Page 136 of No Headlines Please

I frowned. "How so?"

"It's like nobody lives here."

I'd been to Ryder's place, so I wasn't buying it. "Yeah, well, your place isn't exactly a mess."

"True. But at my place, you can tell someone actually lives there." He gave the penthouse another once-over. "Here, it's like a model unit – like somebody decorated it for a brochure and forgot to move in."

I was in no mood to be analyzed. "Or maybe the cleaning people just left."

"Or," he said, drawing out the word. "Maybe you're the one who needs an intervention."

I froze. Like Griff? "Fuck no."

Ryder laughed. "Don't worry. It's off the table now, since I tipped my hand, so you can stop looking so horrified." But then, his expression grew thoughtful. "But you know what?"

I was almost afraid to ask. "What?"

He gave a slow nod. "What you need is a getaway."

The world was a giant place, and I had plenty of money. I could get away any time I wanted. And yet, I'd been staying put, refusing to be run out of town by a bunch of bullshit that was too ridiculous to be believed.

And yet, the world did believe it.

Of course, that ludicrous book wasn't helping. By now, it had been out for only two weeks, long enough to get tongues wagging – as if there hadn't been enough gossip already.

Three days ago, the wagging went into overdrive when Sloane had gone missing from a party-yacht with friends. When the yacht pulled into port, her stuff was still there, but Sloane was gone, leaving nothing of herself behind, except a blood-stained Gucci scarf.

God, what a cliché.

The media had just loved that – as if I'd strangled her with the scarf and tossed her over, keeping the scarf as a bloody souvenir.

Except nobody had kept it. It had been found tied to the railing like a designer calling card.

Plus, if she was strangled, why the blood?

It was too ridiculous by half.

How this whole scenario involved me was a serious stretch. It's not like the scarf was found under my pillow. Plus, there was the inconvenient fact that I hadn't even left the country – which only fueled theories of murder-for-hire.

Right. Like I had hired a scuba hit squad to drag Sloane off the yacht.

At least I wasn't an official suspect. And yet, that part never made the headlines. Hell, it barely made the stories.

On the couch, Ryder asked, "So, aren't you gonna ask where?"

I blinked back to the present. "Where what?"

"Where you should go."

Fine, I'd play along. "Alright. Where should I go?"

"Mackinac Island."

"Why there?"

"Because the tourist season's over. The place is practically a ghost town." He smiled. "Plus, I want you to meet my fiancée."

I almost dropped my glass. "What?" The engagement had to be new, because this was the first I'd heard of it.