Last time on L.A. Connections…

Tensions simmered as Iris and Sheldon considered calling the police over Blake’s disappearance, only for Sadie to cover her tracks by forging a note claiming Blake had left town to clear his head. Lara returned from rehab to find Suzanne and James had grown close in her absence, while Suzanne herself continued to shut Mickey out, shaken by the brutal sight of him standing by as his thugs beat a man at Corso. Brett and Sharon made love again. Phoebe and Riley sparked with a flirtatious exchange, and Phoebe unsettled R.J. by speaking in haunting, morbid detail about Matthew’s plane crash.

* * *

Morning light spilled through the kitchen windows as Kelly grabbed her purse from the counter and checked the time on her phone. Phoebe emerged from the hallway fastening an earring, coffee in hand, already halfway mentally into the workday.

“Before we leave,” Kelly said, stopping her, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Phoebe looked up immediately, sensing the shift in tone. “Okay…”

Kelly hesitated for a moment before continuing. “R.J. told me about your conversation yesterday in the car.”

Phoebe’s expression hardened slightly.

“He said you were asking him questions about Dad’s plane crash,” Kelly said carefully. “That you asked him if he thought Grandpa screamed.”

Phoebe looked stricken instantly. “I didn’t say it like that.”

“But you asked about it,” Kelly replied. Not angry exactly—more unsettled. “Phoebe… why are you so obsessed with the crash?”

Phoebe looked away.

Kelly continued more softly now. “The investigation documents I found in your room. The plane crash documentaries. The websites. And now questioning R.J. about the last moments before impact?” She searched her sister’s face. “Have you not come to terms with his death?”

Phoebe’s eyes lowered to the coffee cup in her hands. “No. I mean—yes. I know he’s gone.”

“Then what is this?”

Phoebe struggled for the words. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I just… can’t stop thinking about it.”

Kelly stayed silent.

“When I think about him,” Phoebe continued, her voice becoming more fragile now, “my heart breaks. And then my brain starts going somewhere else.” She swallowed hard. “I obsess over what he went through. Every detail. Whether he was scared. Whether he knew what was happening. Whether there was pain.”

Kelly’s face softened slightly despite herself.

Phoebe shook her head, frustrated with herself. “I know it sounds sick.”

“It sounds… unhealthy,” Kelly said gently. 

Phoebe looked down again. “Maybe it is.” A small pause. “But I can’t turn it off. Once I start thinking about it, I just keep replaying everything over and over again.”

The kitchen fell quiet for a moment.

Then Kelly stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “Have you talked to someone? A professional?”

Phoebe shook her head faintly. “No.”

“It might be a good idea,” Kelly told her. “And look, I don’t want you talking about the crash with R.J. He doesn’t need to hear about that kind of stuff.  It was hard enough when we lost Matthew. I don’t want him reliving it. Is that clear?”  

She nodded, standing there silent as Kelly picked up her keys and the weight of the conversation settled heavily between them.

* * *

Detective Carver sat at his desk surrounded by scattered case files, empty coffee cups, and blown-up crime scene photographs that had already been examined so many times the edges were beginning to curl. Across from him, Detective Morales flipped through financial records again, frustration written plainly across his face.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Morales muttered. “Zoanne was getting cash every few weeks. A lot of it. Somebody was paying her regularly.”

Carver rubbed a hand over his jaw. “And if we knew who, we’d probably know who killed her.”

The bullpen hummed quietly around them, phones ringing in the distance, officers drifting in and out, but neither detective paid much attention anymore. They were stuck.

Morales tossed another sheet onto the pile. “No transfers. No wire trail. Nothing official. Whoever it was knew how to keep it clean.”

Carver leaned back, eyes drifting toward the spread of photographs across the desk. Crime scene shots, evidence photos, then the printouts recovered from Ty Stratton’s cell phone.

Most of them were useless. Random shots. Half-blurry nightlife pictures. Pocket photos. Accidental snaps.

Morales picked one up again—the same image they’d both dismissed three separate times already. “This one still bugs me,” he said.

Carver took it from him. The image was dark and unfocused, apparently taken by mistake. Mostly streaks of motion and shadow. According to the timestamp, it had been captured within minutes of the estimated time of death.

Carver squinted. “Hold on.”

Morales looked up. Near the edge of the frame, buried in the blur, was a tiny flash of gold.

Carver narrowed his eyes further. “You think that looks like a ring?”

Morales leaned over the desk. “Maybe.”

The two men stared at it another moment, then Caver immediately stood, grabbing the photo. “Let’s see if the lab can sharpen it.”

