Last time on L.A. Connections…

Suzanne stumbled upon Mickey’s henchmen brutally beating the president of Double Strike Studios in a back room of Corso, sending her fleeing into the night where James comforted her. Brett was stunned to discover that Sharon’s husband was none other than Carlo Bravetti, and when Brett later tried to speak with her, Sharon panicked and pulled away, terrified of being seen with him. Mickey continued pressuring Brett to convince Jordan to restore his approval authority at Rydell Productions so money could begin flowing through the studio again, while Jordan recognized Mickey as the mysterious man he had previously encountered in Brett’s office. Concern mounted over Blake’s disappearance after Sheldon revealed to Eddie that nobody had heard from him in over a day. After Natalie informed Riley she intended to file for divorce, Riley found a brief escape from the drama in an unexpectedly carefree and flirtatious dance with Phoebe.

* * *

Blake strained against the chain again, bracing his foot against the base of the support beam and pulling until the metal dug into his ankle. It didn’t budge. It never did. Frustration boiled over as he dropped back into the tight radius he had, pacing as he racked his brain.

Suddenly, the door opened and Sadie floated in, a tray balanced in her hands, her expression bright and serene. “Hi,” she said softly. “I brought you something grounding. Your energy feels a little… agitated.”

Blake turned on her. “What’s the plan here, Sadie?” he snapped. “You just going to keep me locked up forever? Because that’s not happening. Sooner or later, I’m getting out of here.”

She set the tray down carefully, aligning the utensils with unnecessary precision. “I’m not exactly sure yet,” she said, almost musing to herself. “But I promise you’ll be one of the first people I tell when I come into clarity about it.”

He stared at her. “You’re serious?”

She looked at him with gentle disappointment. “I just can’t have you filling my sister Iris’s head with your lies,” she said calmly. “Trying to disrupt the bond we’re healing.”

“They’re not lies,” Blake shot back. “You need help. You’re crazy, Sadie. Crazy Sadie—that’s what they’re going to call you!”

Sadie tilted her head slightly, considering his words like they were a perspective she didn’t quite agree with. “That’s one way to frame it,” she said. “Another way is that I’m finally seeing things as they really are.”

Blake exhaled sharply, then something else hit him. “Where’s Betsy?” he demanded. “What did you do with her?”

Sadie’s expression softened. “She’s fine. Iris is taking very good care of her. They’re bonding beautifully.”

Blake didn’t relax. “Can I at least have some clothes?” he said, gesturing down at himself—bare chest, running shorts, nothing else. “It’s freezing in here at night.”

Sadie followed his gesture, her eyes lingering for a moment before a smile curved across her face. “I don’t know,” she said and gave a playful shrug. “I kind of like it. It gives me something nice to look at when I come in.”

Blake stared at her, incredulous. “I’m not here for your… viewing pleasure.”

Sadie’s smile didn’t fade. “I’ll think about the clothes,” she added, like she was doing him a favor. “But no promises. You look very… natural like this.”

Suddenly, he turned and shouted at the top of his lungs. “HELP! HEY—SOMEBODY—!”

Sadie didn’t even blink. “I already told you,” she said gently. “The conservatory is soundproof. Mrs. Tremond had it retrofitted from a bedroom. Her husband went through a very intense trumpet phase.”

Blake groaned in irritation.

“At least you have a bathroom,” she added brightly, gesturing toward the adjoining door. “Hydration and elimination are very important when you’re processing big emotional shifts.”

He said nothing.

Sadie picked up the edge of the tray, straightened it one last time, then looked at him with a soft, almost maternal smile. “Try to stay open,” she said. “Resistance just creates more suffering.”

She turned and drifted out, closing the doors behind her as Blake sunk onto the cot.

* * *

When Sadie got back to the pool house, she found Iris at the kitchen counter, phone pressed to her ear, her voice laced with concern. Betsy sat at her feet, alert, ears perked—until she spotted Sadie. A low, uneasy growl rumbled from the dog’s chest.

Sadie paused, offering a calm, soothing smile. “Hi, sweet girl,” she said gently.

Betsy got up and moved further away before laying down again and letting out a whimper.

Iris turned slightly, still listening. “Okay… yes, thank you. If anything comes in—anything at all—please call me.” She ended the call and lowered the phone slowly, her expression strained.

Sadie stepped closer. “Who was that?”

