“What?”
“You’re making some sort of sense.”
“I try.”
“Natalie Blythe is also idiotic enough to think Leila Donnelly is a good writer.”
“She’s reviewed a lot of movie actors’ memoirs, which seems on brand, right?”
“It does.”
“And wellness books. Was she into wellness?”
“Always late to the set because she was doing yoga or meditating,” she said. “She also drank a lot of smoothies. But who doesn’t?”
“Still, you put it all together…”
Melanie Joan exhaled. “I’ll tell you something, Sunny. If she is Book Babe, I’ll send her flowers. I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear. I’m desperate enough to apologize to her. For everything.”
“That’s saying a lot.”
“I just want my career back,” she said. “This morning. With Evan…I guess it didn’t really sink in until now.”
“We still have time,” I said.
“We do, right? It isn’t like I signed anything in there.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You can get your career back. Scepter can still publish your memoir.”
I told Melanie Joan to call me if she remembered anything about Natalie that might help me track her down. She told me she would.
After we hung up, I looked up Natalie Blythe on IMDb. In the past four years, her only credit was “Dead Girl” in a low-budget horror movie calledSummer of Murder.
The woman definitely had grounds for a lawsuit.
I googled images of Natalie. She resembled a young Melanie Joan Hall, which I’m sure neither one of them was happy about. There were a lot of pictures of her pre-firing—in a sparkling gown at the Emmys, showing off a backless dress at a premiere, posing for a women’s magazine in a comfy sweater and jeans. Post-firing, though, the images were scarce. Just a handful of ads for actors’ showcases, a cheesy-looking shot of Natalie playing the title role in a dinner-theater production ofEvita, a group shot of women in workout wear and matching T-shirts, Natalie at the center. There was one image, though, that made me stop scrolling. It was the profile pic from Natalie’s Instagram. I clicked on it. The account was private. But the shot was clear enough—a beaming NatalieBlythe, holding a small boy. He looked to be just about three years old.
“Oh, ho!” I said.
My phone chimed. I looked at the screen. Melanie Joan again. I started to tell her about my new discovery, but I was drowned out by sobs.
Ten
I asked Melanie Joan if she was all right. She choked out a “no” and asked me to come to her town house. I asked if she was in physical danger and she said “no” again, but added, “My life is over.”
Her sobs grew louder. I knew she wasn’t willing or able to tell me what was wrong, believing instead that I should witness the horror in person. I told her I’d be there right away, and she recited the address—a strange thing to do, considering I’d rented her town house for more than a year and it was only about six blocks away from where I worked.
“Do you want me to bring Spike?” I said.
“He’s on his way,” she said.
I hung up the phone, grabbed my purse, and headed out of my office, with Rosie scurrying after me. I was neitherinsulted nor surprised that Melanie Joan had called Spike before me. Rosie was my emotional support animal. Spike was hers.
I attached Rosie’s leash and told Blake that if I wasn’t back at the office by five p.m., he should lock up and leave.
—
Melanie Joan’s butler, Harold, greeted me at the door. I knew him well. He’d worked for the author for years, in all five of her residences. He was about my dad’s age, but he had perfect posture, a nearly line-free face, and thick salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to be his own. I’d often thought that Melanie Joan spiked his coffee with whatever youth drugs she was popping, just so he could keep up with her.
