“Honey, I’m home,” Dylan called out as he entered his house on Monday afternoon. He’d always wanted to say that, but now that he had, his wife was nowhere to be found. He was home fairly early from the set, though. He took a look at his phone and saw that she’d texted him.
I’ll be home a little late. Behind on work today. See you at 6ish.
Dylan was disappointed. Each day, he looked forward to coming home to Emma. He’d find her doing pregnancy exercises or poring over a book of baby names or helping Maisey make a healthy dinner for the two of them. Each day also brought him closer to fatherhood, something he discovered he could hardly wait for now. He and Emma had plans to design the nursery. It would be just another few weeks before they found out the sex of their baby.
“Emma’s not here, Dylan,” Maisey said, greeting him in the hallway off the kitchen. “I’ve got dinner ready. It’s in the oven, keeping warm. If you don’t need me, I’ll be heading home.”
“Thanks, Maisey. Sure, go on home. I might as well take a run. Emma’s going to be a little late.”
“Have a good evening, then,” Maisey said.
He waved goodbye and dashed up the stairs to change his clothes.
A few minutes later he was on the beach, the shoreline nearly empty as he began to jog. He started out at a good warm-up pace and did at least half a mile before he kicked it into higher gear. It was cloudy and cool, making the run more enjoyable. What had started out as a chore—a fitness program for his role as a Navy SEAL—had become a ritual lately, one he enjoyed. His runs helped him think, helped him work out his upcoming movie scenes and gave him a way to reflect on his life. He’d asked his bodyguards to keep their distance. They had trouble keeping up anyway and he loved the idea of solitude on the beach.
Once he got going, his mind clicked a mile a minute and he made mental tallies of his thoughts as they rushed by, one after the other. And as he ran, he thought back on the night of the blackout. If only he could remember his last day with Roy...
And then images popped into his mind. He was sitting in his house, drinking with his buddy Roy. He was laughing and they were talking about the upcoming stunt and then his phone rang. It was Emma. She was freaking out and slurring her words. She was drunk. She’d said there was a blackout in the city. Dylan’s lights were still on. The power outage hadn’t reached the beach. He still had full power. Emma was looking for Brooke to come pick her up. Dylan immediately told her to stay put, and he’d come get her.
Dylan slowed his pace, thinking back, happy to have the memory return. To see Roy in his mind, who looked so much like him they could’ve been brothers. To remember their laughter and then...then he remembered Roy getting pissed at him. “Dylan, you’re in no shape to drive. You’ve worked your way halfway through that bottle of Scotch. Give me your keys. I’ll go get Emma.”
The scene played out in his head. He’d been stubborn with Roy, but when he’d tried to rise to go get Emma, the room began to spin and he’d sat back down.
Holy crap.
He came to an abrupt halt on the beach, his feet digging into the sand. His limbs wouldn’t hold him; they were like rubber now. He dropped to his knees, his face in his hands. He saw himself handing Roy the keys to his car.
Dylan’s face crumpled. Tears burned behind his eyes.
Images that he’d prayed would return now haunted him. He’d let Roy pick up Emma that night, because his friend had been right—Dylan was in no shape to get Emma. Roy picked Emma up that night. Roy...made love to Emma. It was Roy all along.
And the next day on the set, right before Roy got into that car, they’d argued. About Emma. Roy told him what happened and said he’d let things get carried away with her that night. Dylan had gotten hot under the collar, accusing him of taking advantage of Emma. And minutes later, the car exploded, with Roy inside. A fire cloud went up and Dylan was hit with shrapnel.
Dylan dug his fingers into the sand to keep from collapsing entirely. His head was down as he rehashed his thoughts, trying to contradict what he knew in his heart to be true. A woman walked over to him, the only other jogger on the beach beside his bodyguard. “Are you okay?”
Dylan nodded. “I’m...okay,” he told the woman. “J-just need a little break.”
He warned Dan off. The woman wasn’t a threat, but he might never be okay again. His whole future had been destroyed. The baby Emma carried wasn’t his. He was married, but his wife had lied to him. Was it all a ruse? Had she deceived him on purpose? How could she not know what man she was screwing?
The woman walked off slowly and Dylan waited until she was out of sight before he tried to rise. His legs barely held his weight. His entire body was numb from neck to toes. His head, unfortunately, was clear for the first time in weeks, and the clarity was enough to squeeze his gut into tight knots and suck the life out of him.
He walked along the beach, feeling broken, each step leading to his house slower, less deliberate. He was more broken than when Renee had dumped him.
More broken than at any other time in his life.
