Page 73 of Gilt

“Sounds like step one of a plan.” Mission accomplished. If he’s going after the real murderer, he’ll need my help—especially since the cops already think he’s guilty. We can’t rely on justice being done.

“You should stay,” Jameson says as though he can read my mind. There’s a firmness in his words that dares me to question him.

“Too bad I’m not the type to take orders,” I inform him. “I’m coming back.”

“Emma, I thought I needed you to come back with me and even though I miss you, I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you again. We don’t know who murdered my father, but we also don’t know who pushed you through the glass that night.”

“Considering you live in a casino, there’s a distinct lack of surveillance cameras in your house.”

He blows out a hollow laugh before reaching over to clutch my hand. “Dad called that penthouse his oasis. He said nowhere was safer than at the very top of what he had built. I guess he never considered how far he had to fall.

“Whoever did this came into my home invited because there’s no other way they could’ve gotten past the security team. One of us opened the door to his murderer and let them walk right in.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say in a soft voice. He won’t believe it, but he needs to hear it.

“Maybe not,” he admits. “My relationship with my dad was complicated, but I owe him justice.”

The sun fading swiftly behind the mountains casts a purple haze across the horizon. As the blazing orb disappears from view and the moon takes up its watch, I get out of the car and go to the driver’s side. Before he can protest, I climb in and straddle him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I gaze into his eyes.

“I want to come back with you.” I cut him off before he can respond. “I’m pretty damn good at taking care of myself in case you failed to notice.”

“I didn’t,” he says, a wry smile playing at his lips. “Sometimes I think that scares me more than anything.”

I raise an eyebrow at this revelation. “Strong women scare you?”

“No,” he assures me in a gruff voice as his hands dig into my hips, urging me closer. “I like strong women; I just don’t want you to do anything stupid to protect me. Whoever did this, Duchess, isn’t going to confess if we find them.”

“I don’t want them to confess,” I say in measured tones. “I want them to pay.”

“My father wasn’t a good man, but he was my father. I can’t help but think that whoever did this probably had a good reason.” His words send a chill rippling up my spine. It settles in the roots of my hair until I feel the coldness of it all over.

If the murderer had a reason, what would stop him from piling up more collateral damage? Because in order to get past the lies, we’d have to get closer to the truth—and the person who killed Nathaniel West.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The house is dark when I tiptoe through the foyer. I refused Jameson’s request for me to stay with him at Levi’s house. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to file a missing person’s report. After all, as she recently reminded me, I’m only seventeen. The last thing I need is to get Jameson any more police face time. Given the traumatic dinner earlier, my guess is that mom popped a few Xanax and drifted into the Valley of the Dolls.

But light catches my attention as I make my way to my bedroom. It seeps through a crack in Hans’s office door. I hesitate while considering my options. I can go on having a detached relationship with my stepfather or I can call him out on his plans to make a movie based on my boyfriend’s life. Neither seem like very appealing options, but I can’t go on living under this roof if he plans to use me as a source of information about Jameson.

I creep toward the open door, then knock softly. When there’s no answer, I push it open to discover the room is empty. A few scripts are strewn across the desk and curiosity gets the better of me. Wandering over, I sift through the pages and headshots left out until a photo of a familiar face slips out of a file folder marked “Jameson.” My heart sinks when I see the notes scribbled on the bottom of the photo of Levi Row. I wonder how much they offered him to sell out his old college buddy. He mentioned that he was about to take on a serious role, and the Academy loves biopics. I stuff him and his traitorous smile back into the folder and sit down not certain what will be worse: if I tell Jameson or if he hears it from Entertainment Weekly.

After shuffling through a few more piles, I find a script titled Wild West.

Cringe.

I can only hope that’s a working title. Flipping through the pages, I discover how thoroughly Hans has researched the situation. He might have played dumb about Jameson being my boyfriend at dinner. But unless he hasn’t read his own script, he had no problem agreeing to direct a sex scene that hadn’t happened between our characters. With my luck, they’ll get some blonde bombshell like Blake Lively for me and I’d get to spend the rest of my life feeling inferior to my fictional counterpart and her fictional sex life. I know better, but I keep reading. It turns out that fictional me is a bit of a slut. My stomach turns over and I rip the page in half, crumple the pieces into balls and throw them into the trash can. If I had matches, the script would already be on fire. Picking up the rest, I dump it on top of the torn pieces. I’m not wasting my time ripping up one hundred pages of sensationalized lies about myself and my boyfriend. Opening the desk drawer, I search for matches. Instead under a pile of office supplies, I find a file marked Becca. My hands tremble as I flip it open to find a police report detailing the accident that killed her. I can’t bring myself to read about the crash. I lived through it. No amount of clinical objectivity and police lingo could erase those memories. For just a moment, the smell of burnt rubber wafts around me and the rolling sensation in my stomach gets worst. I shake my head until the memories fade. The file doesn’t contain much else: an insurance policy, obituary, and the death certificate. I suppose someone had to care enough to keep these things, but it surprises me that it’s Hans. I trace her name on the death certificate. That’s all she is now, words on paper. Becca is a collection of memories and facts-date of birth, time of death, mother, father. The tip of my index finger stops on the word typed under name of father.

Unknown.

Why would Becca’s death certificate list her father as unknown? Mom and Dad had been divorced before the accident but that didn’t mean he wasn’t her father. It didn’t make any sense unless...

I continue to stare at it as if it will start to make sense or forge a new meaning, but I’m no closer to making sense of it when Hans clears his throat from the doorway. I slam the folder shut hurriedly.

“Can I help you, Emma?” His large body fills the door frame and I shake my head. “I see you’ve been reading my script.”

“You’ve got a few details wrong,” I inform him in a cold voice. I shove Becca’s file underneath the ones containing headshots before I lounge back in his office chair and grip the arms until my hands hurt.

“I’d be more than happy to consult with you and Jameson on the project.”