to hack into Phinneas’s cloud. You always planned for Connor to reach out to me for help in tracking down the would-be son-in-law that you never liked, tidily ensuring I was tied to another murder. Annalise Meier really was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She should have stayed in Hong Kong, instead of traveling to Monaco to mourn with Devon.”
I catch Agent Jonas’s eye. He hits the elevator button, and the steel doors slide open once again. “Don’t worry, Genevieve. The FBI is on its way to your home. And I’m on my way to an international flight, living my best life. Enjoy the rest of yours in monochrome orange.”
Sun scatters across the waves in green and pink jewels, rising along the coast of Cannes. The air is crisp, though not quite cold, hovering around sixty degrees. My navy lambswool coat provides the perfect amount of warmth while still blending in fashionably among the spectators to this morning’s feat. Footsteps thunder toward the ribbon strung across the finish line, meters from where I stand, and I lift my phone as the first runner crests the hill.
Famous for its film festival, Cannes is also host to the French Riviera Marathon—a favorite tradition of one of my new clients. Despite boasting dual American and French citizenship, and being a globally recognized actor, Noémie Balzac appears as any other local athlete, sporting a sweat-soaked final layer of clothing—a tank top—after shedding the others along the twenty-six-mile route. She’s not first in line to reach the ribbon, but she’s close. Damn close. She’ll be pissed about not quite reaching her goal of placing on the podium.
If she sees me, she doesn’t let on. Noémie grunts as she passes me, pushing herself to outpace the woman next to her. Faster and faster she pumps her limbs, arms and legs flying as if no longer connected to her muscular frame. She sticks out a chin, then inch by inch pulls ahead of the runner. Only one more runner to pass to secure a bronze placement among the women. Two men battle it out ahead of the pack, another hundred feet farther ahead, but Noémie only focuses on her next moving target.
I unlock my phone to snap several photos. These shots are going to look great on my agency’s new social media accounts. Sliding over to Instagram, I start livestreaming as Noémie pulls ahead of the next athlete. Ten people automatically pop in to start watching. Then fifty. Now one hundred.
Someone cries out. Thirty yards ahead, the woman running in first place trips, crashing to horrible road rash on the asphalt. The woman directly behind her is unable to course correct in time, and she follows suit, toppling to the ground.
Noémie can’t believe it. She turns her head side to side, checking her peripheral vision, then guns it the remaining yards, all the way to a first-place finish among the women—third overall. She strides across the finish line, arms in the air in the most dramatic marathon victory this side of the Atlantic.
Ten thousand people are watching. Twenty. I hashtag FrenchRivieraMarathon and NoémieBalzac, then pan to the sparkling water glistening below as the sun continues its arc to the middle of the sky.
Not bad.
An hour later I find Noémie blissed out, wearing her medal and drinking straight from a bottle of Moët & Chandon while a woman from a beachfront hotel drapes a towel across Noémie’s shoulders. Words in embroidered English read WHEN IN CANNES YOU CAN.
“Some more than others.” I smile to myself as the party moves to the nearby five-star luxury hotel. Noémie excuses herself for a shower and a rest, and I do likewise before our planned apéritif later in the day.
My livestreams of the ornate, Baroque-style hotel foyer designed by a former princess of Prussia—the indoor gilded restaurant whose plats du jour are created by a Michelin-starred chef, and the first- and second-place race winners wearing their shiny medals (whom I run into on my way to my hotel room)—all seem to drive even more viewer engagement. I take a break from social media to refresh alone and don the black button-up, off-the-shoulder designer dress I bought to celebrate all the recent exciting news. The 360-degree mirrors in my hotel room confirm I look sensational. By the time I’m dressed for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, descending a carpeted staircase fit for the Titanic, I’ve logged back into my livestream. Over fifty thousand people join me.
When I slide next to Noémie in a chartered car that whisks us off to dinner, she shares with me that she’s also gained another five thousand followers since this morning. “Whatever you’re doing,” she adds, “keep it up.”
The livestream of our arrival to dinner is punctuated with smiley faces, heart emojis, and exclamation marks in the comments. Everyone wants details on Noémie’s next film and whether she will continue the hit middle-grade series she wrote for French children about being an athlete and a girl. The story itself was abused for promoting unrealistic body standards for prepubescents, but it was a best seller anyway.
As the owner of the restaurant escorts us to a private patio lit with fairy lights and presenting a gorgeous view of the ocean at twilight, I feel content. At first, I wonder if I should have eaten more today, the feeling a mere hunger pang. Then Connor’s face returns to mind, from during our FaceTime in my hotel room, as he shared updates on Velvet’s schedule and the research he did into the fashion critics who responded favorably to her line’s debut.
“I miss you,” he said before hanging up. Within seconds, he sent me a photo of his face edited onto Kevin Bacon’s body in Footloose.
I cringed. Then double-tapped for a heart reaction to the image. Everyone makes sacrifices in relationships.