“A hospital,” Iris said with an overwhelmed sigh. “Sheldon and I have been calling all of them. Every ER, every urgent care. Anywhere he could’ve ended up.”

Sadie tilted her head, listening.

“He could have amnesia,” Iris went on, the words coming faster now. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Why he hasn’t called anyone. Blake wouldn’t just disappear like this. Just to leave Betsy here without saying anything? Not to mention he wouldn’t leave his job, or Sheldon, or his brother… or me.”

Sadie stepped in closer, placing a gentle hand on Iris’s arm, her tone warm. “I can feel how heavy this is for you,” she said. “But you have to trust the universe is holding him exactly where he needs to be right now.”

Iris frowned slightly. “Sadie—”

“He’s on a journey,” Sadie went on, unfazed. “Sometimes people disconnect so they can realign. It’s not something we’re meant to control.”

Iris pulled back just a little, unsettled. “That doesn’t feel like Blake,” she said.

Sadie smiled softly, squeezing her arm. “That’s because you’re trying to understand it with your mind,” she said. “Not your intuition.”

Betsy growled again, louder this time.

Sadie glanced down at her, the smile still there, but thinner now. “It’s okay,” she said. “She’s just picking up on the energy shift.”

Iris didn’t look convinced. She glanced between Sadie and the dog, something not quite sitting right. But she didn’t push it.

* * *

The front door opened before James could reach for it.

Ruthie stood there, already smiling. “Welcome home, Ms. Devon,” she said warmly as Lara stepped inside the Blackthorne mansion. “It’s so good to have you back.”

Lara returned the smile. “Thank you, Ruthie. It’s good to be back.”

With her suitcase in hand, James led her upstairs, his hand resting lightly at her back as they moved through the house. Everything looked the same—the polished floors, the framed photos, the expensive Persian rugs—but for Lara, it didn’t quite feel the same. Not after a month away. Not after everything.

He opened their bedroom door and set her suitcase down just inside. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then James turned to her, stepping closer, his expression softening as he took her in. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

Lara’s face warmed and she stepped closer as he wrapped his arms around her. He held her tightly, familiar and steady, like something she could anchor to. But there was a hesitation in her, and James felt it. 

He pulled back just enough to search her face. “Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

Lara nodded, though her eyes drifted around the room, taking it in like she was seeing it differently now. “Yeah,” she said. “It just… feels strange being back here again. After the last month,” she added quietly.

James nodded, understanding without needing her to say more. “That makes sense,” he said. “It’s a lot.”

She let out a deep breath. “Everything’s the same,” she said. “But I’m not.”

James stepped closer again. “That’s not a bad thing,” he said. “That’s the point of rehab.”

Lara looked at him, wanting to believe it.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll settle in in time,” he said.

She nodded, though there was still something uncertain in her eyes as she glanced around the room again.

* * *

Suzanne moved quickly through her condo, straightening things that didn’t need straightening, wiping down already clean surfaces, folding and refolding anything within reach. The quiet felt too loud otherwise.

She crossed into the living area and knelt by a low, built-in storage drawer tucked beneath the window seat. Pulling it open revealed a deep compartment—long, wide, easily overlooked. She began placing folded blankets inside, stacking them neatly. When she finished, she slid the drawer shut with a firm push.

A knock at the door came just as she stood. Suzanne froze. Then another knock—this one more insistent. She didn’t need to look through the peephole to know who it was.

“Suzanne,” Mickey called from the hall. “I know you’re in there.”

She stepped closer to the door but didn’t open it, keeping the barrier firmly between them. “You need to go.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he asked, his voice controlled but strained. “What is this?”

Suzanne shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. “I just can’t,” she said, her voice insistent. “I can’t be with you, Mickey.”

“Because of what you think you saw at Corso the other night?” he pressed.

“I don’t think I saw anything,” she said, fear threading between her words. “I did.”

Silence lingered on the other side of the door before Mickey pleaded. “Suzanne—”

“No,” she cut in sharply. “You need to leave. I’m serious.”

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, his voice had softened. “You’re scared.”

Before either of them could say more, footsteps approached from down the hallway. Suzanne opened the door just as Heather came into view, pausing when she saw her mother standing rigid at the door.

Mickey exhaled quietly as he looked at Heather and then back at Suzanne. “We’ll talk later,” he told her as if she didn’t have a choice. Then he turned and walked back down the hall.

Suzanne stayed where she was until she was sure he was gone. Only then did she turn fully, her composure cracking as Heather stepped inside.

