Page 74 of Gilt

“I doubt he’s interested in helping make a movie that claims he’s guilty of murdering his father.”

“Don’t you know that fame is the new jury of your peers?”

“Jameson isn’t on trial for his father’s murder.” My protest sounds weak, even to me.

“He will be,” Hans assures me. “Let me help him.”

“And you making a movie saying he did it is going to get him off? Pardon me, but I call bullshit.” Hans doesn’t balk like my mother at my use of curse words. Instead, he walks inside the office and takes the seat across from me.

“He’s young, good-looking. He had to have a reason to do it. If the audience likes him it won’t matter if he’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do it,” I repeat myself, but Hans either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care.

“Perhaps there’s a tragic story. His father hit him or molested him.”

“Oh my God. Do you hear yourself?” I stand up knocking a few pieces of paper to the floor. “You can’t just make things up.”

“Of course, I can. I work in Hollywood,” Hans chuckles derisively.

“Does mom know that you put a sex scene featuring her daughter in this movie?”

“She already knows that you’re his alibi,” he says meaningfully.

“That doesn’t mean we had sex.”

“You’re really so winningly innocent.” He pauses and looks me up and down. “It’s going to be hard to cast you. I need an actress that can play naive but fuckable.”

Naive but fuckable. Is that how he sees me? His stepdaughter?

“I need to go throw up now.” My hand flies to cover my mouth as I try to keep the churning at bay. But as I round the corner of the desk, he stands and steps in front of me.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the other thing?”

I swallow and try to channel some of that winning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s part of the charm,” he says, “how terrible of a liar you are.”

I try to push past him but he holds me in place. “Ask me.”

There’s a threat running through his words now.

“Why do you have that file on Becca?” My voice is small because I don’t want to know the answer. Not while I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one word: unknown. I knew my sister. She’d been there every day of my life. I’d been born into a world that was already hers and nothing has felt right since she left it. The idea that her existence—and my life—are comprised of lies is too much to bear.

“Becca was very special to me,” Hans says. His grip on my arm loosens but he doesn’t let me go.

“I know.” As much as I don’t want to fill in that unknown with his name, it can’t be helped. If my dad isn’t Becca’s father, it must be Hans. Mom had known him for decades before she got married and had us.

“You do?” he asks in surprise.

“I saw…” What exactly did I see? The certificate itself proves nothing, which means I’m about to take a big leap without a safety net.

“Saw what, Emma?” he demands. He presses his palms flat on the desk and leans in to catch my eye. “How long have you known?”

“A few minutes,” I answer in confusion.

He bristles as if my lack of long-term study of the subject affronts him. “You never suspected?”

“Why would I suspect that?”