Jules tucked the sheets around her chest and sat against the headboard. If she didn’t act and couldn’t realistically be a spy, she could… what? Work with her father? Write with her mother? Neither spoke to her. Nothing new came to mind.Yet.
That problem would be handled with more than thirty seconds of thought. Jules climbed out of bed, more excited than she’d been about a script or an audition in years, and dressed quickly in pajamas.
She walked into the kitchen, where Clyde snorted and slobbered over a bowl and the coffee maker percolated. Rhys faced the large picture windows and stared into the backyard, his phone pressed to his ear.
Jules inspected his refrigerator and found it essentially empty except for condiments and beer. They needed to restock after their initial grocery order.
She turned as he ended the call—and she froze. His sleepy bedroom eyes had disappeared. Tension flexed in the hard lines of his jaw. The tendons in his neck strained as though fury pounded in his veins.
She pressed her hands over her stomach. “What’s wrong?”
His lips thinned, and the corners of his mouth pulled down. “You have to head home.”
An absurd little part of her whispered, “This could be home.” She held on to that thought for exactly one second before his expression told her everything had changed.
Her heart pounded, and she swallowed hard. “What’s wrong?” Her mind raced. Was Abigail sick? Hurt? Her parents? “Rhys—”
Rhys’s phone buzzed, and he flattened his lips as he glared murder at the screen. “Give me a second.”
Fear curdled in her stomach. “Put it on speakerphone.”
His eyes sliced to her. She might be sick. Everything would change. Whoever was on the phone, whatever they had to say would knock the air from her lungs.
He swiped the screen, and Vivian’s voice echoed through the kitchen, “We’ll have a jet ready. Get her there as soon as you can.”
Nausea made her head swim. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”
“Your house,” Vivian said. “There’s a fire. It’s under control—”
So many people worked at her house. “Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know. Scarlett pulled video footage that people have posted. Sending it over now.”
Jules rushed toward her purse. She hadn’t looked at her phone in days. It was dead. “I have to talk to Abigail.”
“She’s with Wes,” Vivian said. “Left on a flight to California early this morning. Did you get the video yet?”
His phone buzzed. “Just came through.” Rhys tapped on the screen and opened the link.
Angry orange flames consumed her house. Her stomach bottomed out. “No.” Someone could be in there. “Oh God.” Jules snatched the phone from Rhys, horrified, unable to look away. The inferno had swallowed everything. “I need to talk to someone. I need to know there wasn’t anyone in there.”
“Rhys will get you to the people you need to talk to.”
Her throat ached with tears. She had fire alarms. Smoke detectors. The security system monitored everything from people entering the premises to air quality and chemical attacks. Anyone in there would have a warning. They’d hear sirens and alarms.God, please let no one have been hurt.Everything could be replaced. But an absolute gut-tearing sickness threatened to knock her over. “How? What happened?”
“The details are hazy,” Vivian said. “But someone was at your house a few hours ago—”
“Who?” she demanded.
Tension flexed in Rhys’s jaw.
“Who?”
“Someone with credentials that fooled the guardhouse and who had the entry code. It was keyed in about thirty minutes before the first 911 call came in.”
She gnawed on her bottom lip. “Lots of people can access my house.”
“Investigators are working on it. You just have to get back there.”