“Mom?” Heather said gently. “Are you okay?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No.”

Heather didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, then pulled back just enough to study her face. “I guess this breakup has been pretty hard on you,” she said gently.

Suzanne nodded, unable to muster anything more than that. “Yeah,” she said quietly.

She turned and led Heather into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. She reached for the coffee pot, poured two cups with steady hands that didn’t quite match how she felt inside, and slid one across the counter.

Heather leaned against it, watching her. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Suzanne paused for just a second, then nodded.

That was all the answer Heather needed. Her expression softened immediately as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her again, tighter this time. “Oh, Mom…”

Suzanne closed her eyes, leaning into her daughter, letting herself be held as tears fell down her cheek.

* * *

Brett was at his desk at Rydell Productions when there was a light knock, followed by the door opening.

“Sharon Dyer is here to see you,” Sam said from the doorway.

Brett didn’t even try to hide the shift in his expression. “Send her in.”

Sam stepped aside, and Sharon entered, composed as ever but carrying an undercurrent of tension. Sam quietly closed the door behind her, leaving them alone. For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

“What are you doing here?” Brett asked with genuine surprise. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Sharon said finally. “For the other night at the club opening. For running off the way I did.”

Brett stood, studying her quietly.

“I couldn’t be seen talking to you,” she explained. “Not there. Not like that.”

He moved around the desk, closing some of the distance between them. “You redecorated my house, Sharon. You’ve been in and out of my life for weeks. That didn’t seem to raise any red flags.”

Her expression hardened. “You don’t know my husband.”

Brett held her gaze. “Maybe not,” he said. “But I know what happened between us. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Sharon’s breath stalled in her chest. “Brett…”

“I want you,” he said.

She shook her head, though there was hesitation in it. “We can’t.”

“You can say that,” he replied, stepping closer, “but don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

Her hands trembled faintly at her sides. “That’s not fair,” she said.

“But it’s the truth.”

The space between them disappeared. She didn’t pull away when he kissed her.

The tension snapped into something urgent and reckless. Brett broke away just long enough to hit the intercom, not taking his eyes off her.

“Sam,” he said, his voice shaking, “hold my calls. No interruptions.”

“Sure, Brett.”

Brett ended the call, already pulling Sharon back to him as the moment overtook them again, the restraint gone. He led her to the sofa in the corner and lay her down, smothering her with kisses as they frantically undressed.

His cock, like a heat-seeking missile, found its intended target with ease. They made love vigorously until he emptied himself inside of her and collapsed on top of her, both of them struggling for breath.  

* * *

Riley stepped off the elevator and into the sleek, polished reception area of the Miranda Blackthorne Agency, adjusting his collar as he took in the familiar sounds of the office. His eyes landed on Phoebe behind the desk almost immediately.

She looked up and smiled. “Well, look who it is.”

Riley grinned as he approached. “Hey.”

He rested a hand lightly on the counter, easy but just a touch self-conscious. “I had fun the other night,” he said.

Phoebe leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him with a playful sparkle in her eye. “Yeah,” she said. “Took you a while to loosen up.”

Riley let out a laugh. “Fair.”

“But once you did,” she continued, a teasing note slipping into her voice, “you were actually a lot of fun.”

“Actually?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled, unfazed. “And for the record,” she added, lowering her voice just slightly, “you’re a really sexy dancer.”

Riley blinked, caught off guard, then blushed. Phoebe just watched him, amused.

“Good to know,” he said finally, a little sheepish and a little charmed.

“Very good to know,” she replied.

Kelly stepped over from the bull pen mid-sentence, flipping through a folder, then stopped when she caught the look on both of their faces.

Phoebe leaning back, smiling, and Riley trying not to.

Kelly’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Okay… what were we talking about?”

Both of them answered at the same time: “Nothing.”

They glanced at each other, then back at Kelly—both of them grinning.

Kelly crossed her arms, not buying it for a second. “Mm-hmm,” she said. “That’s usually when I really want to know.”

Phoebe just shrugged, still smiling. 

Kelly let it go with a shake of her head, already shifting gears. “Alright, well—come on,” she said to Riley, gesturing toward her desk.  “I just have a few more things for you to sign.”

Riley nodded, pushing off the desk. “Sure.”

“Standard stuff,” Kelly added as they walked. “Final SAG-AFTRA paperwork, publicity release, and a couple addendums for the Nathan Blackthorne biopic—likeness rights, scheduling holds, exclusivity window. Nothing scary.”

