Page 30 of Wicked Fortune

Which means I don’t need Lila’s files. I need Holt’s. And that is something that’s clearly not happening. At least not now. And probably not tomorrow. That kind of access requires either criminal-level sneakiness or a hefty dose of trust. Normally, I’d go for sneaky, but in this case, I think trust will be easier. After all, Matthew set the terms of my employment, and the simple fact is that sex often morphs into trust. That’s Psych 101.

And that’s what I’m counting on.

With a little moan, I squeeze my legs together, my body still tingling after my daydream, and since Lila’s gone, I allow my overactive imagination to conjure the glorious sensation of his fingers inside the silky, lacy thong.

Soon, I think. Sex first, then snooping.

It’s what makes women such excellent spies.

With my freshly hatched sex-then-files plan, I feel more centered, but not enough to just sit around. And I do have one avenue I can investigate right now.

With that thought, I press the intercom button. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Holt,” I say in my Officious Assistant voice, “but Ms. Blackstone’s left for the day and I need to run down to Human Resources. More new hire paperwork.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “Just leave the placard on Lila’s desk.”

He’s referring to the “Please Have a Seat” sign that she’d shown me earlier. I plop it on the desktop, then hurry into the hall, giddy with the prospect of action.

The same clerk’s minding the Human Resources desk when I arrive. I tell her what I need, then take a seat as she disappears into what must be the vault from the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark because it takes her forever to return.

“I’m sorry,” she says, pushing a red curl off her forehead. “I can’t locate it.” She’s a bit out of breath, and I believe her when she adds that she looked everywhere she could think of.

“What’s missing?” Lila’s soul sister approaches the clerk, then turns to me as if I’m some sort of troublemaker.

I resist the urge to put my hands up and take a step back. Instead, I tell her that I’m Mr. Holt’s new PA and that I’m trying to locate Jenny Garland’s personnel file for my boss. “She was a background actor on at least one film,” I add, hoping the extra info helps.

“I’ve looked everywhere,” the clerk says.

The stern woman looks down her nose at me. “You must have misunderstood Mr. Holt.”

I freeze, certain she’s going to call Holt, and since he’s no dummy, he’ll realize that I’m nosing around about who killed Jenny, and I’ll lose this job, attract the attention of the bad guys—assuming Holt’s not leading them—and end up tossed over a bridge myself.

None of that happens.

But what she does say is almost as terrifying. “Mr. Holt requested that file himself about two weeks ago. If he’s misplaced it, I can check the server for the scanned backup, but⁠—”

“No, no. You’re absolutely right. I realize now that I’d misunderstood. I assumed I had to come down here, when really he was very clear.” I’ve taken two steps back. Now I add a turn toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I really didn’t mean to take up your time.”

And with that, I yank open the door and disappear into the hall, my heels clattering as I walk-run to the elevator before one of them decides to follow and interrogate me.

It’s not until I’m on the elevator that the bottom line sinks in. Holt has Jenny’s file. And he pulled it not long after she died.

Why?

Does this mean he really did have something to do with her death? Or is he just a man with such a need for control that he doesn’t want anyone else—like the police—looking at it without going through it first himself?

Except surely the police already looked at it, assuming they were interested at all. As far as the LAPD is concerned, Jenny Garland committed suicide. End of story.

So why does he have it? I don’t know, but it’s a pretty good guess that the file includes something incriminating … and that her death was somehow tied to Hardline Entertainment.

I’m shaking my head as the elevator slides to a halt on twelve, hating that scenario. And the truth is, the file could be completely bland, and Holt requested it simply because of her death.

I just don’t know. And the only way to figure it out is to find the file in Holt’s office and do what I came here to do. Snoop.

The doors open, and I gasp as Francesca Muratti, the acclaimed actress, steps on as I step off. I’m a huge fan, but I’m so muddled up in thoughts of Jenny that I don’t even introduce myself as Holt’s PA.

I’m still feeling muddled and uneasy and very, very confused when I arrive back at the office. Only Matthew is there, and the double doors between reception and his private office are wide open. He’s standing by the window, his back to the door, his headset on. One hand is in his pocket, and although I know that he may turn and see me at any time, I can’t help but step closer, trying to hear as he speaks in a low, firm voice.

I catch only a few words—something about a report and PR implications, followed by, “Dammit, that’s not what I want to hear, and you know it. And as for the functions, the moment they become a liability, we shut it down. If we get audited because someone’s not accounting for expenses the way we discussed, there will be hell to pay. And these were never intended to be a profit-making program, so we need to revisit that at the next board meeting.”