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But both Jackson and I were willing to suspend judgement a little longer. We both know that Bryce liked to create circumstances and then take pictures as ‘proof’ of a salacious story, or even a crime, to get dirt on a competitor or enemy. Then use it as leverage against them to blackmail them, whether or not it was true.
I now know it’s how Bryce’s company Gentry Tech rose in prestige so quickly. Every permit he needed, he was granted. Funding he requested magically went through. Contracts were won amid stiff and more experienced competition. He got patents before anyone else.
But it was a house of cards that Jackson brought tumbling down. Bryce bribed judges, government officials, contractors, employees from other companies to get confidential product information to reverse engineer and delay their patents so Bryce could get the patents first.
Bryce tried to take as many people down with him as he could. Hence the story on Dylan. But why had it disappeared so quickly? Jackson didn’t know why.
So I tracked down the prostitute, Lenore Richards—who was no longer a prostitute, but living in a two bedroom in south San Jose with her two children—and asked her.
And got a door slammed in my face.
But I persisted. At the time, I wasn’t even sure why. I just had to know. What kind of man was Dylan Lennox?
Was he the kind of man who hurt women against their will?
… or with their permission?
It’s a difference that wouldn’t matter to a lot of women. But to me? To me it meant everything.
So I staked out her house like a crazy person. Every time she left, at least when she wasn’t with her children, I followed her to her car, peppering her with questions.
“Look, lady, I could call the cops on you,” she exploded on the second day. “I got rights. Reporters can’t just be showing up at my house—”
“I’m not a reporter! I told you I’m not. I just need to know. Did Dylan rape you that night? Please. I’m only asking for myself. As a woman.”
Lenore breathed out and looked around us. She lived in the bottom level of a townhouse and the small cul-de-sac was quiet.
“Look, I don’t want no trouble. I ain’t said nothing to nobody just like I promised in the paperwork.”
Paperwork. So she was paid to stay quiet. Did that mean Dylan was guilty of what they said he was?
I held up my hands. “I won’t make trouble. I just need to know. For myself.”
She frowned. “You know him or somethin’?”
I nodded even though it wasn’t exactly true. “We’ve run into each other here and there.”
She hefted out a long breath. “Naw, he didn’t rape me. Paid me extra for all that kinky shit is all. But you didn’t hear nothing from me.”
Then she backed away from me. “You leavin’ now?”
“But if he didn’t…. then why didn’t you just say so? Why would he pay for you not to clear his name?”
“You said you’d go if I answered your question.”
She looked pissed so I backed up just like she did, nodding vigorously. “You’ll never see me again.”
She narrowed her eyes at me but I was already halfway back to my car. I had what I’d come for.
Regardless of the reason for the payoff, I believed her. Dylan Lennox wasn’t a rapist.
But he did like the game.
Just like me.
I check my reflection one last time in the mirror, flashing a smile.
Packaged perfection.
My smile drops. Outwardly perfect, anyway. I can only keep up the illusion for so long. And being this person, the Miranda in the Mirror, means I can never be truly intimate with anyone.
I just want someone I don’t have to pretend with.
So no matter how much last night might have scared him or freaked him out, I’ve been excited by the possibility of him for far too long to let this go without another try.
I look at my calendar for the day.
Yep, I can afford to take an early lunch.
I’m just pulling my purse out from under my desk when there’s a knock on my door. Then Chet pushes the door open without waiting for my reply, naturally.
“Miranda,” he says, his smile wide, bright white teeth flashing. “You look lovely today.”
“I’m just on my way out, Chet. What is it?” I swing my purse over my shoulder to illustrate my point.
Chet steps further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “Can’t I stop in to see how you’re doing?”
I sigh, looking down at my phone.
“Chet, we aren’t dating anymore. If you have something to say about something work related, you don’t have to come by, you can just—”
“I just don’t understand it, Rany,” he says, coming in and sitting down in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Ugh, I always hated that nickname. “We were so good together. Everyone looked at us and thought we were that perfect it couple. We had the kind of relationship everyone dreams of having.”
