We talked some more, finishing up our lattes. Then I thanked Teresa for meeting with me.
“Was what I said helpful?” she asked.
“Very.”
“Really?” she said. “Is this info about Sky going to help bring you closer to Dylan?”
I exhaled. “Further, actually,” I said. “But that’s okay.”
Teresa squinted at me for several seconds, as though I was some ancient text she was trying to decipher. “You work in mysterious ways, Sunny Randall.”
I gave her a smile. “I try,” I said.
We said goodbye, Teresa wishing me luck in finding Dylan and me wishing her luck in staying away from him.
After she was gone, I glanced at Sky’s duffel, sitting so innocently next to my chair, and then I thought about Lydia, that shred of hope in her eyes—the thought that, even if he did need to be brought to justice, at least her only son was still alive. I couldn’t guarantee her that now, though. I couldn’t guarantee her anything. Sky had deep-faked Dylan’s voice on a phone call seven years ago, with the technology available back then—and it was so good that his own father hadn’t known the difference.
Who’s to say she hadn’t been doing it again with Elspeth?
I put in a quick call to Blake, who reminded me that at six-thirty tonight was my standing drinks-and-catch-up with my dad at The Street Bar. “He called to remind you,” Blake said. “He didn’t want to bother you during the workday on yourphone.” Blake told me that if I was too busy, he could reschedule for me, but I said no. I needed someone to talk to about all this—someone who I knew could help me put it all together. “It actually couldn’t happen at a better time,” I said.
After I ended the call, I picked up the duffel and walked back to my car. I’d be going to the hospital next—not because I had any desire to see Sky Farley right now, but because her things were giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.
Thirty-Eight
Sky was in a meeting when I arrived at her hospital room. That was the only way to describe the scene I walked into. Her IVs appeared to have been removed, and she was sitting up in bed, her arm in a sling, her shoulder bandaged, and the jacket from the Gucci suit Lydia had given her wrapped around her shoulders. Clustered around the bed were Kaitlyn from Marketing and three young women with sleek buns and center parts, all of them wearing pant suits in primary colors. If it wasn’t for the bed, the bandages, and the hospital gown Sky wore under the fitted jacket, they could have easily been in a boardroom, strategizing a campaign. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what they were doing.
“Sunny! Thank God!” Sky said. She told me to set the duffel bag next to her bed. “I can’t wait to get those clothes on, oncewe’re through. I mean, even if I have to stick around here, at least I don’t have to be freezing my tush off.”
I was going to ask her what it was they were going to be through with, but Lydia went ahead and answered. She was sitting in a chair against the wall. I hadn’t even noticed she was there until she spoke. “They’re crafting a statement for the press about the shooting,” she said.
My eyebrows went up. “Do the police know about that?”
“I’m not sure,” Lydia said.
“Normally, they don’t like people talking to reporters about an active investigation,” I said.
“It’s just a statement,” Sky said. “To get the media off our backs. It’s about me, my recovery. Not Dylan. He won’t even be mentioned.”
“Butyouhaven’t been mentioned,” I said. “The only thing the police have revealed to the press is that the shooting victim was female.”
“Oh, I checked with Detective Farrell,” she said. “He told me if I wanted to out myself as the victim, that’s fine. I just can’t give any details about Dylan or the investigation.”
Sky didn’t wait for my response. Instead, she turned to Kaitlyn and her backup dancers. “I think the release reads great as is. But down the line—and I know this is going to sound weird—this shooting might wind up being good PR for us.”
“Oh my God,” Kaitlyn said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Like…Gonzo. The gangster brand,” Sky said.
Kaitlyn grinned. “Verythat,” she said.
“Or even. Wait…You ready?” one of the pantsuits, the red one, said.
The rest of them nodded enthusiastically.
“Gonzo can help you survive anything—even getting shot. We can do outreach on TikTok.”
“Oh, that’sgood,” Kaitlyn said.
