“You don’t think somebody’s trying to kill Nick?”
“I say this with the utmost compassion, but he’s crazy. As the proverbial bedbug. Have you ever heard of Munchhausen syndrome? Where people do terrible things to themselves to get attention?”
“I have.”
He tapped his temple. “That’s Nick.”
“His diagnosis was paranoid delusional disorder.”
He made a noise. “Pfft. That boy’s got diagnosis on top of diagnosis. Crazy covers all the bases. I’ve been with this company for five years now. Nicky’s dragged it through a swamp of failures. This boondoggle, that fiasco. Getting him started in make-up was cheap, just a few buckets of latex and some fake scabs.”
I tapped out the ash on a nearly gatepost. “Why keep him in the business then?”
“You’ve met Quint. He is not the most charismatic of men. He’s got looks, money, but not a single asset in the charm department. People adore Nicky, though. They throw their dollars at him. Hell, Addison liked him enough to fall in love with him and stay in love with him even when he was accused of murder.”
He said the word “murder” with relish, hitting its notes like an opera singer. I imagined we made a very noir-ish scene, he and I—wreathed in smoke at the edge of a graveyard, moonlight cutting across our features in white ribbons.
Oliver jabbed the cigarette at me. “Now you, Ms. Randolph. You may be here strictly for professional reasons, but your friend, the tall, dark not-a-director-of-parking? He’s got more of an ax to grind, I imagine. Considering his history with the Talbots.”
I didn’t bite. Oliver laughed.
“Yes, I know who he is too. This is my first time coming face to face with him, though.” He leaned closer, his eyes alight with juicy malice. “He’s gonna break Nicky’s alibi for Jessica’s murder, isn’t he?”
“What if I told you Mr. Seaver was convinced of Nick’s innocence?”
“I’d say Nicky’s got him fooled too.” He ground out the cigarette. “Look, I don’t care what Addison says about him being clean. I don’t care what Quint says about him being a harmless nut. Do yourself a favor and do as I do—stay the hell away from Nick Talbot. For your own good.”
I kept my voice casual. “Is that what you and Quint were arguing about the other night? At the guest house?”
Oliver froze for a split second, then he smiled, but it was a plastic smile, as convincing as a toupée. “Well. You have finally managed to surprise me. I didn’t know I was under surveillance.”
I gave him a smile back, just as saccharine. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I did not. Very astute of you to notice.” He rubbed his hands together as if dusting them free of dirt. Still smiling, though. “Goodnight, Ms. Randolph. Be careful out here. You never know who you might meet in the dark.”
Chapter Forty-two
I found Nick and Addison at their cabin, the waiter who was not a waiter posted up at the door. He checked my ID, but wouldn’t let me enter. Behind the door, I heard Addison and Nick talking. Eventually Nick came out, shutting the door behind himself, cigarettes in hand. He gestured toward the back patio, and I followed.
“Addison hates it that I smoke,” he says. “I have to sneak these.”
He offered the pack, and I took one. My second transgression of the hour. He extended his lighter, and I lit up, deciding that at least my addiction was serving a larger purpose.
“I know the feeling,” I said. “You two okay?”
“Sure. The wedding was a formality. We got married this morning nice and official.” He held up his hand where a platinum band now gleamed. “We’re leaving Talbot Creative. I’ve had an offer from Pinewood, and Addison has some nibbles from agents about her bio-pic. Many agents, many offers, not just the fake one from Hammershein.”
I paused with the cigarette halfway to my mouth. “You know about that?”
He grinned at me. “Portia’s machinations? Of course. But the screenplay will sell better if everybody thinks I don’t, maybe even spawn a bidding war.” He looked at me, his eyes burnished by the cigarette. “I know about all the things, Tai. About Addison’s history with Diego. About Bree’s spying. About the fact that Addison wasn’t at home the night I was shot. She was meeting with an even bigger agent than Hammershein.” He put a finger to his lips. “Hush hush.”
“Portia said Talbot Creative will sue if she moves forward with that.”
“They won’t. It’s my story, I own it, not them, and they know it.” He let smoke trickle out the side of his mouth, holding the cigarette at his hip. “Portia will be pissed as hell. She comes off terribly in the story, big surprise. But she’ll have her hands full with Season Two, so—”
“Luna survives?”
“Of course. You think the board would put that cash cow out to pasture just because Hammershein promises her a big-studio movie back in L.A.? Hell no. She’s stuck for the rest of her three years.”
“You’re saying Portia wanted to be killed?”
“Portia wanted out of her contract, she didn’t care how. But that’s not going to happen.”
I finished my inhale, let the smoke linger in my mouth. Some exotic brand I didn’t know, toasty and rich and brain-swimmingly potent. I’d pegged Nick as cute but dumb, a massive misjudgment on my part. He’d been playing everyone, Trey and me included. But then, we’d been playing him as well. I thought of Trey’s apartment, now an evidence lab. He had his own motivations—he’d cobbled guilt and vengeance and maybe even justice into a machine capable of steamrolling right over Nick if necessary. We were none of us innocent. No, not one.
I blew the smoke toward the sky. “Story fodder. All of it. The secrets, the wedding, the drama. Getting Trey involved, and me. Plot points and narrative arcs.”
He shrugged. “I used to be a producer, remember? I know what
