“Does Luna make it to next season?” I said.
Nick didn’t look up from his kit. “So you’re a fan.”
“Just curious.”
He laughed. “Everybody is. But I’m the makeup guy. They tell me nothing.”
“Your fiancée not telling?”
“Addison doesn’t know either.”
“I thought she was the show’s writer.”
Nick wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving a streak of foundation. “She’s one of the writers. There’s a stable of them. Addison wrote one version of the season two debut, but somebody else wrote the other. They haven’t said which one is legit. They’re running counter-intelligence big-time now.”
“They?”
“The producers.”
“Meaning your brother?”
“He’s one. But there’s a whole board of them, not just Quint.” He shook his head. “Addison’s the biggest talent on this lot. Without her, Moonshine would be just another supernatural bloodbath. But producers think like producers, not artists, so they’re not telling her crap.”
“You were a producer too. Back in California.”
Nick busied himself with a jar of brushes, sorting and examining. “I was.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Backstabbing and mind games? No. I leave that to my power-junkie brother.”
“Who abandoned a group of high-level investors, it seems. Is that typical?”
Nick propped an elbow on his knee. “You’ll have to ask him. I’m sure he’ll give you a big important earful. Just don’t let Portia see you getting too close. My sister-in-law is a suspicious woman, and I haven’t told her about Friday night, so—”
“Did you say sister-in-law?”
His eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Portia is Quint’s wife. Didn’t you know?”
A club cart zipped next to Portia. She hopped in, and it hauled her down the twisty paved road toward her next shoot. A battalion of techs and runners and other second-tier crew jogged in her wake.
I shook my head. “I knew your brother was married. I didn’t know it was to the star of the show.”
Nick laughed as he stood. “Mr. Seaver didn’t prep you very well. You should complain. Of course Portia went by Patsy during the trial, when she was a nobody, so I understand how he could miss the connection.” Nick hoisted his kit, then started walking toward a cluster of tiny trailers, less sleek and silver than the massive ones I’d first seen. He looked over his shoulder at me. “You coming or what?”
Chapter Sixteen
The inside of the makeup trailer was empty except for the two of us, and it was still close quarters. Nick plopped his kit on a table crammed with cans of hairspray and rows of makeup brushes. It smelled like a cross between a nail salon and my high school chemistry lab, bright with marquee lights surrounding a wall of mirrors. He went to a table in the corner where an electric kettle perked next to an assortment of tea boxes. I recognized all of Trey’s favorites—Darjeeling, green, rooibos.
Nick spooned loose leaves into an infusion ball. “Would you like some?”
I wrinkled my nose. It smelled like wet hay and mushrooms.
“No, thank you,” I said.
He laughed as he dropped the ball into a mug and poured hot water over it. “Pu-erh. It’s an acquired taste. I haven’t actually acquired it yet, but Addison says it’s got electrolytes and lipo-somethings, so I drink it. I have regular flavors too. You like vanilla?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
As the tea steeped, Nick flung himself into a salon chair. I sat on a red velvet stool, the only other seating in the room, my feet inches from his. Images of the crime scene photos kept flashing in my head.
Nick swiveled in the chair. “You’re wondering why, aren’t you?”
“Why what?”
“Why I set up this interview.”
I tried to get comfortable on the stool. “It has crossed my mind.”
“I did it because somebody tried to kill me. I need to know if Officer Seaver is that somebody.” He laced his fingers over his stomach. “Why did he say yes?”
“Because you threatened him.”
Nick scoffed. “He was a SWAT bad-ass then and he’s some kind of private security bad-ass now. He’s not afraid of me. So why did he agree to this?”
Just then I heard footsteps coming up the rickety metal stairs, quick, followed by three solid knocks. Impatient knocks.
“Ask him yourself,” I said.
Nick stopped spinning in the chair and pulled a medicine bottle from his pocket. Herbal relaxants, the same kind Trey carried. He grabbed for the still-steeping tea, cursing under his breath.
“You okay, Mr. Talbot?”
“Call me Nick. Maybe not. Too late for that now.” He washed the pills down and cleared his throat. “Door’s open.”
Trey yanked the door with more force than necessary, and the trailer rattled. He was still in his suit, though the trek through the parking lot had deposited a few stray grass clippings around the hem of his trousers. Nick stood up and slipped the pills back in his pocket, putting the chair between himself and Trey.
I smiled. “You made it.”
Trey looked my way. “I did.” Then he fastened his gaze back on Nick Talbot. “You have fifty-nine minutes.”
Nick gave him a ghost of a smile. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Trey didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to play this game. He was willing to let Nick reminisce, though, because he was watching him talk, concentrating on his mouth. Nick didn’t even know he was hooked up to a cranial lie detector.
He shook his head at Trey. “Finn told me you’d never agree to this.”
“Finn was wrong.”
“So I see.” His hands were shaking, but his voice was stronger. “I knew you would, though. You made my life hell back then. I told her you’d jump at the chance to make it hell again.”
Trey’s jaw clenched. “Fifty-eight minutes.”
“Fine.” Nick sat back in the chair, balancing his mug on his stomach. “You think I’m a murderer. Fair enough. I think you tried to put a bullet in my head.”
Trey’s expression remained bland. “I did not.”
“Really? Well, damn. Guess I have it all wrong. Glad you straightened that out for me.”
He kept both hands wrapped around his mug as he talked, tried to look
