Previously on L.A. Connections…

Sharon found herself growing closer to Brett during an impromptu lunch with him and Violet. Iris’s questions about Sadie’s chemotherapy appointment only led to more suspicion when Sadie turned defensive and accused her of not believing her. Riley’s dreams came true when Stormy officially offered him the role of Nathan in American Star, and his joy spilled into a tender moment with Natalie. Miranda slapped Courtney after Courtney’s comments about Nico’s trial resurfaced in a follow-up Substack piece. The judge for Stormy’s upcoming trial was assigned, sparking concern from James and Alex. Detectives Carver and Morales uncovered that Zoanne was in serious financial trouble despite recent large cash deposits, leading them to suspect someone had been secretly supporting her. Nico was shaken by a flashback to entering Zoanne’s house on the night of the murders. Tiger confronted Miranda over rumors that she lied at Nico’s trial. Kelly made a troubling discovery when she found NTSB accident reports from Matthew’s flight in Phoebe’s room.

* * *

Brett had been awake since before dawn, unable to keep his mind off Sharon. Her laughter at the table, her easy confidence, the way she made his own house feel warmer than it had in years. Then he’d remember she was married. Her husband—whoever he was—he only knew as someone of great power.

And the house itself wasn’t letting him forget her, either. It was in full transformation mode with what Sharon had alarmingly referred to as “phase one.” Workers had been tramping through since seven. Heavy boots thudded down the hall, a saw grinded near the living room, and nail guns cracked in sharp bursts that made Brett’s head pound. 

He stood at the kitchen island in a half-buttoned shirt, coffee cup in his hand, trying to pretend the racket wasn’t getting under his skin. Then came a knock at the front door. He crossed the foyer and opened it.

Mickey stood on the threshold in sunglasses and a tailored sport coat over a Lacoste polo. Bruno lingered a few steps behind on the walkway, his silent muscle in a suit.

Brett didn’t step aside. “It’s a little early for a drop-in, don’t you think?”

Mickey smiled faintly and stepped in anyway. Brett shut the door and turned, arms folding over his chest like armor.

“What do you want?” Brett asked.

Mickey let his gaze drift over the chaos of renovation—flooring boxes, rolled underlayment, painter’s tape, tools scattered on every surface. Somewhere down the hall a worker laughed and the nail gun hissed again.

Mickey pulled off his sunglasses. “You’ve spoken to Suzanne,” he said.

Brett waived a hand through the air. “Relax. I didn’t say anything incriminating about you.”

Mickey’s eyes met his. “She said people have been warning her about me.” His voice didn’t waver. “And considering your history with her… I’m assuming you’re people.” He took a step closer. “So I’ll ask once. What did you say?”

“It was harmless,” Brett said. “I told her I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

Mickey’s expression didn’t change. He glanced toward the living room where two workers were fitting planks into place. “Fellas,” he called, pleasant as could be, “mind giving us a minute?”

They looked at Brett. When he gave a small nod, they grabbed their water bottles and stepped out onto the terrace, leaving the house suddenly quieter.

Mickey moved to a work table cluttered with tools. Among them sat a nail gun, its hose coiled like a snake. His hand drifted to it with idle curiosity. He lifted it, weighed it, turned it slightly so the light caught the metal.

Then he aimed it at the work table and squeezed the trigger. The nail embedded deep into the wood with lightning fast precision.

Brett’s gulped. “Put that down.”

Mickey finally looked up and smiled. He set the nail gun back with care like he was returning a borrowed glass. “Let’s be clear about something,” he said. “I don’t want you talking to Suzanne about me.”

Brett forced a bitter laugh. “You think she won’t figure out what you are? Carlo Bravetti’s son. Nico Bravetti’s brother.”

Something between amusement and warning crossed Mickey’s face. “She knows,” he said evenly. “And besides, this has nothing to do with my family. Suzanne isn’t in my life that way.”

“Then how is she in your life?” Brett asked, braver than he felt.

Mickey’s mouth curved. “I don’t think I have to explain romance to you, Brett. You’ve been there.” A beat. “I read all about it in her book, remember?”

Brett took the jab with a thin smile.

Mickey stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Are we understanding each other? You stay out of my relationship with Suzanne.” His gaze sharpened. “And you focus on your job—making sure there’s no paper trail between me, my family, and Rydell Productions.”

Brett’s fists clenched. “Yeah. Sure.”

Mickey’s eyes held his. “Because if anyone ever looks closely—an audit, a subpoena, an article—those signatures lead to you.”

Brett felt the blood drain from his face.

Mickey nodded once, satisfied. “So, you’re going to stop trying to play hero with your ex–mother-in-law. If she gets spooked, she leaves.” He let the implication hover in the air for a moment. “And if she leaves… I’ll be very unhappy.”

Upstairs, a nail gun popped again as if providing accidental punctuation to his words.

Mickey slipped his sunglasses back on casually. “The numbers I sent this week?” he said lightly. “I want you to approve them within twenty-four hours.”

Brett stared at him, then gave a stiff nod.

Mickey clapped him on the back and headed for the door. Bruno fell in behind him and they left. 