* * *
Emma tossed her purse down on the living room sofa and went in search of Dylan. His car was in the garage; he must be home. She couldn’t wait to see him. They’d talked about planning the nursery and she’d brought home paint samples of blues and pinks, greens and lavenders. The sex of the baby would determine the color themes, and they’d find that out pretty soon. At least they could narrow down their options, if Dylan wasn’t too tired tonight to help her make some selections.
Unless he had other things on his mind, like taking her to bed early. Lately, they’d been doing a lot of going to bed early and not sleeping.
She smiled as she walked the downstairs hallway, popping her head inside rooms in search of him. A delicious aroma led her to the kitchen. She opened the oven door and peered at the meal Maisey had left for them. The garlicky scent of chicken cacciatore wafted in the air.
She closed the oven door when she heard Dylan enter from the beach. He was dressed in a tight nylon tank and black running shorts. Her heart skipped a beat, he was so gorgeous.
“Hi,” she said. “How was your run?”
Dylan didn’t answer right away. He headed to the bar in the living room. She followed behind him, noting the lack of pep in his step. His shoulders slumped and he was extremely quiet. “Dylan, are you all right?”
Silence again. She waited as he poured himself a drink of some sort of expensive whiskey and gulped it down in one shot. “Did you have a bad day?”
He looked at her then, his face ashen, his cloudy blue eyes dim and lifeless. There was something so bleak in the way he looked at her. “You could say that. I got my memory back.”
“Oh? Isn’t that a good thing, Dylan? It’s what you’ve been hoping for.”
“Sit down, Emma,” he said, his voice ice-cold. He pointed to the sofa and she sat. He poured another shot of alcohol and took a seat opposite her, as if...as if he needed to keep his distance. Her heart pounded now as a sense of dread threatened to overwhelm her. Something was very wrong.
“I remember it all, Emma. The night of the blackout, the call you made to me.”
She nodded and blinked her eyes several times. Dylan’s teeth were gnashing. He had a grip on his temper, but just barely. “I didn’t come for you that night,” he said, looking down at his whiskey glass. “It wasn’t me. It was Roy.”
“What do you mean it was Roy? You came for me. I called you looking for Brooke and you...you—”
He was shaking his head adamantly. “I was drinking with Roy that night. Roy didn’t think I was sober enough to drive. He took my keys out of my hand and picked you up.”
“No, he didn’t.” Emma’s voice registered a higher pitch.
“Yes, he did.”
“But...but...that would mean—” Emma bounced up from the sofa. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the truth. Dylan had it wrong. It was all wrong. “Dylan, that can’t be true. It can’t be.”
Dylan rose, too, his blue eyes hard and dark as midnight. “It is true. Are you denying it? Are you going to tell me you don’t remember sleeping with Roy?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I didn’t sleep with Roy. I wouldn’t do that.”
Dylan stood firm, poured whiskey down his gullet and swallowed. “But that’s exactly what you did. You slept with Roy, and after he died, you told me the baby was mine.”
“I...uh, oh no! I didn’t. I mean, if I did, I didn’t know it was him. I wouldn’t do that, Dylan. I didn’t lo—”
“Which is it, Emma?” Dylan asked, in a voice she didn’t recognize. He sounded harsh and bitter. “You knew you were screwing Roy, or you didn’t?”
Tears welled in her eyes, the truth slapping her hard in the face, but it was Dylan’s mean-spirited words that hurt the most. How could she come to terms with what Dylan was implying? She thought she was making love to Dylan that night. Even in her drunken state, even as scared as she was, she would’ve never knowingly slept with Roy.
Yet he looked enough like Dylan to fool his fans. And he’d come for her in Dylan’s car. Because of the blackout and her blurry head, it could have been Roy after all. But she never once thought he wasn’t Dylan coming to her rescue.
But Dylan didn’t believe that. And he probably never would.
Her memory sharpened to that night and all the things the man she thought was Dylan had said to dissuade her. You’ve got this wrong. It’s a mistake. Those pleas made sense now, because she wasn’t imploring Dylan to stay with her, it had been Roy all along. Roy who had held her tight and comforted her, Roy who had finally given in when she pressed him to make love to her. No wonder there were differences in Dylan’s lovemaking since that first night. She couldn’t put her finger on it before and blamed it on her drunken state. But now she knew why it had felt different making love to blackout Dylan versus the real deal.
The truth pounded her head. The truth hammered her heart. The truth made her stomach ache.
“I’m carrying Roy’s baby,” she said, her voice flat, monotone, as if saying it out loud would make it sink in. She trembled visibly, her arms going limp, her legs weakening. She wanted so badly to sit back down and pretend this wasn’t happening. But she couldn’t. She mustered her strength, though she bled inside for the life she might have had with Dylan. The bright future she’d only just come to believe in had been snuffed out forever.
