“I don’t want to sound rude,” the actress said, as she settled stiffly onto the sofa, “but why are you here?”
“I stopped by the police station this morning,” Harper said, not answering the question. “They told me there’s no news. No one has seen him.”
“No news is good news,” Hunter told the others with false cheer. “That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.”
“Yes.” Allegra brushed doughnut sugar from her fingertips. “He’ll come home when he wants to. He just needs time.”
Hunter turned to Harper. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what are the odds that he could have been attacked on the beach? He’d had so much press. What if someone kidnapped him? They could be holding him somewhere. Waiting until we’re desperate, and then they’ll ask for money.”
“The police are looking for any sign of that,” she assured him. “Did he owe anybody money? Was he in some kind of trouble? Was he in debt?”
“Zay never spent money.” Cara pointed at the guitar still leaning against the wall. “Even that guitar was given to him by the record company. He grew up with nothing, and he lived like he was still poor, always.”
Harper tried another tack. “Can you think of any reason anyone would have wanted to harm him? Maybe someone from his past? Someone who knew his father?”
Cara’s head snapped up, and she fixed Harper with a penetrating stare.
“His father died when he was ten,” Allegra pointed out. “You can’t make enemies at ten.”
“He didn’t have any enemies at Juilliard.” Hunter reached for his cigarette pack but didn’t pull one out. “It’s not that kind of world.”
“Then what?” Cara demanded, suddenly angry. “Where has he gone? Why would he just walk away from us without a word?”
“He wouldn’t,” Allegra said. “He didn’t. I keep telling you—”
“Oh, shut up, Legs,” Cara snapped, cutting her off. “I can’t listen to that anymore.”
Allegra recoiled as if she’d been slapped.
Instantly repentant, Cara pressed her fingertips against her lips. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
But Allegra didn’t wait to hear the apology. She fled the room, disappearing into the hallway.
“Oh hell.” Cara looked at Hunter. “Why did I do that?”
Shrugging, he pulled a cigarette from the pack before tossing the pack to her.
“She’s being irrational.” He lit the cigarette with his Zippo and took a drag, blowing out a stream of smoke. “It’s exhausting. Don’t sweat it. She’ll get over it.”
“I shouldn’t yell at her, though.” Kicking off her flats, Cara pulled her feet up onto the sofa and lit one for herself. “We’re all stressed.”
Harper, who had never seen her smoke before, watched, fascinated as she blew out a long stream of smoke as pale as the fine knit of her top.
“She’s not dealing,” Hunter said, “and that makes it harder for us. It’s time we quit babying her.” He paused, glancing at Harper. “She’s not a bad person. She’s just young. And she’s hung up on Xavier.”
Cara suddenly remembered who they were talking to. “Don’t write any of this,” she ordered, abruptly. “This is all off the record, agreed?”
“Absolutely,” Harper held up her hands. “I’m not taking notes.”
Cara took another drag and considered her with new curiosity. “I hope I don’t seem unfriendly,” she said, after a second. “I don’t like journalists.”
“I don’t blame you. There are bad reporters out there,” Harper said. “But there are good reporters, too. I’m just a crime reporter. I stick to the facts.”
“Do that,” Cara said crisply, “and we’ll be fine.”
“She’s helping us, Cara,” Hunter reminded her.
She waved the cigarette at him, dismissively. But the tension passed.
As the two of them began to talk again, Harper decided to take advantage of their distraction. Maybe Baxter wanted her to make friends, but she couldn’t be here and not investigate.
Looking at Hunter apologetically, she said, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I had a lot of coffee.”
“Oh, sure.” He pointed down the long hallway. “It’s the door near the dining room.”
Neither of them got up to follow as she walked down the long hallway to the foot of the curved staircase.
She paused there, glancing around to make sure Allegra wasn’t anywhere near. Then she hurried up the stairs, the rubber soles of her shoes soft against the wood.
At the top, the stairs gave onto a long, bright hallway—a mirror image of the one below. At the far end, a glass door led onto the wraparound balcony. Through it, she could see the dark blue sea.
Before that, a series of heavy oak doors opened off it, three on each side. Most were open.
Holding her breath, Harper tiptoed to the first one. It was a large room, dominated by a bed with a modern, black frame. It was unmade—blankets thrown to one side as if the person had kicked them off. A keyboard on a stand stood nearby, with sheet music piled on the floor beneath it. A guitar leaned against the wall, propped against two Converse sneakers.
It was obviously Hunter’s room.
The door across from his was closed, and Harper crept past, in case Allegra was in there.
Conscious that she didn’t have much time, she hurried to the next open door. She stepped into a spacious room flooded with light.
The walls were clean white. The floors, bare boards. There was no bed—just a mattress on the floor, covered in bright fabrics. A framed black-and-white poster of Jimi Hendrix leaned against one wall. A large mirror was propped against another.
Aside from a pair of worn leather shoes left incongruously at the foot of the bed, there was nothing else in the room. It was a simple, almost ascetic space. The scent of incense she’d noticed downstairs was heavier here. It clung to the air. Sandalwood. Patchouli.
There were no instruments. No stereo or speakers. No computers. It was a room from another time.
“This is Zay’s room.”
Harper spun around to see Allegra standing in the doorway behind her, dark eyes somber.
She held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s fine.” Allegra didn’t seem angry. In fact, she looked almost pleased. “You should see it.”
Harper turned back to the clean, mostly empty room.
“There are no guitars.” Her voice echoed off the bare walls.
“There’s a practice room across the hall with all his equipment in it,” Allegra explained. “This is his private space. He meditates a lot here.”
She gestured at an incense burner on the windowsill. Next to it sat a small matchbox and an ashtray that held four used matches.
“He needs a clear space to empty his mind.” Allegra looked out the window at the beach in the distance. “I wish he’d come home.”
The simple phrase was so melancholy and heartfelt—the look of worry on her face so raw—Harper turned away.
Over the years, she’d trained herself to feel nothing for victims of crime and those who loved them. It was necessary if she was going to do her job. For some reason, though, her heart twisted for Allegra—for all of them. Their pain was so near the surface.