He wasn’t listening again. He pushed past me, making a beeline for the windows, his eyes on the ground. He stopped short at the edge of the patio, where the concrete met the grass.
He crouched and pointed. “Something was here.”
I followed his finger to a circular patch of dead grass about two feet in diameter. The ground was dry, the blades crushed to a half-dead yellow.
“Something with a round base,” I said. “Heavy and recently moved. You think whatever was here caught the bullet?”
“Alleged bullet. And it might have. If my calculations are correct.”
I nudged the squashed grass with my toe. “You think the film crew took it?”
“Perhaps.”
“But wouldn’t they have noticed a bullet hole?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on a number of factors.” He stood. “But if I am correct about the location of the alleged shooter, and if the other events of that night took place according to the statements we have, then according to my calculations, the alleged bullet is most likely not on the premises anymore because whatever caught it—whatever stood there—has been moved.”
That was a lot of ifs and allegeds. Except for one part. Which I did not miss.
“You’re saying it’s entirely possible that somebody really did take a shot at Nick Talbot.”
Trey exhaled. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Back at the base camp, we made our way through the rabbit warren of trailers to where we’d left Nick. Now that the photo shoot had ceased, the set felt deserted, as did the mountain. There was a loneliness about it, pervasive and hollowed out.
Trey was about to knock on the trailer door when it flung open, and a woman gasped and tripped and would have pitched straight down the steps if he hadn’t caught her. She righted herself and jerked away from him, breathing hard. Skinny, pale, black hair cut stick straight with razored bangs across her forehead. Like every other crew member on the set, she wore jeans and a tee, but hers seemed crisp as a uniform.
Her eyes widened behind her black-framed glasses. “You’re not Nick.”
Trey reached for his guest pass. “No, ma’am. I’m—”
“Who are you?” Her eyes flew to the keyring in his hand. “Why do you have Nick’s keys? What’s going on here?”
She had her walkie-talkie out before I could blink, index finger poised to call security. Trey looked my way, utterly helpless, and I remembered that no one knew about the attempted shooting except Nick and Quint, which meant we needed some extemporaneous falsehoods and needed them pronto. And that was my department.
I took the keys from Trey’s hand and extended them like a peace offering. “We’re with the staging team. Just returning these to Mr. Talbot.”
She snatched them from me. “Nick didn’t go to the house, did he?”
“No, we left him here.”
The woman finally relaxed. I glanced at the ID card strung around her neck. Addison Canright, Nick’s fiancée and partner in adultery. I’d pictured someone more femme fatale, less liberal arts grad student, but there was no accounting for taste. Who would have thought Trey would go for aggressive redneck?
Addison stared at Trey, her eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Don’t I know you?”
Trey wouldn’t look her in the eye. Of course she knew him, from Nick’s grand jury trial, only Trey had been wearing the Atlanta PD uniform at the time. He shook his head, but Addison wasn’t letting go.
“Are you sure?” she said. “You look familiar.”
He kept shaking his head. She kept staring. I broke out my hugest smile and tried to look wholesome and trustworthy. “You probably saw us poking around earlier. We’re both big fans of the show.”
She hiked an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
“Absolutely. You’ve got a real transgressive subtext going, intersectional feminism complicated by the power dynamics of self-othering.”
Her head snapped back. “Yes! It’s the through-line of the series. The matriarchal world of the canine versus the patriarchal realm of the human. Wild versus civilized, instinct versus rationality.” She returned the smile, shaking her head in pleased astonishment. “God, I thought people only watched it for the were-sex.”
I didn’t tell her that I only watched it for the were-sex, which was hot and plentiful. Rico was the one who insisted that something more intellectual was going on. I guessed he was right. Gold star for the class valedictorian.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “It’s the smartest thing on TV.”
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. This place can be so hostile.” She put her hand on her chest. “Don’t get me wrong, the South has charm. But just when I think I might want to go native, somebody has a big damn Confederate parade or some watermelon festival, and I die a little inside.” She widened her eyes. “Not people like you, of course. I mean the other ones. You know the ones.”
Yeah, I knew the ones. I made myself keep smiling, though. I could make myself smile at just about anything, a trick of the tour guide trade where tips made the difference between a night on the town and a six-pack of Bud Light in front of the TV.
Trey cleared his throat. “Ms. Canright?”
“Yes?”
“Have you been to the Buckhead house recently?”
She stiffened. “Nick and I don’t set foot on that property, and we never will. Because I don’t care what Quint tells you, Nick is not to be involved in any stage of the process. If you have any questions, talk to me. Leave Nick out of it.”
Trey opened his mouth and closed it. She obviously had no clue Nick had even been out there Friday night, much less about the shooting. Trey was just as obviously itching to interrogate her further, but he knew he couldn’t. And it was taking everything he had to keep those questions in his mouth.
I shook my head sadly. “Such a lovely home. A shame what happened to it. And now all that stuff missing.”
She frowned. “Stuff?”
“Apparently the previous production company absconded with the security system. Among other things.”
She gave a delicate snort. “Don’t worry,