“Good,” Riley said. “I already signed my life away once this week.”

Kelly smirked. “Just wait.”

Phoebe watched them disappear into the office, the smile lingering just a second longer before she turned back to her computer, though her attention wasn’t entirely on it.

* * *

Standing on the porch of Mrs. Tremond’s house, Sadie had just unlocked the door when she paused—something cutting through the quiet. Her head turned toward the distant voice, faint but unmistakable.

“Betsy! Come here, Betsy!”

Before Sadie could react, a blur of motion shot past her—Betsy, charging straight through the open doorway and into the house.

“Oh—no, no—” Sadie murmured under her breath, her pulse spiking.

Iris appeared seconds later, slightly out of breath as she reached the door. “I’m so sorry,” she said, already moving inside. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She just took off. Ran all the way up here.”

Sadie forced a quick smile, stepping aside. “It’s okay,” she said, though there was an edge to it now. “Dogs do that sometimes.”

But Betsy wasn’t just wandering. She was tracking. She moved quickly around the entryway, nose low, sniffing with sharp focus, circling once, then heading straight down the hallway.

Sadie’s stomach dropped. “Iris, maybe we should—” she started, but Iris was already following.

“Betsy!” Iris called, confused now more than anything.

They both reached the end of the hall just as Betsy stopped short at the conservatory door. Her posture stiffened. Then she barked—loud, insistent. Again. And again.

Iris frowned, looking from the dog to the door. “What is it?” she said, puzzled. “Why is she acting like that?”

Betsy scratched at the door, whining now, then barking again, this time more urgently.

Iris looked at Sadie. “Didn’t you say this was just a storage room? For furniture?”

Sadie nodded quickly, stepping closer, trying to keep her tone light. “Yeah, it is,” she said. “She probably smells a squirrel or something. Or… raccoons get into these older houses sometimes.”

Iris didn’t look convinced.

Betsy barked again, pawing harder at the door like she knew something was on the other side.

Sadie’s smile tightened, her eyes flicking to the handle for just a fraction of a second before she forced herself to look back at Iris. “Dogs can get fixated like this,” she added, a little too quickly. “Once they pick up a scent, they won’t let it go.”

Iris hesitated, finally managing to get the leash on the dog’s collar. “Wow, that was weird.”  

“Yeah,” Sadie agreed.  “Anyway, what’s up, honey bunny?” 

Sighing, Iris walked back down the hall, Betsy whining as she trotted along beside her. “It’s Blake,” she said. “It’s been over two days. I think I’m going to call the police. I think something is really wrong.”  

Sadie’s stomach dropped. “No—wait,” she said quickly, stepping after her, her tone shifting just enough to catch Iris’s attention. “Don’t do that yet.”

Iris turned, thrown. “Why not?”

Sadie softened immediately, reaching for her arm in a calming, grounding way. “Because you don’t want to get everyone all panicked if it’s nothing,” she said gently. “Once you involve the police, it becomes this whole thing—reports, questions, worst-case scenarios. That kind of energy just… spirals.”

Iris frowned, uncertain. “But what if it’s not nothing?”

Sadie held her gaze, steady, reassuring. “Then we’ll handle it,” she said. “But right now, you’re reacting from fear, not intuition.”

Betsy let out another low whine.

Sadie glanced down briefly, then back up. “Give it a little more time,” she added softly. “Let things settle. Trust that if something’s wrong, it’ll reveal itself without forcing it.”

Iris didn’t answer right away. She looked back down the hallway for a moment—toward the conservatory, then back at Sadie, torn.

“I just… don’t like this,” she admitted. “People don’t disappear without a word.” 

“I know,” Sadie said, steady and practiced. “But rushing into panic won’t help him.”

Iris exhaled slowly, still uneasy, but hesitating now.

And Sadie, standing close, kept her expression calm… even as everything inside her was in panic mode.

* * *

Sheldon paced the length of the living room at Miranda and Eddie’s Bel Air home, running a hand through his hair for what had to be the tenth time. The tension in him hadn’t let up since he’d arrived.

“This isn’t like him,” he said. “Blake wouldn’t just disappear.”

Eddie leaned against the back of a chair, arms crossed, his expression focused, already in work mode. “I’ve been digging into it,” he said. “No activity on his credit cards. No ATM withdrawals. His phone hasn’t pinged anywhere since yesterday morning.”

