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The detective had been scribbling my statement in a notebook, until I said the name. Then he stopped, pen midair, frozen for a moment. His eyes met mine. They were no longer cold, jaded from years on the job. No, they were alert now.
“Are you sure? This is very important. Are you sure you saw Coleson Kitsch commit the murder?”
Something inside me told me to lie. I had no reason to, but there was a deep instinct that screamed at me to protect myself. Hide the truth amongst all the other hidden things inside me. Another lie wouldn’t mean much, I was good at it.
If I told the truth here, everything would change. It was an odd thing to think without all the information I’d later learn, but a woman’s intuition was nothing but somewhat magical.
Of course it would be a federal crime but I wasn’t overly concerned with that. Self-preservation was more important for a narcissist like me.
But something caught me. Was it the horrible stillness of death that would follow me around for the rest of my life? Was it a shred of decency inside me?
It didn’t quite matter why I uttered, “Yes, I’m sure.” All that mattered was that I did.
Things moved very fast after that.
The detective shut his notebook, stepped right into my personal bubble, and informed me not to tell anyone what I’d just told him. Well, apart from Andre, who was within eavesdropping distance.
Then we were taken to the station and men in decidedly more expensive suits took their time interviewing me. They weren’t so much concerned with the details of the murder but making sure I was absolutely sure it was Coleson whom I saw.
It seemed my intuition was right, this was a big deal. He was a big deal. Especially when there were talks of things like witness protection and Andre, of all people, talked the suits out of this because he’d made “other arrangements.”
My very expensive lawyer then handled the details so I was relatively ignorant, despite being interviewed for hours. As a competent, intelligent woman, I should’ve gleaned more details from the situation, if not demanded them. I was not scared to demand things. Not afraid to come across as a bitch.
In fact, it was the norm.
But things were not fucking normal right now. So I let two men—ones I paid handsomely—take care of things for me. Something I’d never done. However fucked up I was, however cold I was, I’d always been in the driver’s seat of my own life.
All it took was a gunshot to surrender the wheel.
Andre was cursing into the Bluetooth. The person on the other end of the phone was on speaker, but I couldn’t make out a single word anyone said. Everything was a dull roar.
Until we pulled into the parking lot. Until something pinged in my brain and I realized where I was. Who I might face.
I was in enough shock after the police station to actually get in the car with Andre when he ordered, and I didn’t even ask him where we were going. He was one of the only people that did that, stood up to me, ordered me around. Everyone else was too scared of me, rightfully so.
“No, she’s taking a break from filming indefinitely. She’s going to a retreat in fucking Bali to realign her goddamn chi. And if you don’t halt this fucking film you’re a fucking idiot. You know you’ll never get someone as good as Anastasia Edwards in your whole life,” Andre snapped. He hung up. Then regarded me.
He did not like what he saw.
Not because of my hair or outfit, or makeup, which considering the circumstances, were all impeccable. He was reading me much like a professor would read a textbook written by a first grader. He knew the fucker was wrong by the first sentence.
“I can see you’re all hyped up to argue with me,” he said. “Don’t. You’re in the middle of a fucking crisis right now. Not one that I can handle, I’m the best in the business of handling your scandals, your image. Your sex tape gets leaked? I’m your guy. You have an affair with a married man? I’m also your guy. You need to go to rehab and pretend you’re on a fucking yoga retreat, I’m most definitely your guy.”
He paused, a meaningful pause because Andre was all about impact, drama. He might’ve raised his brow if the amount of Botox in his forehead had allowed that. He wasn’t much older than me, but his skincare routine was about the same as mine.
His jet-black hair was pulled back into a tight pony, making all the angles of his face that much more pronounced. His caramel skin was smooth of any facial hair since he’d had it lasered off years ago.