Morales was already reaching for his jacket. “If that’s jewelry,” he said, “and we can identify it…”

Carver finished the thought grimly. “We may finally know who was in that house that night.”

* * *

Mickey’s black Mercedes rolled beneath the porte cochere outside Corso, the tires hissing softly against the polished stone as he parked. Even in daylight, the club projected the wealth and exclusivity that Nico wanted it to. Staff moved in and out through the front entrance carrying cases of liquor and floral arrangements while a valet smoked near the curb, immediately stubbing it out when he recognized the car. Mickey stepped out without acknowledging anyone and headed inside.

The nightclub was dim despite the hour, sunlight filtering weakly through smoked glass panels and catching on gold accents throughout the room. Music played low through the speakers while employees prepared for the evening rush still hours away. A pair of dancers rehearsed lazily near the stage, bartenders stocked shelves, and somewhere deeper in the club someone tested lighting cues that flashed briefly across the empty dance floor.

Nico sat in a curved velvet booth near the center of the room. Receipts and financial reports were spread across the table in front of him while a blonde in a tiny black dress stood behind him, slowly massaging his shoulders and neck as he skimmed through numbers with detached concentration.

Mickey crossed the room toward him.

Nico glanced up briefly. “You’re early.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Without much interest, Nico lifted a hand toward the blonde. “Savannah, give us a minute.”

Before she could turn, Nico reached back, hooking her neck with his hand and pulled her into a deep, hungry kiss. Afterwards, she drifted away toward the bar, leaving Mickey to slide into the booth across from him.

“We’ve got a problem with Armstrong,” he said.

Nico turned another page in the paperwork. “Do we?”

“Jordan Rydell cut him off,” Mickey said. “We can’t move the money through the studio before the shipment comes in.”

Nico looked bored already. “And?”

“And if we don’t get those invoices approved, we’ve got a serious problem.”

Nico finally looked up, irritation flickering across his face. “Can’t you see I’m busy with this?”

Mickey stared at him. “This is family business.”

“Then you and Papa should handle it,” Nico replied coolly. “I just opened a nightclub.”

Mickey leaned back slightly, studying him now. “What is it with you and this place?”

That got Nico’s attention. Slowly, he lifted his eyes again. “What do you mean?” 

Mickey shrugged, stretching one arm lazily across the back of the booth. “You get out of the can, leave a bloody mess in that house in Bel Air where you grabbed those guns, and I start thinking maybe the old Nico’s back,” he said. His gaze dropped to the paperwork spread across the table. “Then I walk in here at eleven in the morning and find you balancing receipts like some Riverside accountant.” 

“I left a bloody mess?” Nico asked with a chortle. “Get your stories straight, bro.”

Mickey held his gaze. “Hey, Nico, it’s me. What do you think—I’m wearing a wire or something?” 

A brief silence settled between them.

Nico’s expression remained unreadable. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Mickey frowned. “That FlickFix broad and her boyfriend.”

Nico leaned back against the booth, completely calm. “What about them?”

“You told me you handled it.”

Nico’s eyes rested on him evenly now, almost detached. “Did I?”

Mickey kept staring at him, confusion beginning to creep beneath the irritation now. For the first time, he seemed unsure whether Nico had been serious that night at all—or whether he’d simply let the implication hang there because he enjoyed the effect it had.

Finally, Mickey pushed himself out of the booth. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.

Nico didn’t answer. He simply flipped another page in the financial reports as Mickey walked off through the empty club, more unsettled than when he arrived.

* * *

The brunch crowd buzzed around the patio of Alcove Cafe & Bakery while traffic rolled steadily past outside. Betsy lay beneath the table at Iris’s feet, occasionally lifting her head whenever someone walked by.

Blake’s note sat folded beside Sheldon’s coffee. He stared at it for another second before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m pissed.”

Iris looked up from her tea. “Sheldon—”

“No, seriously,” he said. “If he was going through something, why wouldn’t he just talk to me?” He gestured toward the note. “‘Needed to get away for a while’? What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Maybe exactly what it says,” Iris replied gently. “Maybe he just needed to clear his head.”

Sheldon leaned back in his chair, frustration still simmering. “We were supposed to go to Corso together that night. Then he leaves town without saying a word to anybody except a note on his desk?”

“He probably didn’t want anyone trying to stop him.”

“That’s not the point,” Sheldon shot back. “You don’t just take off like that when people care about you. I thought he was lying bleeding somewhere for fuck’s sake!”