Brett stood alone in the bright, noisy house, coffee cold in his hand, listening to hammers and saws and nails biting into new wood—wondering how much it would take to pry Mickey Donovan out of his life.

* * *

Sadie made her way around the pool house, reverse tidying things to make it appear she was having a difficult day.  Blankets folded at the end of the daybed, aspirin bottles uncapped and cluttering surfaces, and a grid of healing crystals stretched out on the coffee table. 

When there was a knock at the door, she shifted and went into fragile mode. When she opened it, Mrs. Tremond stood on the other side in linen and pearls, holding a small purse and wearing the kind of pleasant expression people used when they were about to ask for a favor.

“Oh,” Sadie said, arranging her face into softness. “Mrs. Tremond.”

“Hello, dear.” Mrs. Tremond’s smile was warm. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No bother at all,” Sadie said brightly, widening the door. She didn’t step aside enough to invite her in.

Mrs. Tremond clasped her hands. “I’m going to have to leave town for a few weeks.”

Sadie’s brows rose in mock concern. “Oh?”

“My poor sister in Connecticut is ill,” Mrs. Tremond explained with a quiet sigh. “And I’m the only one who can really go take care of things for her. You know how it is.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sadie murmured, her voice suitably sympathetic.

“I was wondering…” the woman began delicately, “…if you and Iris might keep an eye on the house while I’m gone.”

Sadie held her smile in place.

“Nothing taxing,” Mrs. Tremond rushed to add. “Just… checking in. Making sure everything’s as it should be. Lights, the mail, other small things.”

Sadie tilted her head sympathetically. “That’s very sweet of you to trust us.”

Mrs. Tremond’s face brightened. “So you think it might be possible?”

“Well…” Sadie said, letting the word stretch. “With my… situation…” She gestured vaguely to herself, the robe, the aura of illness she wore like perfume. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be well enough to even walk up there some days.”

Mrs. Tremond’s expression shifted to immediate worry. “Oh, of course, dear. I didn’t mean—”

“And Iris,” Sadie continued smoothly, “will be very busy caring for me.” She sighed. “It’s been… a lot.”

Mrs. Tremond nodded quickly, guilt washing over her. “Naturally. Don’t even think about it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help,” Sadie said. “It’s just that I don’t want to promise something and disappoint you.”

Mrs. Tremond touched Sadie’s arm lightly. “You take care of yourself. That’s what matters.”

Sadie offered a faint smile. “Safe travels.”

Mrs. Tremond returned the smile, then turned to go, already mentally revising her plans.

Sadie watched her walk away, her pleasant expression held until Mrs. Tremond disappeared through her own gate.

* * *

Eddie stood on Blake’s terrace with the ocean breeze tugging at his shirt while the Pacific rolled below them, calm and endless.

Blake paced near the railing, phone in hand, his jaw clenched. “So?” he demanded. “Tell me you found something.”

Eddie exhaled. “I wish I could, bro.”

Blake stopped short. “Nothing?”

“Nothing I can prove,” Eddie corrected. “With HIPAA, medical records are a locked vault. It’s not like the old days. Hospitals don’t hand information to a private investigator because he asks nicely.”

Blake groaned and ran a hand over his face. “You’re telling me my private eye brother can’t find something for once?” 

“I find things people leave trails for,” Eddie said, keeping his voice even. “Sadie hasn’t left a trail. No paperwork, no appointment cards, no pharmacy pick-ups I can trace. Not even an oncologist’s name. That’s either because she’s lying… or because she’s being vague on purpose.”

Blake’s hands curled into fists. “So you’re telling me the only reason you can’t bust her is because the law’s protecting her.”

“I’m telling you the law protects everyone’s medical info,” Eddie replied. “Even people we don’t like.”

Blake dragged a hand through his hair, frustration building. “This is insane. She’s manipulating Iris daily and I’m supposed to just sit here and wait for a confession?”

Eddie watched him for a beat. “You can’t go after her in the open,” he warned. “If you corner her, she’ll play victim harder, and Iris will probably resent it.” 

Blake’s laugh was humorless. “So what? I let her keep performing while Iris rearranges her whole life around chemo appointments that may not even exist?”

Eddie stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m saying be smart. If she’s faking, she’s going to slip. People who lie that big always do.”

Blake stared out at the water, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t have time for ‘eventually.’”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

Blake turned back decisively. “I’m thinking I’m done playing nice.” He pocketed his phone. “If you can’t get proof, then I’ll have to deal with Sadie myself.”

Eddie’s expression tightened. “Blake—”

“Sadie told Iris that she has a chemo appointment on Friday and that they provide transportation to and from their facility.”

“Yeah?”

Blake shrugged. “Well, there can’t be that many. I’ll just do the process of elimination until I find out she’s not registered at any of them.” 

The ocean breeze fluttered the edge of the curtain behind them. Eddie watched his brother for a long moment, then nodded once warily.

“Just don’t do something you can’t take back,” he said quietly.

Blake didn’t answer. He only looked toward the house like he was already planning his next move.

