Kill and Tell Read online

“And what do you expect your relationship with your stepdaughter to be going forward?” she asked.

  I looked into the crowd and spotted the woman who’d started badgering me—a pretty Latina with striking black eyes. She looked to be all of twenty-three. Then I recognized her—she’d done the interview with Breelyn’s scumbag boyfriend. And she was outside Breelyn’s school the day I tried to talk to her. I started counting slowly again to myself but barely made it past one.

  “I’m hoping we can repair the damage, obviously,” I said, a little tersely, I knew. “I want to understand what’s going on with her and—”

  “Are you going to challenge the restraining order that your wife has filed on Breelyn’s behalf?”

  Why the hell is this girl going for the jugular? I wondered. It was like she had a personal vendetta against me. Sydney stepped forward, finally.

  “I think you’ve asked enough questions,” he said. “Let’s hear from someone else—”

  “What about the anger management course you agreed to as part of your plea bargain—”

  “It wasn’t a plea bargain, goddamnit!” I shouted at her, completely unable to stop myself. “It was a mutual agreement! I want to control my anger!”

  There I was, illustrating how desperately I needed anger management. I knew what was happening, saw myself losing control in slow motion, but the thought that this dropped charge would stymie my career and my life still made me furious.

  “Half of my problem is people like you,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Why do you have to be such ball-breaking bitches?”

  Everyone stared at me in astonished disgust, everyone except Sydney. He stared at me with something much worse—pity.

  And then I knew it was over. My professional suicide was now complete.

  Chapter 12

  Wayne Tennet

  Maybe I should kill her.

  I kept circling back to the idea, over and over.

  “Let’s go to the Ivy for dinner,” Logan said, interrupting my train of thought. “Nothing will say that you want to be seen louder than being at such a high-profile spot. Just walk in like you own the place.”

  I was gazing out the window of Sydney’s Mercedes as we drove through Beverly Hills. I could see Sydney glance over at me with a worried look.

  “Doesn’t have to be tonight, Wayne,” he said. “Not if you aren’t up for it. That press conference was rough.”

  “I thinks it’s a great idea,” I replied. “By walking into the lion’s den I’ll show that I truly don’t give a shit what they think.”

  I wondered what would be the best way to do it. Shoot her? Stab her? Run over her? Make it look like a mugging? On some level I couldn’t believe I was seriously thinking about doing something so horrible, but then again, she was behind this. She’d ruined my life. Anyone could see that.

  “It will definitely make an impression, Wayne,” Logan was saying. “I’ll call and see if Fernando can get us some prime real estate right in front. He owes me a favor or two…”

  What does it feel like to strangle a person? I wondered. She would fight and fight hard, so I’d not only have to squeeze her throat but also stop her from struggling. Funny, the only death scenes I’d ever shot in seven movies were by gunshot. I never realized how difficult it would really be to kill someone.

  “We’re in!” Logan said with his usual enthusiasm as he clicked off his phone. I’d have to play along with it—I couldn’t have anyone suspect a thing.

  “Awesome!” I cried out, and did a palm slap against the dashboard. The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. I had nothing to lose—everything had already been taken from me.

  We drove up in front of the Ivy as the sun was setting. The front patio was already almost full of early-evening diners. A few photographers were hanging around, but when I put on a big phony smile for them they just blankly turned away. Looked like I was no longer news.

  They put us at a table that nearly everyone entering the restaurant would have to pass. Sydney started to order a bottle of wine, then, with a worried glance at me, changed it to Perrier. He and Logan made small talk and I nodded along, though I didn’t hear a word. I saw Andy Fontana approach the host stand. He’d written three of my films. As he came toward me I raised my head with a nod and smile. He looked directly through me—like I wasn’t even there. It was worse than if he’d spat on me.

  I flagged the waiter down. “Bourbon on the rocks.”

  Sydney and Logan darted looks at each other. “Wayne, don’t you think—”

  “You’re right.” I nodded. “What was I thinking? Sorry, make it a double.”