“What about his car?” Miranda asked.

“Still parked at his house,” Eddie replied.

“If he left town, he would probably have taken an Uber to the airport,” Miranda surmised as she drummed her fingers on the table.  

Eddie shrugged with frustration. “We know he left Betsy at Iris and Sadie’s. He could have gone on to the airport after that, but the charge would show up on his credit card.”

Searching his memory banks, Sheldon took a step forward. “I remember him saying once that FlickFix has an Uber account for all of their executives.” 

“Think someone at FlickFix would let you peruse their Uber account?” Eddie asked Miranda. 

She scoffed. “Maybe if Zoanne was still alive and Siobahn hadn’t fired me.” 

Sheldon stared at them. “Okay, this is pointless,” he said, his tone dire. “I mean, what if he fell somewhere? Hiking, running—what if he’s lying at the bottom of a canyon somewhere and no one knows he’s there?”

Miranda set her glass down. “He’s right,” she said, looking to Eddie. “At this point, it’s not just him being out of touch. Something’s wrong.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He gave a decisive nod, already reaching for his phone. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s time to get the police involved.”

Sheldon watched him, barely breathing as Eddie stepped a few feet away and dialed.

“Yeah,” Eddie said when the line picked up, his tone shifting into something more formal. “I need to report a missing person.”

* * *

Blake had already made three full passes of the conservatory, scanning every inch like something might magically appear if he looked hard enough.

Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy enough. Nothing he could turn into leverage.

He yanked at the chain again out of pure frustration—metal scraping, ankle burning, then forced himself to stop before he wasted more energy on it.

“Think,” he muttered.

He turned and moved into the adjoining bathroom, the chain dragging behind him with a dull clink. He checked everything. The sink—mounted, no exposed piping he could loosen. The mirror—fixed, no give. The toilet—standard, bolted down.

He dropped to a crouch and yanked open the vanity drawers one by one. Empty.

“No, no—come on…” he said under his breath, pulling them out harder now, like something might be hidden behind them. Nothing. Not even a stray object, not a bottle, not a screw loose. It had been cleared out. On purpose.

Blake exhaled sharply, anger flaring again as he shoved the last drawer shut and leaned back against the cabinet, running both hands over his face.

She’d thought of everything.

He stared at the floor for a second, forcing himself to reset. He pushed himself down onto the tile and dropped into a push-up position.

“Stay sharp,” he muttered.

He lowered himself, controlled, then pushed back up. Again. And again.

If he couldn’t get out yet, he could at least make sure he was ready when he did.

* * *

They had just finished pulling themselves back together—the last buttons fastened, the last traces of the moment smoothed over—when raised voices carried in from the reception area.

“I’m sorry, you can’t just—”

The door burst open and Mickey stepped inside, already mid-stride, and then stopped, his eyes landing on Sharon. For a split second, no one moved.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the question pointed, his tone flat.

Brett didn’t miss a beat. “I’m thinking of having Sharon redecorate the office,” he said easily, stepping forward just enough to control the moment. “She did such a good job on my house.”

Sharon picked it up seamlessly, her composure already back in place. “I was just going over some preliminary ideas,” she said. “I’ll start putting together a plan.”

There was the briefest pause—Mickey taking it in—then she gave a small, polite nod. “I’ll be in touch.”

She moved past him without hesitation, Sam quickly stepping aside to follow her out, closing the door behind them.

Immediately, Mickey’s attention shifted back to Brett. “Have you talked to Suzanne?”

Brett frowned slightly. “No. Why?”

“She’s not talking to me,” Mickey said. “You sure you haven’t said anything to her?”

“No,” Brett replied evenly. “I haven’t. I saw her run out of Corso the other night. She looked upset, but James went after her. I went home.”   

“James?” Mickey asked. 

“Blackthorne.”

Mickey took in the information, studied him for a beat, then moved on. “Have you gotten Jordan to reconsider your approval authority?”

Brett shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. My hands are tied.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mickey’s face. “That’s a problem,” he said.

Brett didn’t respond.

Mickey stepped closer, his tone turning heavier. “If we don’t get those invoices cleared… if that money doesn’t start moving…”

He let the thought hang for a moment.

“We might have to deal with Jordan Rydell in a different way,” he continued.

The words were calm, but the meaning underneath them wasn’t. Brett held his gaze, saying nothing. And Mickey, after a few seconds, straightened slightly, as if the message had been delivered exactly as intended.