* * *

Kelly’s car rolled through morning traffic, the city already loud outside the windows. Phoebe sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap. She watched the streets go by like she was cataloguing them.

“I thought you guys all usually carpooled,” Phoebe said after a moment.

Kelly kept her eyes on the road. “We did. Just not lately.”

“Because of that trial stuff?”

Kelly let out a small breath that could’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. The agency’s been… fractured.”

Phoebe nodded, then glanced at Kelly. “I’m sorry.”

Kelly’s grip tightened on the steering wheel for a second, then loosened. She hesitated, and when she spoke again her tone was careful but direct. “Phoebe,” she said. “I went into your room yesterday morning.”

Phoebe didn’t flinch. “Okay.”

“I was bringing you that lotion that you liked,” Kelly added quickly, as if she needed to prove she hadn’t been snooping.

Phoebe’s mouth curved faintly. “Oh yeah, I meant to say thank you.”

Kelly swallowed. “But I saw the documents on your dresser.”

Phoebe’s gaze shifted to the windshield. “The plane crash stuff.”

“Yes.”

There was a brief span of silence, filled only by the turn signal clicking as Kelly changed lanes.

Kelly kept her voice soft. “Why do you have those?”

Phoebe stared out at the traffic ahead. “After dad died, I looked into the crash,” she admitted.

Kelly blinked. “Why?”

Phoebe’s fingers tightened together, then relaxed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I mean, you can find all those reports online. It’s public information. I guess I was curious.” 

Kelly felt something cold and sad move through her chest. “It was ruled a mechanical failure,” she said.  “A hundred and thirty-nine people died on that flight, Phoebe, including our dad. There isn’t… there isn’t a secret.”

“I know,” Phoebe said quickly. “I’m not trying to come up with conspiracy theories or anything like that. I’m not looking for… like… foul play.” She glanced at Kelly, eyes steady. “I just… needed to know everything.”

Kelly’s throat tightened. “Everything? Why?”

Phoebe hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder, like she was talking about a book she couldn’t put down even though it made her feel sick. “Because not knowing felt worse,” she said quietly before trailing off.

Kelly’s hands flexed on the wheel. She wanted to say stop. She wanted to say leave it alone. But she forced herself to keep her tone calm. “And what did you find?” she asked, against her better judgment.

Phoebe’s voice stayed casual. “Just details. Like, the report says there were forty-two seconds between mayday and impact.”

Kelly’s foot eased off the gas without her realizing. The car slowed in its lane. She turned her head slightly, eyes wide. “Why would you want to know that?”

Phoebe looked at her, genuinely puzzled by the question. “Wouldn’t you want to?” she asked softly.

Kelly stared ahead again, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel as the city blurred past. 

No. No, she wouldn’t.

* * *

Lara had two weeks left of rehab and James was anxious for her to get home. Their visits were all too infrequent and only made him miss her more.  

After exchanging somber goodbyes, he cut across the rehab center’s grounds with his hands in his pockets. The place was manicured to perfection with green lawns, bougainvillea climbing white stucco, and a fountain that trickled calmly. 

He was halfway to the parking lot when he saw Suzanne standing near the path by a grove of trees. He called over to her with a slight wave of his hand.  

A smile crossed her face as he approached. “James, how are you?”

“I’m well,” he said. “You look great.”

They met at the edge of the path, both of them polite in that practiced way people got after years of shared history.

“I heard about Lara,” Suzanne said softly. “I’ve been keeping you both in my thoughts.”

“Thank you,” he said. “That means more than you know.”  He glanced around, then back at her. “What are you doing here?” He caught himself immediately and shook his head. “Actually, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Suzanne’s smile softened. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m visiting a friend. One of my readers, actually,” she clarified. “She wrote me years ago and we’ve stayed in touch.” Her voice dipped. “She’s going through a hard time so thought I’d lend some support.”

“That’s very kind of you,” James said quietly.

Suzanne blinked once, as if the words were enough to crack something. “Sometimes I forget how quickly life can fall apart,” she admitted, the mist in her eyes gathering. “Even for people who look like they have it together.”

James’s expression softened. “You can’t carry everyone,” he said.

Suzanne gave a slight, shaky laugh. “Tell that to my entire career.”

They stood there for a moment, the fountain murmuring in the distance, the whole place built to look serene while people fought their demons behind closed doors.

“Well,” James said gently, shifting back toward the parking lot. “I should—”

“Yes,” Suzanne said, catching herself. “Of course. Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” James replied. “It was good to see you.”

Suzanne nodded, tucking her sunglasses back on. “Bye.”

James started to step away, then paused. “Suzanne, Renee told me you’ve been seeing Mickey Donovan.”

Suzanne let out a soft sigh. “Yes. And before you say anything, I’ve already heard it from Renee and from Brett.” She tipped her head at him. “Not you too.”

“No,” James said quickly. “You’re smart. You can make your own choices. I was just surprised.”  He hesitated. “And frankly, now I’m curious… why was Brett warning you about Donovan?”

Suzanne shrugged. “He didn’t really say anything specifically.”