  The double was soon doubled. I lost count of how many I had. I just got quieter and quieter, my plan festering in the back of my mind. Finally, I stood up.

  “Gotta take a leak, guys,” I said. “When I get back I guess we should strategize on how you two are going to resurrect me from the dead.”

  They looked relieved at my willingness to listen to reason. As I walked away, they huddled together over the table—obviously plotting how to deal with me. I didn’t even pretend to head toward the john—I just walked across the patio and out the front. Not one person looked at me.

  I hailed a cab and had him drive me around for an hour or so. I didn’t want to go home right away; a persistent feeling that someone was in the house had made me jittery for weeks now. But I eventually realized I had nowhere to go, not a single person to turn to.

  When I finally did have the driver take me home, there weren’t any reporters out front. I almost missed them. Their presence outside had been weirdly comforting when I did my three a.m. searches around the house—flicking lights on and off, checking door locks.

  The house was silent and eerily lonely as I entered. And I immediately had that feeling again—like someone had just been there. I walked from empty room to empty room, nothing. But then on the bar I saw something odd: a bottle of Bushmills bourbon. I knew I hadn’t put it out—until tonight I hadn’t had a drink in a couple of weeks, and I’d kept the stuff locked away. But then again, could I be so sure? Not in the state I was in.

  I took the bottle with me outside to the pool and plopped down on a deck chair. The temperature had dropped in the last hour and a chilly breeze blew ripples across the water’s surface; the pool lights sent slowly waving shadows over the dark palm trees. It looked like a movie set. Perfect atmosphere for murder.

  I took a swig from the bottle and suddenly felt twice as drunk as I had moments ago. In a daze I looked around. The dim lighting here was ideal, moody, and menacing. It would highlight the terror on her face, the—

  A sudden noise yanked me back to reality—as if a strip of film had been ripped in two. As I looked up and out at the shadows, a figure stepped forward. My vision blurry, I squinted to see who it was. I didn’t feel fear exactly, more like perverse satisfaction that I was right—someone was here stalking me!

  The figure stepped closer, dramatically backlit against the pool.

  “Well, well,” I slurred, sounding ever drunker. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I went to take another sip. And everything started to darken.

  No! I wanted to shout but suddenly couldn’t. The fade out is happening too quickly—we’re cutting away too soon!

  The screen in my mind dimmed—then went entirely black.

  Chapter 13

  Kayla Ross

  “He’s an accused rapist! Get the hell away from there!”

  I stared at Wayne Tennet’s silent house as I listened to Zoe’s freakout. It was hard to see the home from the street because of the wall of flowery bushes planted in front, I guessed for privacy. Then the thought of just what he might have wanted hidden from view made me feel sick.

  “Kayla, I’m serious,” Zoe was saying over the phone. “You need to leave now.”

  “It’s broad daylight, nothing is going to happen,” I insisted, though probably more to convince myself than her. “I’m just going to g
o to his front door and talk to him.”

  “Call him on the phone!” she said. “You don’t have to put in a personal appearance!”

  “I tried to call and it just rings. I think it’s better this way, more polite or something. It almost worked with Breelyn Doyle.”

  I was surprised that there were no reporters out front. The news cycle had clearly moved on.

  “I just feel bad about how I questioned him at that press conference,” I said. “Even if he is a creep, I was too aggressive. I made it personal.”

  Zoe wouldn’t hang up until I promised to text her every ten minutes to let her know that I was still alive and not being held in a secret dungeon. The morning felt still as I nervously approached the heavily carved front door; it must have cost a fortune, like the rest of the house. I knocked lightly and nothing happened. Then I pushed the doorbell; again, nothing but the echo of the ring from the inside.

  It was strange that an expensive, empty house, in the middle of the day, could seem so spooky.