* * *

Renee stood with Lara in the parlor just off the foyer, arms wrapped around her in a warm, familiar embrace. “Look at you,” Renee said as she pulled back, holding Lara at arm’s length. “You look incredible. Truly.”

Lara smiled, gracious but a touch reserved. “Thank you.”

Ruthie entered quietly with a tray, setting down the tea service before slipping back out just as unobtrusively. The room settled into a familiar quiet as the two women took their seats.

Renee poured, still watching her. “I’m just so glad you’re home. How are you feeling?” 

Lara took the cup, letting the warmth settle into her hands before answering. “Better,” she said. “Clearer, I think. It’s… a different kind of quiet at the treatment center. Very structured.”

Renee nodded, encouraging her. “That must have been an adjustment.”

“It was,” Lara admitted with a faint smile. “No distractions. No escaping things. You wake up early, meetings all day—group sessions, individual therapy. You talk about things you’ve spent years avoiding.” She paused, then added lightly, “And you do it with complete strangers.”

Renee gave a sympathetic laugh. “That sounds… intense.”

“It is,” Lara said. “But it’s also strangely comforting. Everyone’s there for the same reason. There’s no pretending.” A small pause. “You don’t realize how much energy you spend pretending until you stop.”

Renee studied her for a moment, something approving in her expression. “Well, whatever they did, it seems to have worked. You look… lighter.”

Lara set her cup down, smoothing her hand along the saucer before shifting the conversation. “How have things been around here?”

Renee gave a shrug. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” She stirred a lemon slice into her tea, then added, “James has held himself together remarkably well, all things considered. I know he really missed you.”

Lara’s eyes lifted slightly.

Renee continued, almost as an afterthought. “You know who’s actually been a very calming presence for him?”

Lara didn’t react outwardly. “No. Who?”

“Suzanne.”

Lara lowered her gaze to her tea, taking a sip to cover the flicker of something that passed through her expression. “I see.”

Renee leaned back, unaware. “Yes, they don’t have much personal history, but you can tell they just get each other. When you’ve lived through as much as the two of them have… it creates a kind of bond that most people don’t really understand.” 

Lara set her cup down carefully. “I saw them once,” she said. “When James came to visit me at the facility. They were… together.”

Renee glanced at her. “Together how?”

“They were hugging,” Lara said, as if it were nothing. “It just… stood out.”

“Well, there’s a lot of shared history there,” she said. “They’ve both suffered a great deal of losses.” 

Lara nodded faintly. She didn’t say anything more, but the thought had already settled in, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

Brett had just dropped back into his chair, trying to recalibrate after Mickey’s visit, when the door opened without a knock.

He looked up, already irritated. “How the hell do people keep getting in here today?”

Sadie slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She was draped in one of her signature flowy, layered outfits—gauzy fabrics in muted earth tones that moved around her like she was floating rather than walking. A cluster of crystals hung from a long cord at her neck, and the faint scent of patchouli followed her in. 

“Sam is very sweet,” she said, her fingers absently brushing the crystals at her chest. “Her aura was a little… depleted, so I sent her downstairs for a green juice and some sunlight. She just needs a quick recharge.” 

Brett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What are you doing here, Sadie?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You look stressed.”

“I am stressed,” he snapped. “What do you want?”

She smiled, drifting further into the room like she was on a light breeze. “Honey, I need a favor.” 

“No.” He didn’t even hesitate.

Sadie’s smile didn’t falter. “You do remember you owe me,” she said. “For helping you break into a certain somebody’s yacht? I was very much in the line of fire when that went sideways, if I recall.”

Brett let out a sharp breath, already regretting that entire situation. “I don’t even want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

She ignored the remark. “Hypothetically,” she said, drifting closer to his desk, “if someone were… missing… and you didn’t want to cause a panic, what would you do to, you know, keep the hounds at bay if people were looking for him—er, them.” 

Brett stared at her. “No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back. “I don’t want any part of whatever this is.”

Sadie leaned in slightly, pressing. “Just hypothetically.”

Brett closed his eyes for a second, exhaling, already worn down. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Forge something. A note, an email—make it look like he left on his own. Give people an explanation so they stop asking questions.”

Sadie’s eyes lit up just slightly. “That’s helpful,” she said.