James’s eyes narrowed slightly as he thought about Eddie’s revelation that Brett came to him to help locate Mickey. “Anyway,” James said gently, smoothing his tone, “I hope you’re happy.”

“I am,” she replied.

She took a step closer, and before either of them could overthink it, they embraced warmly. James’s hand rested briefly at her back. Suzanne closed her eyes for a second, then they separated, both of them a little steadier.

James watched her walk away down the path before turning toward the lot.

Up on the second floor, behind a wide window that looked out over the same perfect lawn, Lara stood still in her room. From her vantage point, she saw the embrace clearly—saw the way Suzanne’s head had briefly rested on his shoulder, the way he’d held her as if it were instinct.

She stood there for a few moments before she turned away from the window and let the curtain fall back into place.

* * *

Miranda stepped out of the car, sunglasses on and posture flawless. The restaurant was tucked behind greenery and valet stands. She was halfway up the steps when the first voice called her name.

“Miranda! Ms. Blackthorne! Over here!”

Then another. Then three more.

Reporters surged from the curb as if someone had flipped a switch. Phones rose and microphones appeared. 

“Miranda, can you respond to Courtney DeLoache’s quotes in Bennett Crowe’s Substack?”

“Did you coerce the other witnesses into testifying against Nico Bravetti?”

“Did you tell them what to say?”

Miranda didn’t break stride. “Excuse me,” she said pleasantly, as if they were overeager fans.

“Why were you so adamant about what you saw?” someone pushed.

Miranda stopped for the briefest second and turned her head, her smile fixed and her voice cool. “I have no comment,” she said. 

“Did you lie under oath, Miranda?”

She kept her smile. “Have a wonderful afternoon,” she said, and then kept walking.

The reporters followed, jostling closer until the host stand was within reach and the doors were inches away. The valet tried to step in but the crowd pressed anyway.

Miranda’s tone sharpened. “I’m meeting a client,” she said. “Back up.”

“Is it true Siobahn Saxton is reconsidering having you represent her?”

Miranda’s jaw tensed behind the smile. She didn’t answer. She slipped through the doors into the restaurant. Inside, the sudden quiet hit her like pressure in her ears.

The maître d’ approached immediately. “Ms. Blackthorne?”

Miranda lowered her sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. “Yes, I’m meeting Siobahn Saxton.”

“Yes, of course.” He hesitated, then held out a small folded note on cream stationery. “This was left for you.”

Miranda took it and opened it quickly. It was a single line, written neatly.

Something came up. I’m sorry. —Siobahn

Her chest tightened with suspicion as she folded the paper slowly, her teeth clenched.

* * *

Blake had cleared the dining table and turned it into a command center: legal pad, laptop open to a map of the Westside, a handwritten list of oncology and infusion centers, a cup of pens, and a nitro cold brew from The Template.

He stared at the list sitting in front of him, then tapped out the first number on speaker.

“Pacific Infusion, how can I help you?”

Blake softened his voice into something harmless and helpful. “Hi,” he said. “This is Victor from Serenity Route Initiative. I’m coordinating transportation for a patient starting treatment this Friday. I just need to confirm the time and drop-off instructions for Sadie Knox.”

There was a pause followed by clicks.

“I don’t show a Sadie Knox for Friday,” the receptionist said. “Could it be scheduled for another day?”

“It might be,” Blake replied smoothly, already drawing a line through the clinic name. “Thank you. I’ll double-check.”

He hung up and didn’t let himself stop to think before clicking the next number.

“Santa Monica Oncology, can I help you?”

Blake delivered the same line, word for word.

“Our office is closed on Fridays,” the receptionist replied, like she was answering the weather.

Blake stared at the calendar on his laptop. He wrote CLOSED FRI beside the name and crossed it out hard enough to tear the paper.

He moved down the list. Another clinic. Another polished request. Another pause filled with tapping.

“We can’t confirm patient appointments.”

“I understand,” Blake said, breezy. “I’m not asking for medical details. Just whether the name is on the schedule so we don’t send a driver to the wrong place. I’m calling from Serenity Route Initiative. We’re a new non-profit aiding cancer patients in the area.” 

There was a brief silence, then: “I’m not seeing it,” the woman finally said. “And again, we can’t really—”

“Of course,” Blake cut in kindly. “Thank you for your time.”

He hung up and dialed again.

And again.

Some offices were polite but firm. Some shut him down immediately. One transferred him twice and then disconnected. Another put him on hold long enough for him to hear a nurse laughing in the background before someone came back on and said, flatly, “No.”

He didn’t write down every answer anymore. He didn’t need to. The list on his notepad became a dossier of crossed-out names.

He sat back in his chair, staring at the ink and slashes like they were evidence at a crime scene. He rubbed his face with one hand, exhausted, then let out a slow breath.

“It’s starting to look like Sadie is full of it,” he murmured to the empty room.

The words didn’t feel satisfying. Instead, they felt grim.

* * *

Brett had just stepped off the elevator at Rydell Productions when Sam appeared from the reception desk and ran to intercept him. 

“Hey,” Brett said, forcing a grin. “If this is about the espresso machine again, I swear I—”

“Jim Morton is here,” Sam cut in.

