“And place the credit cards on the console table as you leave, please. Call Domino. He’ll help you make flight arrangements back to LA. You can pick up your last check from his office.”
She paused by the front door, and with jerky movements, slapped three credit cards on the table. And then, in a very Goodbye, Cruel World! kind of move, she turned and shouted, “Good luck surviving without me, Raquel. I wouldn’t work for you again if you begged me,” slamming the door on her way out.
Wonderful silence followed her departure, during which Charlotte and I stood motionless. Eventually, I looked at my friend, she looked at me, and she said, “Since you might not survive past tonight, and this very well may be your last meal, are you still okay with tuna?”
“Yes. I feel good about tuna.” God. I loved Charlotte.
She strolled over to the fridge and opened it. “What kind of beer do you have in here?”
“I don’t. Sadly.”
“Do you want me to go get some from the big house? Jethro has cases and cases. They keep getting it free from people who love Sienna.”
I chuckled. “Sure. Go ahead. Thank you.” If people in LA had offered me cases of free beer, I probably would’ve accepted it too.
“I’ll be right back. And I’ll make sure she leaves without slashing any tires.”
Charlotte left me in the kitchen with my sandwich and no regrets. Yes, my life would be more difficult for a little bit . . . but would it?
I sighed at the thought. It would be more difficult. Sasha was exhausting, and she frequently foisted her responsibilities on me, but she’d been good at keeping track of details. Until I could get someone new hired and trained, things would be stressful. Details would be missed.
That said, I didn’t want a live-in PA anymore. I didn’t want a live-in anything anymore, except a dog. Or a Jackson.
I grimaced, shoving thoughts of Deputy Dreamy from my mind and focusing on the issue at hand. When I got back to LA, I would be making some changes. And when I hired a new PA, he or she would not be living with me. I’d grown addicted to privacy and autonomy here, and going back to the way things had been ceased to be an option the moment I stepped off the plane in Green Valley three weeks ago.
While I waited for Charlotte to return, I placed the veggie sandwich in the fridge, figuring I could eat it for lunch tomorrow, and poured us both a glass of water. I was just setting the table for two when Charlotte burst back in, carrying six cases—yes, SIX cases—of beer.
“Rae! Come quick.”
“Oh my God! Do you need help?”
“No. I work out. Plus, hefting around four kids means I’m strong as a bull. But—get over here!” She set the beer down by the door.
“What? What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing bad. And your little friend is gone. A taxi already came and went—which is basically a miracle. Taxis usually take forever to arrive. But enough about that. Guess what’s pulling up the driveway?”
“What?” I scooted around the stools at the kitchen island and rushed to where Charlotte was unloading her burden.
“It’s a cruiser. From the sheriff’s department.”
“Oh!” My heart leapt, and I pressed my face against the window that looked out onto the driveway. I hadn’t seen or heard from Jackson since Saturday, and I’d been kicking myself for not entering my number in his phone under my real name—or, you know, my stage name.
“Is it Jackson?”
“I don’t know.” She squinted out the glass, then cocked her head. “Oh. No. That’s not Jackson. I think that’s Boone.”
“Could Jackson be with him?” I did a dance of uncertainty in the foyer, not sure if I should run into my bedroom and change out of my frumpy clothes, or if I should watch from the window, or if I should go open the door.
“I don’t think so,” Charlotte said softly, and then to herself, “Where the hell is that dummy?”
My heart dropped, and I pressed my hand to my chest, rubbing the ache. I agreed with Charlotte. Where the hell was that dummy? Whatever he’d done Saturday to get the paparazzi moved away from Moth Run Road had worked. And the paps hadn’t returned to line the road, but they did materialize whenever I left Sienna’s property.
Maybe the paparazzi are why he’s staying away? Or maybe he’s mad that I told Charlotte about our night together? I hated that he was so hard to read. What was I supposed to do? Should I get his number from Sienna and call him? I felt like . . . no. He should call me, right? Or check on me? Or should I check on—
A knock shook me out of my never-ending loop of questions, and I calmly walked to the door and opened it.
Before me stood a man who looked a lot like a young Derek Luke, dressed in the same uniform Jackson had been wearing when he’d found me at the bank over a week ago. “Hello, Ms. Ezra. I’m Deputy Boone.”
“Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand for him to shake. “Won’t you come in?”
“No, ma’am. This shouldn’t take long. I just have a few questions. Do you mind coming out here?”
I glanced at Charlotte. She shrugged.
“Suuuure.” I followed Deputy Boone outside. He didn’t take me too far from the house, just three feet or so.
“I’m here to check up on you, and make sure everything’s okay after the events of last Thursday.”
“The . . . events?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing our due diligence. Just wanted to check in and make sure you didn’t have any complaints against the department, or Deputy James.”
Crossing my arms, I allowed my confusion to show on my face. “Uh, no. Absolutely no complaints. Except, you know, I haven’t heard from him.” I chuckled.
“Uhh. . .” Deputy Boone did not chuckle. He was all business. And I could see that what I’d said confused him.
“Sorry. That’s not—sorry. No, no, Jackson was a perfect gentleman, and I do mean perfect.”
He reached into the front breast pocket of his uniform. “Here’s my card if you have any questions or something occurs to you that you’d like to talk about.”
I accepted the card, not looking at it, and anxiety climbed up my throat because I could see Deputy Boone was finished and ready to leave, so I blurted, “How is he?”
“Who, ma’am?”
“Jackson.” I fiddled with the business card I’d just been given. “Do you know him?”
“Yes. We work together.” He said this very slowly, like he wasn’t used to answering questions.
“Is he okay? Does he have any . . . complaints? About me?”
More confusion flickered over his features, and he responded to my question with one of his own. “Ms. Ezra, do you know how to reach Deputy James?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t have his number.” I snorted, then regretted it when his eyebrows jumped. “Sorry. I regret that snort. I have snort lament. Charlotte has Jackson’s number, and I see her basically every day, so, yeeeeah.“
“I also happen to have Deputy James’s card.” He pulled out a business card holder, this time from some unseen pocket on his person, and thumbed through several business cards, eventually handing one over to me. It was Jackson’s. “If you feel like you need to reach out, you should.”