  It made sense that Tennet wasn’t here. He’d probably checked into a hotel or—if he was smart—left town altogether. Part of me was glad. Talking to him face-to-face would have been awkward—and a little scary. As I turned to walk away, I heard a sudden faint sound. A scream.

  I froze—it had definitely come from inside the house. I listened for a moment and then heard muffled voices—a man’s and a woman’s. And they were arguing.

  Another scream—louder this time. I instinctively grabbed the door handle and turned. Locked. I wondered if I should call 911.

  Then it all went silent. Had I just imagined it?

  I stepped away from the house and looked around. All the drapes were pulled so I couldn’t see inside at all. A dark, expensive-looking car was in the driveway. As I approached it, I saw that the driver’s window was down a bit. I hesitated for a moment, then reached in and pressed the remote attached to the sun visor. The garage door on the side of the house opened right up.

  Inside the empty garage was a door leading into the house, and it was ajar. Again I heard the arguing voices. The woman’s was raised in anger, though choked with sobs, too.

  Was I really going to trespass like this? I hesitated but then considered that someone might really be in danger. I took a deep breath and stepped into the house.

  “Hello?” I called out, my voice quivering a little. “Is everything all right?”

  The place was a mess—clothes and papers everywhere, and dishes stacked in the kitchen. And it was freezing inside, after a chilly spring night. It seemed odd that the heat wasn’t on when people were obviously in the house.

  The arguing stopped for a moment, then both voices started up again, almost violently.

  Then I heard the most terrified—and terrifying—scream yet.

  It seemed to be coming from the back of the house. I was so scared I couldn’t seem to move, except that my whole body was shivering. My teeth were actually chattering. I then found myself backing up against a counter and sliding to the floor in a huddle. I was paralyzed with fear—something was very wrong here. I grappled with my cell phone. I knew I had to call Zoe or the police, anyone.

  Then the woman’s scream suddenly cut off—dead silence.

  I don’t know how long I sat there trembling before I heard some low music—a simple piano tune. There were no more voices, just the faint music. I slowly got up and entered a dim hallway. The music seemed to be coming from behind the closed door I was standing in front of. My hand shook as I reached out to push it open. It was dark inside, though a faint light came off the far wall.

  A screening room.

  Eight or nine plush chairs were arranged in front of a wide screen that was showing a film—a thriller, from the sounds of the now pumped-up score. A frantic-looking woman onscreen was driving down a nighttime street. It was her—Valentina Doyle. I recognized this as the first film she’d made with Tennet.

  Why is this playing to an empty room? I wondered. The scene on the screen then abruptly changed to a next-day shot of a sunny beach. Bright light flooded the room.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  He was on the floor in front of the screen, lying on his back, nude.

  An orange-colored pill bottle was lying near the top of his head. I had the weird thought that the upside-down bottle looked like a little hat on his head. I almost laughed, despite my shock.

  Then light coming from the screen got even brighter. I could now see his features. I didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

  Wayne Tennet’s eyes were wide open.

  And they were staring straight up at me.

  Chapter 14

  Eric Logan

  “If two women that beautiful end up standing over my grave, I will have considered mine a life well spent,” Sydney said as he looked across the cemetery.

  He was staring at Valentina and Breelyn Doyle, the showily grieving widow and blank-faced stepdaughter of Wayne Tennet. Though both were dressed in tasteful, somber black, it couldn’t hide their beauty. They didn’t look much like each other, but from the way they stood you could tell they were related.

  Tennet had a sad turnout for his send-off: only a few family members, his lawyer, his agents, and me and Sydney. It would have been an awkward group anyway, but making it worse—as Sydney kept pointing out on the way over—was the fact that we were the ones who had tried to make Breelyn Doyle look like a liar and her mother a psycho. Now Tennet’s suicide seemed to confirm their claims.

  As the service ended, I looked over at the entrance. There were only two photographers hanging around. The Tennet story was officially stone-cold dead—from a PR standpoint, our jobs were finished. Probably the only thing that would revive it now was if Tennet sat up in his coffin.