Brett’s stomach tightened. “Why?”

She hesitated. “And Jordan. They’re in your office.”

For a beat, Brett didn’t move. “How long?” he managed.

“Ten minutes,” Sam said quietly. “I told them you were on your way.”

Brett nodded. “Thanks.”

He walked to his office door, his mind already sprinting ahead, searching for an angle or a way out. He told himself to breathe before stepping inside.

Jordan sat in one of the guest chairs while Jim Morton stood near the window with a folder and a tablet, his expression the particular kind of grim that only financial controllers seemed to have perfected.

“Brett,” Jordan said pleasantly. “Good. You’re here.”

Brett set his briefcase down and tried to sound normal. “What’s going on?”

Jim didn’t waste time. “I flagged a cluster of expenses that came through under your approval,” he said, tapping the tablet. “I found them to be fairly irregular.”

Brett’s mouth went dry. “Fairly irregular how?”

Jordan leaned forward just slightly. “Carrick Bay Consulting.”

The name hit Brett like a cold splash of water at his face. Mickey’s front company. He knew it would eventually raise flags. “Carrick Bay—” he started, then stopped. 

“There are multiple line items all with vague descriptors,” Jim told him. “They’re large enough to have caught my attention, particularly because none of them seem to attach to any active work orders.”

Brett’s pulse hammered. He stared at the tablet, buying time, but the numbers blurred for a moment. “I… okay,” he said, slowly. “Let me—”

“Jim brought it to me because it’s coming through your personal approvals,” Jordan explained.

Brett swallowed hard. “Right. Yes. I see that.”

There was a silence that threatened to swallow him whole, then he did what he’d always done when the walls started closing in. He found the rhythm.

He moved behind his desk, let out a breath, and pulled himself together. “Carrick Bay is basically a company we use to handle other outside vendors—security, location setup, permit stuff, that kind of thing. The charges sound vague because they’re bundling a bunch of different services together on one bill.”

Jim’s eyebrows lifted. “To me, it seemed sloppy and inconsistent. Look at this.” He swiped. “ ‘Operational support.’ ‘Special services.’ ‘Contingency staffing.’ What is that?”

Brett leaned in as if genuinely annoyed. “That’s new coding,” he said. “We changed accounting processes after the last compliance review. A lot of our vendors are still catching up. They submit under the old language, and we reclassify.”

Jim frowned. “The last audit was eighteen months ago.”

“Which is exactly why I’m cleaning it up now,” Brett replied smoothly. “I’m not waiting until the auditors are in the lobby to tighten our descriptors.”

Jordan studied him. “And the projects they’re hitting?”

“Pre-production holds,” Brett said immediately. “We’ve had increased risk exposure with leaks, paparazzi, social media, talent security. I’m putting safeguards in place before cameras roll. It’s cheaper than chaos breaking out on set.”

Jim’s skepticism didn’t budge. “There should still be supporting documentation.”

“You’ll get it,” Brett said, his tone turning crisp. “Procurement can attach the subcontractor breakdowns. I can have them itemize the scope by project and deliverables.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “By end of day.”

Brett nodded as if that had been his idea. “Yes, by end of day.”

Jim held his gaze. “And you’re comfortable saying none of this is fraudulent.”

Brett didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “The descriptors are messy. We’ll fix that. But the work is legitimate.”

Jordan’s posture eased slightly. He was still obviously wary, but no longer ready to pounce. “All right,” he said. “I’m glad you’re on top of it.”

Brett gave a thin, confident smile. “Always.”

Jim gathered his folder, not fully convinced, but boxed in by Brett’s certainty. “Send me the backup,” he said. “I’ll re-review.”

“You’ll have it,” Brett promised.

Jordan stood at the door and paused. “No more surprises, Brett.”

Brett’s smile stayed pasted on. “No surprises.”

After they left, he exhaled so hard it felt like the air had been pinned in his chest. He sank into his chair, hands braced on the desk, staring at nothing.

He’d been blindsided. And still, some old part of him from his days as a con man had woken up and performed. He rubbed a hand over his face, breath shaky now that no one was watching.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispered to the empty office.

* * *

Kelly sat at the table in the conference room at M.B.A. with her laptop open, Riley’s headshot pulled up on the screen beside a contract template. Jane was perched at the corner with a legal pad, and Heather stood by the window, arms folded, staring out at a busy afternoon in Hollywood.

“Riley deserves a win like this,” Kelly was saying to the others. “After getting fired from Silverdale, and Natalie moving out… this gives him something solid to hold onto.”

Jane nodded, flipping her pen between her fingers. “And it’s smart for Stormy to cast him. He’s got that… wounded charisma people eat up.”

Heather’s mouth curled into a smile. “Plus he looks incredible on camera. It’s hard to argue with that.”

Jane glanced around the room. “Where’s Miranda?”

Heather turned from the window. “Has anyone heard from her?”

“She said she had a lunch meeting with Siobahn, but that was hours ago,” Kelly said.

Jane frowned. “It’s not like her to not check in. I hope nothing happened.”