She should’ve known her happiness wouldn’t last. When had she really been happy? Only lately, working with Brooke and starting their business. “I can hardly believe this.”
When she lifted her eyes, wondering if there was a way around this, a way to make this right, a way to preserve the goodness that had come from marrying Dylan, she met his hard, glowering stare. He blamed her for all this. He didn’t believe her. He thought she’d betrayed him.
Like Renee.
Nothing was further from the truth, but it didn’t matter. She saw it in the firm set of his jaw. Ice flowed in his veins now. He was convinced she had deceived him.
She faced facts. She wouldn’t be Dylan’s wife much longer. She’d file for an annulment and wouldn’t take a dime of the prenup Dylan’s lawyer insisted she sign. She didn’t want his money. She had only hoped one day to earn his love.
“I’ll pack my things and be gone in the morning, Dylan. Have your attorney contact me. I don’t want anything from you. I’m sorry about this. More than you could ever know.”
“Emma?”
“Don’t worry about me, Dylan,” she said, biting her lip, holding back tears. This news crushed her, but she didn’t want his pity. She’d never wanted anyone’s pity. “I’ll land on my feet, as usual. We both know you only married me because of the baby and now that we know the b-baby isn’t y-yours...” She couldn’t finish her thought. She’d been robbed of the joy of carrying Dylan’s child. She’d love her baby, but now her child would never know its father and never have the love of both parents.
Dylan was quiet for a long time, staring at her. His anger seemed to have disappeared, replaced by something in his eyes looking very much like pain. This wasn’t easy for him, either, but she had no sympathy for him right now. She was in shock, devastated beyond anything she could ever imagine.
“I’ll make sure the baby wants for nothing,” he said.
She shook her head stubbornly. “Please, Dylan...don’t. I really don’t need anything from you. I’ll manage on my own. Goodbye.” She turned away and kept her head high as she made for the door.
“Emma, wait!”
She stopped, her tears flooding her face. She didn’t pivot around. “W-what?”
“I’m...sorry for the way things turned out.”
“I know. I am, too.”
Then she dashed out of the room.
* * *
Dylan sat in his dressing trailer, on the studio lot, feeling uncomfortable in his customized honey wagon, staring at his lines for this evening’s scenes and repeating the words over and over in his mind. Nothing stuck. It was as if he was reading hieroglyphics. He hadn’t been able to concentrate since Emma had packed her bags and left home two days ago. Brooke had told him that Emma had returned to her apartment. She still had time left on her lease. And his ears still burned from his sister’s brutal tongue-lashing that had followed. Brooke had defended Emma and basically called him a jerk for letting her leave that way.
He’d been hard on her. But how on earth could a woman make love to a man and not know who he was? The idea seemed ludicrous to him and yet Brooke had believed her without question and insisted that a man worthy of Emma should have, too. Which told him maybe they weren’t meant to be together. Maybe the marriage had been a mistake all along.
Keep telling yourself that, pal.
He’d tried to convince himself he’d done the right thing in letting her go. He didn’t love Emma. She was a friend, a bed partner and his wife for a little while longer, but he couldn’t deny the reason he’d married her. The only reason he’d married her. He thought she’d been carrying his child and he’d wanted to provide for both of them.
Now the loss seemed monumental. He’d fallen in love with the baby he presumed was his and the notion of fatherhood. He’d begun to see his life differently. Having a family had always been a dream, something he’d wanted sometime in the future.
Now that future was obscure. He was more confused than ever.
He missed Emma. And not just in his bed, though that was pretty spectacular. He missed coming home to her at night, seeing her pretty green eyes and smiles when he walked through the door. He missed the infectious joy on her face when they’d talked about the baby and fixing up the nursery.
All of that was lost to him now.
Someone pounded on the trailer door. He rose from his black leather lounger and peered out the window. It was Jeff, one of his bodyguards. Opening the door, he took a look at the guy’s face and the hand he held over his stomach. “Hey, Jeff. What’s up? You’re not looking too good.”
Which was an understatement. His skin had turned a lovely shade of avocado. “Must’ve been something I ate. I’m sorry, Mr. McKay. I’ve put in for my replacement. He’ll be here in an hour.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jeff. Go home. Do you think you can drive?”
He nodded and the slight movement turned him grass green. “I’ll wait for Dan to get here.”
“No, you won’t. You can barely stand up. You go home and take care of yourself. There’s plenty of security around here. I’ll be fine and the replacement will be here soon. You said so yourself.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Go. That’s an order.”