Betsy let out a soft whine beneath the table.

Iris reached down absently to pet her. “He did make sure Betsy got to me,” she pointed out quietly. “And he left the note before he went. He obviously wasn’t trying to scare anyone.”

Sheldon exhaled hard through his nose, looking away toward the street. “I know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m just angry he shut me out.”

A brief silence settled between them before he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I thought we were done playing games.”

Iris looked at him carefully.

“This doesn’t feel like a relationship to me,” Sheldon said, his hurt finally starting to outweigh the anger. “Honestly… maybe I need to reconsider where I stand in his life.”

Iris frowned slightly. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he replied. “If somebody can just take off without even talking to you first, what exactly are you to them?”

That left Iris without an easy answer as the noise of the café carried on around them and Betsy rested her head sadly against Sheldon’s leg beneath the table.

* * *

Soft instrumental music drifted through Lanvin on Rodeo Drive as shoppers moved quietly between racks of designer clothing and glass display tables lined with handbags and jewelry. Lara stood at a display of silk blouses near the back of the boutique, her sunglasses still on despite being indoors. When she shifted to another rack, her gaze drifted absently for a flicker of a moment.

Across the store, Suzanne examined a cream-colored scarf draped over one arm, speaking politely with a sales associate.

Lara watched her for several long moments, trying to understand what James saw when he looked at her. What it was about her presence that seemed to settle him lately in ways Lara no longer could. There was nothing flashy about Suzanne today—simple slacks, understated jewelry, soft makeup—but maybe that was the point. She moved through the room with an ease Lara suddenly found herself resenting.

Then Suzanne looked up. Their eyes met instantly.  “Oh,” Suzanne said, immediately warm and friendly. “Hi Lara.”

Lara stepped out from behind the display slowly. “Suzanne.”

Suzanne smiled gently. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“Are you?” Lara asked.

The question struck her oddly enough that Suzanne’s smile faltered slightly. “Of course,” she said carefully.

Lara gave a faint nod, though her expression remained difficult to read behind the oversized sunglasses. “That’s nice to hear.”

Suzanne set the scarf down slowly now, sensing something underneath the conversation she couldn’t quite identify. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Lara replied. “Still adjusting.”

“I’m sure.”

Lara tilted her head slightly. “James said you were very supportive while I was away.”

Suzanne hesitated just enough to notice it herself. “Well… he’s an old friend.”

“Yes,” Lara said softly. “You two certainly seem close lately.”

Suzanne studied her, beginning to understand that this wasn’t casual conversation at all. “We’ve known each other a long time,” she said.

“So I’ve heard.”

The sales associate quietly disappeared to the other side of the boutique, sensing tension she wanted no part of.

Suzanne folded her hands lightly in front of her. “Lara… is there something you’re trying to ask me?”

Lara gave a thin smile. “No,” she said lightly. “Should there be?”

Suzanne held her gaze for a moment, trying to decide whether Lara was simply fragile from everything she’d been through or whether there was something else underneath the conversation. Finally, she gave a polite smile. “I should probably let you shop,” she said gently.

“Ok,” Lara replied. “Lovely seeing you.”

Suzanne nodded, though she still looked unsettled. “Take care of yourself, Lara.”

“You too.”

Suzanne turned and walked toward the front of the boutique, pausing only briefly to collect her bag from the sales counter before disappearing out onto Rodeo Drive.

A sales associate cautiously approached Lara again. “Would you like to see the handbag you were looking at earlier, Mrs. Blackthorne?”

Lara’s eyes stayed fixed on the boutique entrance a moment longer before she finally blinked and looked away. “No,” she said quietly. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

* * *

The doors to Miranda’s office swung open with more force than usual, drawing attention across the bullpen of the Miranda Blackthorne Agency.

“Kelly. Jane. Heather,” she called. “Conference room. Now.”

The tone alone was enough to tell them it wasn’t good. They followed her into the conference room. Miranda remained standing, composed on the surface, though the strain underneath was beginning to show.

“We lost another client,” she said bluntly.

Jane blinked. “Another one?”

Miranda nodded. “Daphne Vale.”

Heather’s face fell immediately. “You’re kidding.”

“That brings the body count to ten,” Miranda said, her tone full of dramatic resignation.

A stunned silence followed.

Kelly folded her arms tightly. “This is insane.”

Miranda gave a humorless laugh under her breath. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

Jane shook her head. “Daphne loved you.”

“She loved me until her publicist saw another clip from the trial circulating online this morning,” Miranda replied coolly. “Apparently now I’m ‘too controversial’ to be attached to.”