They all shared the same uneasy silence until Kelly waved it off and switched gears. She craned her neck toward the reception area before rising and closing the door to the conference room.  

Jane’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”

Kelly leaned back against the door, her voice lowering. “I went into Phoebe’s room yesterday morning and found something.”

Jane sat forward. “What?”

Kelly swallowed. “The NTSB preliminary report on Flight 108.”

Heather’s face changed. “Matthew’s flight?”

Kelly nodded. “She said she looked into the crash reports because she just needed to know everything.”

Jane’s mouth parted slightly. “That’s… intense.”

Heather’s eyebrows raised. “Or she’s grieving.”

“But get this,” Kelly said, drawing them into suspense, “she told me there were forty-two seconds between mayday and impact.”

Jane went still. “She knows the exact time?”

Kelly nodded, uneasy. “Like it was just… a fact.”

Heather exhaled slowly. “That’s a little morbid.”

Jane’s eyes darted away as if she was remembering something. “Actually…” She hesitated. “One day last week, I walked into the break room and Phoebe was watching an episode of Why Planes Crash—the A&E show.”

Kelly stared at her. “Seriously?”

Jane nodded. “I remember she looked so focused.”

Heather’s arms tightened across her chest. “Maybe she’s holding onto it because she doesn’t know how else to hold onto Matthew. Some people latch onto the details when they can’t handle the loss.”

Kelly’s voice turned quiet. “But still after all this time? He died over a year ago.”

Heather softened. “If she hasn’t dealt with it, for her it could still feel like it was yesterday.”

Kelly shook her head somberly. “I mean, she’s so sweet, she’s helpful, she—”  She hesitated. “But there’s something in her. Something… dark. It slips out sometimes.”

Silence stretched across the room again.

Outside the glass, Phoebe’s quiet voice floated faintly as she answered a call at the desk, cheerful and competent.

Inside the conference room, the three women sat with the same thought settling between them: whatever Phoebe was carrying with her, it wasn’t just grief.

* * *

Suzanne stood in the middle of a bright, airy living room while Ivana Austin-Brown, the realtor Renee referred her to, spoke quietly with the listing agent near the kitchen island. Sunlight poured through the windows, catching the dust in the air, making everything feel a little too staged and perfect.

Suzanne wandered a few steps toward the fireplace, already half-deciding it wasn’t her place. When her phone rang, she glanced down and smiled instantly. Mickey.

She stepped a few feet away, lowering her voice. “Hi, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Mickey said. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Suzanne’s face flushed. “You are quite the charmer, Mr. Donovan.” 

“Where are you?”

“House hunting,” she said, glancing around. “Ivana has a list a mile long. I think I’m only halfway through it.”

“Are you free for dinner?”

She hesitated, clearly wanting to say yes. “No, actually I think this is going to take a while. We’ve still got a few more to see.”

“That’s fine,” he said easily, then paused. “Would it be inappropriate if I said I can’t wait to see you again?”

Suzanne let out a small breath, then a smaller laugh. “Not at all. I feel the same way.” 

“Good,” Mickey said. “Then maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” she said and hung up, still smiling to herself for a second before turning back.

* * *

Sadie was sprawled across the velvet chaise in her living room, half-reading, half-dozing, with incense burning low on the windowsill and a mug of cold herbal tea forgotten on the side table. The late afternoon light spilled across the room of the pool house when her phone rang.

She frowned at the unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sadie Knox?”

Sadie sat up a little straighter. “Yes… this is she.”

“Hello, Ms. Knox. This is Denise from Silver Lake Women’s Wellness Clinic. We spoke the other day when you called while doing research for your novel, New Age Woman?”

Sadie let out a small breath. “Oh. Yes, hello.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, puzzled. “I didn’t expect to hear back from you.”

“Well, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all.” Sadie gave a light, airy laugh. “Though I should say again, I was only calling because I wanted factual information for authenticity. I don’t actually need—”

“Oh, no, it isn’t that,” the receptionist said quickly. “I just wanted to reach out because the strangest thing happened. Earlier today, someone called our clinic confirming transportation details for a Sadie Knox for this Friday.”

The color drained from Sadie’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said, very carefully. “What did you say?”

“There was a man on the phone,” Denise said. “From an organization called Serenity Route Initiative. None of us have heard of it. He said he was just confirming transportation arrangements for a Sadie Knox.” A small pause. “Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

Sadie’s eyes widened. Her voice came out thin. “Was it a young woman, maybe?” 

“No,” Denise said. “Definitely a man. Said his name was Victor.” 

Silence.

Then, gently, “Ms. Knox?”

Sadie could barely hear her anymore. Serenity Route Initiative.

It had Blake written all over it. And using his famous father’s name was a tell tale sign he probably hadn’t thought of.  He’d been sniffing around since the day she came home from the hospital. 

Her throat went dry and a chill worked its way down her spine. He knew, or at least suspected.

“Thank you,” she said abruptly, almost in a whisper.

“Is everything all right?”

But Sadie had already ended the call. She lowered the phone with a trembling hand and stared straight ahead, her pulse hammering in her ears. The incense still curled lazily in the air. 