Jeff finally nodded. Gripping his stomach, he walked off and then made a mad dash for the studio bathroom. Poor guy.
Dylan grabbed his script and took a seat again. He had to learn his lines or they’d all be here until after midnight. Sharpening his focus, he blocked out everything plaguing his mind and concentrated on the scene, reciting the words over and over and finally getting a grasp of them. He closed his eyes, as he always did, to get a mental picture of how the scene would play out—where his marks were and what movements he would make throughout.
The caustic scent of smoke wafted to his nostrils and he was instantly reminded of the day Roy died. The memory of the blast and the smoke that followed had now fully returned. It was so strong that every time he came upon a group of people smoking on their coffee breaks, he’d relive that moment.
He shook it off, determined to run through his lines one more time before rehearsal was called. But his throat began to burn and he coughed and coughed. That’s when he noticed a cloud of gray haze coming toward him from the back end of the trailer. Seconds later he saw flames darting up from his bedroom. Right before his eyes, the fire jumped to the bed and wardrobe racks. Within moments, his entire bedroom was engulfed in flames. He ran for the trailer door and turned the knob. The door moved half an inch, but something was blocking it from opening from the outside. He pushed against it with his full weight. It wouldn’t budge. Peering out the window, he looked around and shouted for help.
Flames lit the entire back end of the trailer, the heat sweltering, the smoke choking his lungs. Dylan darted quick glances around the trailer, looking for something sharp to break the small kitchen window. He grabbed his wardrobe chair and shoved the legs against the window above the sink with all his might. Once, twice and finally the window shattered. He broke out as much glass as possible with the chair and then dived headfirst, tucking and rolling his body the way Roy had taught him.
“Ow!” He met with gravel, landing hard, and instantly sucked fresh air into his lungs. The flames were blazing now and he struggled to his feet. He had to get away before the whole thing blew.
Members of the movie crew had now seen the fire and came running over. Two of them grabbed his arms and dragged him away from the trailer. In the distance, he heard sirens blasting.
“Are you okay?” one of the crew members asked.
“Dylan, talk to me.” He recognized the assistant director’s voice. “Say something.”
“I’m...okay.”
“Mr. McKay,” another voice said, “we’re getting you to safety. Hold on.”
Once they were fifty feet from the trailers, a blanket was tossed onto the ground and he was laid down. Blood oozed out from scrapes on his body and his clothes were torn from the leap out the window. The stench of smoke and ash permeated the area. Within seconds, the studio medic arrived and assessed him. An oxygen mask was put over his mouth and soon a fresh swell of air flowed into his throat and down his lungs.
“Take slow, normal breaths,” the medic said. “You got out in time. Looks like you’re going to be fine.”
Dylan tried to sit up but he was gently laid back down. “Not yet. You’re not burned, but you do have abrasions on your arms and legs. You banged up your face pretty good, too. An ambulance is on the way.”
He groaned. “Someone tried to kill me,” he said.
“We figured. Those honey wagons don’t just light themselves on fire. And we noticed how your door was blocked with a solid beam of wood from the Props Department. The police are on their way.”
* * *
“I can’t believe you didn’t call me last night,” Brooke was saying softly near his hospital bed. Concern over him was the only thing keeping her from unleashing her wrath.
Accompanied by a police escort, he’d been taken here for observation and to clean up his wounds last night after the fire, and decided not to call his sister until dawn. She didn’t need to worry about him and lose sleep over this, but he had to call her before the story hit the morning news.
“There’s a freaking police guard outside your room, Dylan. I had to practically strip down to my panties to get in here to see you.”
“I bet that was fun,” he said, winking the eye that wasn’t bruised.
“Ha-ha. Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. But this is serious, brother,” Brooke said, her eyes misting up. “You’re all bandaged and look like a train wreck. God, I don’t want to lose you.”
Brooke had a blunt way of putting things, but he knew what was in her heart. He took her hand and squeezed. “I don’t want to be lost. They’ll find whoever did this, Brooke. It has to be someone with access to the studio lot.”
Brooke frowned. “That narrows it down to about a thousand or so.”
“I’ll be fine, Brooke. I’m going home with a police escort this afternoon.”
Dylan flopped back against his pillow. A part of him was disappointed that Emma hadn’t shown up here. Had Brooke told her? He couldn’t ask, because then his well-meaning sister would give him another lecture. Emma would find out soon enough, if she looked at a newspaper, logged onto the internet or turned on a television set.
He’d already spoken to his manager, his agent and his publicist. They were taking care of business for him. He was set to be released from the hospital later today. Not that he wasn’t grateful to the staff, but if one more person told him how lucky he’d been last night, he would scream. Someone was out to kill him. A crazed fan? Some lunatic who wanted fifteen minutes of fame? Or was it someone he knew? A tremor passed through him at the thought. Who hated him enough to want him dead?