  “Let’s scram,” Sydney said with a tug on my arm. “I know it’s only eleven, but I need a drink.”

  I looked over at Breelyn Doyle and her eyes met mine. I thought I saw something urgent in her gaze.

  “Give me a sec. I’ll meet you at the car,” I said to Sydney as I moved over toward Breelyn. Her expression didn’t change and I was certain she had something she wanted to say to me.

  But just as I approached, her mother whipped around from the conversation she’d been having with Tennet’s lawyer.

  “Who are you?” Valentina demanded as she looked me up and down.

  “Eric Logan. I work for the PR firm that represented your late husband.”

  “Well, well. Bet you’re glad that job’s over,” she said tauntingly.

  “Mom!” Breelyn said in a shocked voice. Valentina glanced at her, then back at me.

  “He didn’t deny it.” She shrugged with a wry half-smile at me. “What is it you wanted, Mr. Logan?”

  “Just to say how sorry I am. I only got to know Mr. Tennet recently, and even though it was under, well, difficult circumstances—”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  I don’t know who was more startled—Valentina or me. Breelyn was staring straight at me.

  “It’s all a lie,” she said. Valentina quickly took hold of her arm, and though it was meant to look reassuring, I could see it was really a warning.

  “She’s very upset, obviously,” Valentina hissed. “This whole awful situation has been such a terrible sho—”

  “He didn’t kill himself,” Breelyn said with tears welling up in her eyes. “He never would have done that. You have to tell people! They need to know.”

  “Bree, honey—”

  “He didn’t kill himself. Something else…happened.”

  A million questions went through my head. Why was she saying this now? And why to me in front of her mother?

  I looked from one to the other. “Well, from what I’ve heard, the police investigation was pretty conclusive.”

  Valentina stepped forward and—reaching out—now took hold of my arm. She started walking me out of the cemetery with our backs to Breelyn, who mutely followed.

  “Mr. Logan. Eric,”
Valentina cooed. “Please don’t mind Bree. Imagine all the things she’s experiencing right now. She’s been put through so much already, the last thing any of us want for her is more publicity and innuendo.”

  She had just the right way about her—intimate and vulnerable, yet totally in charge. And she exuded sex, even now, minutes after her husband’s funeral.

  As we approached the black Town Car waiting to take them away, I looked back at Breelyn. She was no longer staring at me, just looking down at the ground with no expression.

  “I get your concerns,” I said to Valentina, carefully. “Still, if your daughter has any information or reason to bel—”

  “Tell you what,” Valentina interrupted. “Why don’t you and I meet—let’s have a drink later this week. I’m so confused about all of this myself. I have a million questions about Wayne and his state of mind in his last days. Maybe you can help me…”

  She pressed her fingers into my forearm and looked up at me with wide, pleading eyes. Despite myself I was knocked over by her magnetism and felt my head nodding—way too enthusiastically.

  As I helped Valentina into the car—her hand lingering in mine with a breathy “thank you”—I looked over at Breelyn. She was in the backseat staring ahead blank-faced. But in the corner of her mouth, there was the tiniest, almost impossible to see hint of…a smile.

  Chapter 15

  Kayla Ross

  The piercing scream almost made my heart stop. My body instantly went rigid with fear.

  The sound took me right back to Wayne Tennet’s screening room where I’d heard Valentina Doyle give the same kind of cry…and found a dead body.

  I’d been on edge ever since. Turns out that exciting experiences like being a hit-and-run victim on Sunset Boulevard and discovering corpses take their toll on a girl.

  So I wasn’t all that amused by the deafening shrieks of the fan girls in the spectator seats at seeing Liam Hemsworth on the red carpet at the Teen Choice Awards.

  I’d snagged this assignment by show-biz cliché—the regular entertainment reporter had gotten food poisoning that morning at a champagne brunch. It also didn’t hurt that I’d broken my stories during the ratings sweeps period. The station manager told me I was now “trending” higher than any of the other reporters.