* * *

Miranda had been checking her phone all afternoon for anything from Siobhan. So far, nothing. By the time she got to FlickFix, she was already practicing that overcontrolled calm that usually meant she was one wrong word away from unraveling.

The receptionist directed her to Stage 4 where Siobhan was shooting promo spots for her new series in development.

She made her way through the corridor and stopped just inside the studio doors. The set was active with the crew moving about, someone adjusting a camera, someone else murmuring to a lighting tech. At center stage, Siobhan stood on her mark in a clean, polished look, listening to a producer give a note before turning back toward the camera.

Miranda stayed near the edge of the set, waiting through one take, then another. Siobhan spotted her between setups. There was no visible surprise, only the slightest pause before she said something to the producer and stepped away from the camera.

Miranda met her halfway, keeping her expression neutral. “I missed you at lunch today.”

Siobhan gave a quick glance toward the crew, then back at her. “Miranda, I’m working.”

Nodding, Miranda folded her arms. “Look, I just need to know where your head’s at.”

“My head is on the promo we’re trying to shoot.” 

“For the FlickFix deal I brokered for you,” Miranda reminded her.  

“This isn’t the time for a discussion.”

Miranda felt a small tightening in her chest. “That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”

Behind Siobhan, someone from the crew lifted a hand in a silent question about timing. Siobhan gave the faintest nod to wait, then looked back at Miranda.

“I’m not trying to make a scene,” Miranda said. “I just need to know if the chatter around town about the trial is affecting you and your confidence in my ability to represent you.”  

Siobhan’s expression shifted then, but only slightly. “I’m in the middle of work,” she said. “And you showing up here like this puts me in a bad position.”

Miranda swallowed. “I am in a bad position too, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

Siobhan was quiet for a beat. “I’m aware of that.”

“Then I hope you’re not listening to that chatter because it would be a big mistake,” Miranda said firmly. “Whatever happened in my adolescence has no bearing on what’s going on today. Now, I negotiated this FlickFix deal for you. I put my blood, sweat and tears into it. The least you can do is level with me.”  

Siobhan hesitated. “I said this isn’t the time.”

Miranda nodded once, though she could feel herself growing more unsettled by the second. “Fine,” she said. “I just didn’t want to sit around guessing.”

Siobhan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Then don’t. Let me get through this, and we’ll talk later.”

“We will?”

“Yes,” Siobhan said, but it came a fraction too slowly. That was what Miranda heard more than the word itself.

A production assistant hovered several feet away now, trying very hard not to look like he was waiting on them. Siobhan noticed and took a half step back toward the set.

“I have to go,” she said.

Miranda stood there another second, her bag clutched tighter against her side. She had come in wanting clarity, maybe even reassurance. Instead she had gotten politeness, delay, and the unmistakable feeling that something had shifted while she wasn’t looking.

* * *

Sadie trudged through the sand as Blake’s house loomed up ahead. It was just after dusk, the sky shades of flint gray and salmon as waves rolled in with a steady hush. Two white feathers lay half-buried in the sand. She picked them up delicately between thumb and forefinger, as careful as if they were relics.

She turned, walked a few paces, and knelt. With slow, deliberate precision, she placed one feather down on the sand, then the other, crossing them into an X. She aligned it parallel to the house, like she was orienting it to a compass only she could see.

Sadie stared at her work for a beat, satisfied, then she rose and headed up the steps to Blake’s terrace, knocking quietly.

Blake slid the door open, took one look at her, and rolled his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Sadie smiled softly, her face composed in that fragile way she’d perfected. “Oh, Blake.” Her tone was gentle, almost affectionate as she stepped in through billowing curtains. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

Blake slid the door shut behind her. “Alright, so what is it then?”

Sadie turned to him, her smile fading into something colder. “I know what you’re up to,” she said evenly. “Calling clinics, fishing for information. Not too subtle, Victor.”

Blake’s nostrils flared. “So you’re spying on me now.”

Sadie gave a quiet, wounded laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that interesting.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I told you to back off.”

Blake stared at her defiantly. “And I told you I’m not going anywhere.”

Sadie’s gaze locked onto him. “You don’t understand karmic bonds,” she murmured. “You don’t understand what happens when you interfere with them.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance. “Here’s what you don’t understand. I’m going to expose you to Iris. One way or another.”

Sadie’s gaze sharpened. “No, you won’t.”

“I will,” Blake said. The disgust in his voice finally surfaced, raw and unmistakable. “Because you have to be a sick individual to lie about having cancer. And to your own sister? Meanwhile you stand there preaching love and family and whatever spiritual nonsense you hide behind.”

Sadie’s expression flickered for a second like he’d hit something real. Then she recovered fast, eyes bright with indignation. “How dare you,” she breathed. “After everything I’ve survived—after everything Iris and I have been through—you think you get to judge me?”

“I’m not judging you,” Blake said coldly. “But Iris will.”

Sadie’s hands curled at her sides. “Iris believes me,” she hissed, the sweetness finally gone. “She’s standing by me.”