Heather looked furious. “People are unbelievable.”

“The footage keeps spreading,” Miranda continued. “Every time somebody reposts it, every time another entertainment site runs one of those disgusting little retrospectives, more clients panic and start distancing themselves.” She looked around at them evenly. “And the perception becomes reality.”

Kelly’s expression hardened. “So what? We just sit here while Vaughan Novak picks everyone off?”

Miranda’s expression hardened slightly at the mention of Vaughan Novak. “No,” she said firmly. “We do not panic. We do not spiral. And we do not let people smell blood in the water.”

But even as she said it, the mood in the room had already changed. Everyone could feel it.

The agency was bleeding.

* * *

Meanwhile, out in the reception area, Phoebe sat behind the front desk staring at her computer screen without really seeing it. Kelly’s words from that morning kept replaying in her head, each one lingering a little longer than she wanted it to.

The elevator doors opened and she looked up to find Keaton stepping out carrying an iced coffee tray.

“Well, hello, receptionist to the stars.”

Phoebe managed a faint smile. “Hi.”

He walked over and lifted one of the drinks slightly. “I brought Kelly her usual from Alfred Coffee. Extremely heroic behavior on my part, considering the line.”

“That is brave,” Phoebe said while trying to muster a sense of humor despite her mood.

Keaton glanced toward the closed conference room doors. “She around?”

“They’re in a meeting. Apparently another client left.”

Keaton sighed immediately. “Oof.”

“Yeah.”

He studied her for another second then, his expression softening. “You okay?”

Phoebe straightened slightly. “Me? Yeah. I’m fine.”

Keaton didn’t look entirely convinced. “You just seem a little…” He tilted his head. “Sad.”

Phoebe looked down briefly at the papers on the desk. “Just family stuff.”

Keaton nodded slowly, not pushing. “Well,” he said gently, “if you need someone to talk to… It can’t be easy being thrown to the wolves in this town.” 

That finally got a real smile out of her.  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do,” he said lightly, setting Kelly’s drink on the desk. “You’re Kelly’s sister and I know how important you’ve become to her.” 

Phoebe’s smile lingered for a second after he said it, but as Keaton headed toward the bullpen, it faded slightly.  She let out a quiet breath and looked down at the desk.

I’m not so sure about that, she thought to herself.

* * *

Detective Carver had barely stepped back into the station before Morales came striding quickly across the bullpen toward him, a photograph clutched in his hand.

“The lab got that photo cleaned up,” Morales said immediately.

Carver shut the door behind him. “And?”

Morales handed over the enlarged lab image. The blurry gold gleam from Ty Stratton’s accidental cell phone photo had been sharpened considerably. Still grainy, but clear enough now to unmistakably make out a heavy gold ring bearing the stylized torch insignia of Silverdale Telepictures engraved into the face.

Carver’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus.”

“Told you it looked like a ring.”

Carver studied the image another second. “How many people have these?”

“Senior executives, legacy family types,” Morales replied. “Silverdale treats them like class rings for rich sociopaths.”

Carver looked up sharply. “Jason Merrick.”

Morales nodded grimly. “I think we counted him out too fast.”

“He had an alibi.”

“Yeah,” Morales said. “For part of the night.” He grabbed another folder from under his arm and flipped it open. “And don’t forget—multiple witnesses saw him and Zoanne in a screaming match at an industry mixer a few days before the murders.”

Carver remembered it immediately. At the time it had seemed like messy relationship fallout, but now it looked different.

“She was getting paid off,” Carver muttered. “Cash every few weeks.”

“And if Jason was involved in that arrangement,” Morales said, “he’s got motive.”

Carver handed the photograph back to him. “Bring him back in.”

Morales was already moving toward his desk. “I’ll make the call.”

As he walked off, Carver looked once more toward the enlarged image sitting on the folder, the gleaming Silverdale insignia suddenly feeling a whole lot heavier than a piece of jewelry.

* * *

Nico sat alone in his office at Corso while the muffled pulse of music from the club floor vibrated faintly through the walls. Financial reports and receipts were spread across his desk, though his attention had long since drifted from the numbers. Almost absently, he reached down and pulled open the bottom drawer beside him.

Inside sat one of the guns he had taken from the Bel Air house.

His eyes fixed on it immediately, and after a moment he reached in and lifted it carefully into his hand. The weight of it brought the memory back with uncomfortable clarity.