He’d been questioned extensively by the police last night and he’d told the detectives everything that had happened that day. They’d been thorough in their questioning, and unfortunately, Dylan was still at a loss as to who might want to murder him.
“I called Emma and told her what happened to you,” Brooke said, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. “She’s your wife, Dylan, and has a right to know. At least she won’t hear about it first on the morning news. She’s pretty messed up right now.”
“I didn’t mean to cause her pain, Brooke.” Yet that’s exactly what he’d done. She was pregnant and his wife, and even though the baby wasn’t his, he should’ve treated her better than he had. The fact that he wanted to see her, wanted her to come just so he could look into her pretty face and be comforted, made him question everything. “Please tell her that I’m all right and that she can talk to me anytime, but honestly, Brooke, until they figure out who’s doing this it’s best that you and Emma stay away from me.”
Brooke opened her mouth to protest just as the nurse walked in. God, he’d never been so happy to have a medical procedure in his life. “Time to get your vitals and check on your bandages, Mr. McKay,” the woman said. “If you don’t mind stepping out of the room, please?” she asked of Brooke.
“Of course. I’ll see you a little later, Dylan,” she said, blowing him a kiss. “Be safe.”
By five in the afternoon, Dylan was home. Both of his bodyguards were on the premises, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. His first order of business was to go through the past few months of fan mail. He’d had Rochelle skim the letters back when suspicions had first been raised about the cause of Roy’s accident, but now that he was certain someone was out to get him he sat behind his office desk and read through each one. His cell phone rang and he sighed when he saw the caller’s name pop up on the screen.
“Hello, Renee.”
“Dylan, thank God you’re all right. I heard about the fire at the studio.” Renee sounded breathless.
“I’m fine. I got out safely.”
“Oh, Dylan, I hope I’m wrong about this, but I think I know who’s out to get you.”
Dylan bolted upright in his seat. “Go on.”
“My ex-husband is a maniac. I mean, Craig’s gone off the deep end lately. He’s been trying to get custody of my kids for months now. A few weeks ago, he stormed into the house, screaming at me. He found out about the money you’ve been sending to help us. Money he thinks is keeping him from getting his hands on the kids. Dylan, I don’t know for sure he’s behind it. As you might know, he...he...has a background in film and stunt work. He might be working at the studio. And I know he hates you.”
“Why does he hate me? Aside from the money?”
“I guess he’s always been jealous of you. He knows about our history, Dylan. And, well, he got it in his head that I’m still in love with you. That I compared him to you and he always came up short. I don’t know... I guess I did. I’ve always regretted the way things ended between us. But I never thought he’d go to such extremes. Like I said, I’m not sure...but my gut is telling me it’s him.”
“Okay, Renee. Sit tight. I’ll call the police. They’ll want to question you. And, Renee, thanks.”
“Of course, Dylan. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you. Be careful.”
“I will.”
After hanging up with Renee, he called Detective Brice and relayed the information about Craig Lincoln. He gave him Renee’s address and phone number and Brice thought it was a good lead. If her ex was involved, he wouldn’t be hard to track down if he worked on the studio lot. Even if he’d used an alias, crews would recognize his face.
Dylan’s heart raced. He hoped Renee was right and that Lincoln would be caught. A man like that could be dangerous to her and her kids, too, if he would resort to murder.
Dylan ran a hand down his face.
He needed a drink. As he headed toward the bar, one of his bodyguards entered the house and approached him. “Here you go, Mr. McKay.” Dan handed him today’s mail.
Dylan wasn’t allowed outside to pick up his own mail. He was trapped in his house, a prisoner to the whims of a killer. The studio had shut down all production until the investigation concluded.
“Thanks.” He poured himself a whiskey as Dan headed back outside.
He took his mail over to the kitchen table and sat down. Thumbing through ads and bills, he came across an unmarked letter. There was no postal stamp or address on the envelope. It simply read “McKay.”
His gut constricted. His breathing stopped for an instant. There was something about this that didn’t pass the smell test. He should turn the letter over to Detective Brice, but that could take hours.
It could be nothing or...
His hands shaking, he peeled the envelope open carefully and unfolded the short note.
“You took my family, now I’ll take yours.”
Dylan froze, staring at the threatening words. Momentary fear held him hostage. His mind raced in a dozen directions and came to a grinding halt. Emma.
His wife.
She could be in danger.
And Brooke, too.
His sister.
He had to get to them. “Dan! Jeff! Get in here, now!”