Brett looked at her again, more wary now. “Sadie—”

But she was already stepping back, satisfied. She paused at the door, taking him in for a beat, a faint smile returning. “You smell like sex,” she added casually.

Brett blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m guessing that’s what’s causing the stress,” Sadie went on as if she were diagnosing him. “Your energy is all knotted up—very blocked in the lower chakras.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “I just hope you haven’t tried forcing your will onto any more poor, unsuspecting actresses, Brett. That kind of karmic imprint never resolves the way you want it to.”

“I didn’t—”

She gave a knowing smile, like she’d already heard enough. “Mm. Resistance,” she murmured. “That’s usually where the truth lives.”

Then, just as easily as she’d appeared, she turned and slipped out, her patchouli trailing behind her, leaving Brett sitting there, more unsettled than before.

* * *

The line of cars outside Eastland Prep crept forward in slow, impatient bursts. Phoebe leaned across and pushed open the passenger door just as R.J. jogged up, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, climbing in and dropping his bag at his feet.

“Hey. Survive the day?” Phoebe asked, easing the car forward.

“Barely. Math test was brutal.”

“That tracks,” she said. “You look like someone who’s been betrayed by numbers.”

He laughed a little, settling into the seat. “I probably was.”

They pulled out into traffic, merging into the slow crawl down the boulevard. 

“Practice today?” Phoebe asked.

“Yeah. Coach thinks we’re going to make playoffs.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah,” he said, then after a few beats: “I’m glad you’re here. I mean, staying at our house and stuff. I like having you around.”

Phoebe smiled. “I like being around.”

R.J. stared out the windshield. “It’s so weird,” he said. “You and my mom have the same dad… and you never knew about each other?”

“It is weird,” she agreed, almost absently. “Were you close with him? Your grandfather Matthew?”

R.J. nodded. “Yeah.  He’d come by. Take me places sometimes.”

“You must have been sad when he died.”

“Yeah,” R.J. said, looking out the window. “It was… yeah. It sucked.”

Phoebe nodded, almost to herself. “A plane crash would be such a terrible way to die.”

R.J. glanced at her again, something about the way she said it catching his attention.

Phoebe’s tone shifted precisely. “It’s strange, too,” she went on. “Both engines failing simultaneously. That’s statistically rare.”

R.J. frowned. “I don’t really think about that stuff.”

“Most people don’t,” she said. “But the report mentioned hydraulic instability at eight thousand feet. That means they knew something was wrong before…” She trailed off, then added, quieter, “There were forty-seven seconds.”

“Forty-seven seconds?” he repeated.

“From the first major failure to impact,” she said. “That’s enough time to be aware of what’s happening.”

The car slowed to a near stop.

R.J. shifted, uncomfortable now. “I don’t think about it like that.”

Phoebe didn’t respond right away. Her grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “He called me right before the flight,” she said suddenly.

R.J. looked over. “Really?”

She nodded faintly. “It was the last time we talked.” A brief pause. “I don’t even remember most of what we said anymore. Just little things. His tone. The way he sounded tired.”

Traffic crawled forward another few feet.

“I think when someone dies suddenly,” she continued quietly, “your brain keeps replaying the last conversation, trying to hold onto it. Like maybe there was something important in it you’re supposed to remember.”

R.J. didn’t know what to say to that, so he just listened.

Phoebe stared ahead at the line of brake lights in the distance. “I probably think about it more than I should,” she admitted softly.

Traffic started moving again. Phoebe blinked, like she was coming back from somewhere else. “Do you ever think about it?” she asked. “The moment?”

R.J. shook his head quickly. “No.”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said softly. “Me neither. But I mean, sometimes I wonder if he screamed.”

“Screamed?”

“You know, like while the plane was going down,” she said. “I think about how scared he must have been. And was he like… awake for that whole forty-seven seconds? Until he hit the ground?”  

R.J. turned to the windshield again but didn’t say anything.

Phoebe’s eyes stayed fixed ahead as the car moved slowly through traffic.

* * *

That night, the beach was nearly black, the only light coming from a thin slice of moon and the distant glow of houses further down the coast. Sadie moved along the side of Blake’s house like a shadow, dressed head to toe in black, a scarf wrapped tightly over her hair. A small flashlight in her hand cast a narrow beam as she reached the back door. 

Kneeling, she pulled a slim tool from her sleeve and worked the lock with quiet efficiency until it gave with a soft click.