“Great choice for dinner, Addison.” Noémie pats the chair beside her at a polished oak table that was brought outside especially for her. Small plates of galettes and dried sausage are already set across a gold-embroidered tablecloth. I take a seat to admire the view of twinkling waves, brilliant in the sun’s diminishing reach.
“How are you, Addison? The jet lag must be fierce. You only got in—what, two days ago? It always takes me a week to adjust.” Noémie rips into the loaf of house-made baguette on the table.
“I’m good. Definitely have jet lag, but I’m more excited about you conquering the marathon. All of Paris watched our livestream.”
Noémie laughs. Then she launches into a play-by-play of her thoughts, sharing how adrenaline and sheer will pulsed through her body—propelling her to the finish line.
I’m only half listening. The livestreams have been so successful today, and the Boom Boom account I set up for Noémie last week has already surpassed one million followers, given the content I told her team to film and upload. Each of the tactics that I pushed for so long at Ovid Blackwell but were always rejected for a lack of interest—or concerns about time management and long-term maintenance, or safety reasons—are already proving their tangible benefits. As I glance around me, surrounded by a beloved client, excellent wine, and amazing sights, I know this is where I belong. At the forefront of PR strategy, serving the most innovative, if at times controversial, figures in the global marketplace.
Stars begin to dot the blue-gray sky overhead, like little placeholders for each of my business coups to come.
“You bitch.” A voice growls behind me. “Salope. Espèce de merde.”
Noémie gasps. I turn over my shoulder and find a figure in shadows by the restaurant’s interior, beneath an arch trellis covered in ivy. Curse words have come at me in many languages, but not usually during an intimate patio dinner.
“This is a private table,” I announce. “Gabriel?” I yell for the owner.
Shouts fly inside among the staff, followed by quick footsteps.
“You cost me my job. My friends. My girlfriend. My life as I knew it.” A young man steps forward, revealing a long nose and full lips. Tension radiates from his frame, but I recognize him. The production assistant from the shoot back in Paris with Emilia Winthrop—the one I saw canoodling with the director of the perfume campaign.
“Your girlfriend? Or do you mean your boss?”
“Addison, who is this?” Noémie whispers.
“I’ll handle him,” I reply. Without bothering to stand—this peon doesn’t deserve the effort—I lean over my chair. “I seem to recall you being part of the crew that attempted to ruin my client’s life by taking humiliating photos of her.”
The old me would have made a credible threat to ensure this person never approached me again, but I’ve been to hell and back over the last three months. I’ve learned a few things. Namely, that winning isn’t everything, not really. As Connor reminds me, sometimes what happens behind closed doors is more important than pursuing public accolades. And that fear is not always the most effective tool; acting from love—or the semblance of it—can be just as persuasive, and with less blowback.
Noémie sucks in an audible breath, gauging the scene. She’s got an impressive network of Francophile producers back home. I wouldn’t want to fall out of her good graces.
“Look, monsieur. I’m terribly sorry for whatever difficulty you’ve faced since we last met. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we are in the middle of—”
“That’s not good enough.” His arm cuts through the air to pull a pistol from his jacket and point it directly at our table. A shot fires. Pain explodes in my back, reverberating through my bones, as I fall out of my chair.
Cries, shouts, and screams pierce the night. Another body is tackled to the ground.
“Addison! Addison!” Hands grip my arm, my head.
Sirens wail on the street below. Closer. Closer now.
Wetness snakes down my cheek and into my ear.
My mother’s voice returns to mind, as clear as if she were the person hovering over me with a towel. Dinah must have caught my livestreams, heard I was here. I reach for her, just as I used to as a five-year-old. She extends a hand, then brushes a crumb from her mom jeans. I have a headache, Addison. So be a good girl. And clean up this mess.
A man leans over me. Connor? No, that can’t be right. He’s at home in LA.
As this person—Gabriel, the restaurateur—shouts something, my vision blurs. Black, close-cut hair becomes brown, long and wavy across square features. Like an attractive LEGO head. It is Connor, come to hold me. He touches my forehead. His tense expression breaks into a smile. Hey, Add, he says.
Connor knew I needed him. He must have grabbed the first flight out.
A cool sheet spools through my body, leaving me dizzy. Relief? Happiness? Although I have fought against it all my adult life, the feeling of needing someone, and being cared for in return, surges in my chest. It’s pleasing—in a way that truly makes losing to win the twist ending I never wanted. But, also kind of did.
“Addison, hang on. The ambulance is pulling up right now,” Noémie says. Or is that Velvet?—Emilia?
“Addison? Addison!” Someone sobs.
More voices shout above me. Then they fade into the heavy, French accordion music—no, the nineties grunge music—that seems to be getting louder, swelling from a nearby speaker system. The sound of my childhood.
One thing is certain as I lie dying. The phrase smells like teen spirit still doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.