Blake’s stare didn’t waver. “Not for very long.”

Sadie held his gaze, fury vibrating under her skin. For a moment it looked like she might slap him. Instead, she smiled. “Be careful, honey bunny,” she said softly.

Blake didn’t blink. “Get out.”

Sadie’s smile stayed as she backed toward the door. “You’re going to regret this,” she murmured, as if offering a blessing.

Then she turned and left.

Blake watched through the glass as she walked down the steps toward the sand, her caftan fluttering behind her. As she passed, the feathers she’d placed with such care on the sand whirled up in the breeze and fluttered away. 

* * *

Suzanne stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, arms folded as she looked out over the city. The apartment was beautiful, with high ceilings, clean lines, and a touch of vintage appeal which she found charming..

Behind her, Ivana Austin-Brown watched with a professional smile. “Well,” she said lightly, “I think you’ve seen everything there is to see.”

Suzanne turned back toward her. “It’s… incredible.”

Ivana nodded, as if she already knew that would be the reaction. “Take your time. It’s a big decision.” She reached into her handbag, pulled out a set of keys, and placed them in Suzanne’s palm. “Think on it. Look around, imagine yourself living here, and lock up when you’re done.”

Before Suzanne could say much more, Ivana was already moving toward the door. She opened it and stepped aside. There on the other side of the door stood Mickey.

Suzanne blinked, startled. “What are you doing here?”

Ivana gave him the faintest knowing glance as she slipped past him into the hallway. The door closed softly behind her.

Mickey stepped into the penthouse followed by two waiters in crisp white jackets carrying covered trays and a small folding table. Suzanne stood frozen as they moved with quiet efficiency to the center of the empty room.

Within seconds, the bare space transformed. A small, elegant table for two dressed in white linen, crystal glasses, and a single flower in a slender vase. One of the waiters lit a candle, its flame flickering gently in the vast, quiet apartment. Another set down polished silverware and uncovered two plates of what looked like an impossibly refined dinner.

Suzanne stared. “Mickey…” she said, half laughing in disbelief. “What is this?”

He watched her reaction with a slow, satisfied smile. “I told you I couldn’t wait to see you again, so I made it happen. Do you know how many realtors named Ivana are in L.A.?”

The waiters stepped away once everything was set. One poured wine, another gave a quiet nod to Mickey, and then they slipped silently out the door. Suddenly it was just the two of them. Mickey walked to the table and pulled out a chair for her.

Suzanne looked around the room once more, still stunned. “This is… ridiculous,” she murmured.

“Sit,” he said gently, then leaned down and kissed her softly before taking the chair across from her. The candlelight flickered between them as he lifted his glass.

Suzanne smiled, still trying to process what she was seeing. “I was just thinking about whether I could imagine living here,” she said.

Mickey held her gaze across the table. “Well,” he replied, raising his glass slightly, “now you know what dinner might look like.”

* * *

Sadie stood on the front step, her hand resting lightly on the doorbell before she pressed it. A moment later, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Tremond, pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, Sadie. Hello, dear.”

Sadie offered a faint smile. “Hi, Mrs. Tremond. I was thinking that you have been such a gracious landlady to my sister and I, and I wouldn’t be a very good tenant if I didn’t help you out whenever I could.  If you’re still needing someone, I can watch the place while you’re gone.”

Mrs. Tremond’s face lit up with relief. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. Are you sure it’s not going to be too much for you?”

Sadie shook her head. “Sometimes the universe just nudges you toward where you’re supposed to be… and this felt like one of those nudges.”

The woman stepped aside at once. “Well, come in, come in. I’ll probably be gone for a couple of months. At least until my sister gets the all clear from her doctor.”

Sadie entered, her eyes already drifting past the foyer. The house was even larger than she remembered with wide hallways, high ceilings, and rooms that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.

Mrs. Tremond moved ahead of her, gesturing as she spoke. “It’s mostly just keeping an eye on things. Watering a few plants, bringing in the mail. Nothing difficult.”

Sadie followed observantly.

“And of course, you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable anywhere,” Mrs. Tremond added.

Sadie’s gaze lingered down a long corridor. “Where is the conservatory that you mentioned?”

Mrs. Tremond turned back with a smile. “Yes, all the way at the far end. Tucked away from everything else.”

“I’d love to see it,” Sadie said.

“Of course,” she said, leading the way. “Do you play?” 

Sadie shrugged. “I’m open to possibilities.”

They walked the length of the house, their footsteps soft against the polished floors. The farther they went, the quieter it became, the sounds of the outside world fading completely.

Mrs. Tremond opened a set of heavy wood paneled doors.

The conservatory was vast and enclosed, filled with greenery and filtered light. It felt sealed off from the rest of the house, almost like its own world. Across the room was a white grand piano.

Sadie stepped inside slowly, taking it in. Then, casually she said, “You mentioned before… this room is soundproof?”

Mrs. Tremond gave a small, amused laugh. “Oh yes. Completely. You could scream your head off in here and no one outside this room would hear you.”

Sadie’s lips curled into a quiet grin. “Perfect,” she said.