Inside, the house was still, the faint sound of the ocean pressing in from beyond the walls. Sadie closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, listening before moving into the kitchen. She opened drawers methodically, scanning through papers and envelopes, dismissing most of it quickly.

Finding nothing of interest, she moved down the hall to the office, slipping inside and closing the door gently behind her. There, she focused more intently, opening drawers, flipping through folders, and pausing when she came across FlickFix meeting notes he’d handwritten. A small, satisfied smile formed as she selected a few pages and laid them out on the desk. 

From another drawer, she pulled a pen and a sheet of stationery and, still wearing gloves, laid Blake’s handwritten notes beside it. Sadie studied the loops and slants carefully, tracing them with her eyes before attempting the first line.

Had to get away for a while.

She stopped immediately, grimacing. “No,” she whispered and crumpled the paper tightly and tossed it aside, then pulled another sheet free. Again she copied the handwriting samples, this time trying to mimic the speed and uneven rhythm of someone writing quickly.

Don’t worry about me—

She stopped again. Still wrong. Another frustrated crumple.

By the third attempt, she loosened her hand, forcing herself to stop overthinking it. She glanced repeatedly between the samples and the blank page, matching his spacing, the lazy drag of certain letters, the slight rightward slant. This time she wrote it all the way through:

Had to get away for a while. Don’t worry about me. Dropping Betsy off at Iris’s. I’ll be in touch.

Sadie sat back, studying it critically. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. The kind of note someone would dash off without thinking too hard.

She folded the page once and left it on the desk, positioned naturally among the clutter where it would be found but not immediately questioned.

Headlights suddenly swept across the room, cutting through the darkness. Sadie stopped in her tracks, then moved quickly to the window, lowering herself just enough to look out. A police cruiser had pulled up in front of the house, followed closely by another car. She recognized them immediately—Sheldon, Eddie, Iris—already getting out and following the police officer toward the front door.

There was no hesitation. Sadie turned, collected the crumpled pieces of paper, and moved swiftly back through the house, retracing her steps with silent precision. She slipped out the back door, easing it closed behind her without a sound, and disappeared into the darkness along the beach just as the doorbell sounded at the front.

* * *

Miranda stood near the fireplace in the family room of the Blackthorne mansion, a drink in her hand she hadn’t touched, while James moved slowly across the space, his attention half on her, half on the quiet of the house.

“Where’s Eddie?” he asked.

“With the police,” Miranda said. “Blake’s missing.”

James stopped, the concern immediate. “Missing?”

She nodded. “No activity on his phone, his credit cards. His car’s still at his house.”

“Let’s hope it’s nothing serious,” he said.

A brief silence settled before Miranda shifted the subject, her tone softening. “How’s Lara doing? Being home again?”

James hesitated just slightly, enough for Miranda to notice. “She seems… different,” he said. “I knew she would, after everything. That was expected. But there’s something else.” He shook his head faintly. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. Renee noticed it too.”

Miranda watched him carefully. “She’s been through a lot,” she said. “Maybe she just needs time to readjust. Being back here, back in her routine—it’s not going to feel normal right away.”

James nodded, though the uncertainty lingered. “You’re probably right,” he said, patting his jacket absently, then checked the other side, frowning slightly.

Miranda noticed. “What?”

“My phone,” he said with a shrug. “I must’ve left it upstairs.  Anyway, how are you doing?”

* * *

Upstairs, Lara was in their bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead but not really seeing anything. The room looked the same—the same furniture, the same moonlight shining in through the windows—but she didn’t feel settled in it yet, like she was still passing through instead of living there.

A faint buzzing sound broke the stillness and Lara blinked, her attention slowly sharpening as she turned her head toward the dresser. The sound came again—persistent this time. She stood, walked over, and saw that it was James’s phone ringing.

She stared at the screen and saw that it was Suzanne calling. Watching it ring, something changed in her expression. The phone buzzed a few more times, then went still.

A second later, the screen lit up again. This time with a text message.

Thank you for being there for me the other night. I don’t know what I would have done without you. 

Lara’s heart thudded in her chest. Something in the wording of the message—being there for me… I don’t know what I would have done without you—made her physically nauseous. Her mind filled in the gaps, rearranging it into something more intimate, more secretive, more personal. 

Something behind her eyes shifted—like a quiet recalibration. She set the phone back exactly where it had been, then turned and walked back to the bed. She sat down, her hands returned to her lap, her posture still, as tears fell from her eyes.