That night, he had approached the property expecting nothing more than a quick burglary. The gate had already been damaged, hanging partially open, which struck him at the time as careless but convenient. He remembered moving quietly up the side of the house toward the kitchen entrance, testing the handle, and finding the door unlocked.

Inside, the house had been silent. Then he saw them.

A brunette woman lying across the kitchen floor in blood, a younger man crumpled nearby against the island. The smell hit first—copper and gunpowder lingering heavily in the air. Nico remembered pausing only briefly, crouching near the man long enough to confirm what was obvious before his attention shifted elsewhere.

Toward the guns laid out openly nearby.

That was what had mattered to him in the moment.

He remembered pocketing the weapon casually before opening the refrigerator.. Leftover takeout containers sat inside, and he’d eaten directly from one while standing only feet from the bodies, completely unbothered by the scene around him. When he finished, he left through the same kitchen door he’d entered without ever calling the police or looking back.

Now, sitting in his office again, Nico slowly turned the gun once in his hand, his expression unreadable as the memory settled over him. Finally, he placed the weapon back inside, shut the drawer, and returned his attention to the paperwork.

* * *

Lara moved slowly down the upstairs hallway of the Blackthorne Mansion, trailing her fingertips absently along the polished banister as Ruthie emerged from one of the bedrooms carrying a neatly folded stack of clothes.

“Oh, Mrs. Blackthorne,” Ruthie said warmly. “I was just gathering things for the dry cleaners. Did you have anything else you wanted sent out?”

Lara gave a faint smile. “No, thank you, Ruthie.”

As the dutiful housekeeper shifted the stack in her arms, Lara’s eyes drifted downward, and stopped. A smear of lipstick marked the collar of one of James’s white dress shirts. Bright. Rose-colored. Lara’s expression changed instantly.

Without a word, she reached down and pulled the shirt from the stack.

“Mrs. Blackthorne?” Ruthie asked, startled.

But Lara was already turning away.

Moments later, she swept downstairs and into the study where James sat behind his desk. He looked up immediately at the force of her entrance.

“Lara—”

She threw the shirt onto the desk. “Whose lipstick is that?”

James blinked, completely caught off guard. “What?”

“The lipstick,” Lara snapped. “On your collar.”

James picked up the shirt, looking genuinely confused as he noticed the stain for the first time. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably Miranda’s. Or maybe Renee’s.”

Lara studied the lipstick stain with a keen eye. “This isn’t Miranda’s shade.”

James stared at her, thrown by the intensity.

“And Renee?” Lara continued bitterly. “Please.”

Realization slowly began dawning across his face. “Lara…”

“It’s Suzanne’s, isn’t it?”

James looked genuinely stunned now. “What are you talking about?”

“Renee told me all about how helpful Suzanne was while I was gone,” Lara shot back. “How close the two of you became.”

James exhaled heavily. “Suzanne was helpful. She’s an old friend.”

“I saw you with her that day you visited me,” Lara continued, emotion beginning to crack through now. “You were holding her.”

James frowned. “She was upset.”

“Oh, of course she was.”

“Lara—”

“And now she’s calling you? Texting you?” she demanded. “And suddenly your shirts are coming home with lipstick on them?”

James stared at her in disbelief. “There is nothing going on between me and Suzanne.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Because it’s the truth.”

Lara laughed under her breath. “I leave this house for one month and somehow another woman becomes your emotional support system.”

“That’s not what happened. I ran into her by chance at the treatment center, and a couple of times in town. She just had a traumatic breakup and she—”

“Oh, how convenient.”

James stood slowly from behind the desk, frustration beginning to rise beneath his confusion. “I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

But Lara barely seemed to hear him anymore, standing rigidly across from him with the shirt still clenched tightly in her hand like proof of something she had already convinced herself was true.

* * *

Late afternoon light spilled through the windows of Suzanne’s condo as she knelt beside the windowseat overlooking the city. The oversized storage drawer beneath it was pulled all the way out, filled with folded blankets and old linens she had been reorganizing for the better part of an hour simply to keep herself occupied.

She slid the drawer shut slowly, the wood gliding back into place with a hollow thud.

At that exact moment, her phone rang. She glanced toward the counter, already knowing before she even looked who it would be.

She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled through her nose before answering. “Mickey…”

“Finally,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Suzanne ran a hand through her hair tiredly as she moved toward the kitchen. “I don’t know how else to make this clear.”

“Suzanne—”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

Silence hung on the line for a second.

Then, quieter now: “I love you.”

The words hit exactly where he intended them to. Suzanne stopped moving. Her eyes closed again, and for one dangerous moment the emotion underneath everything threatened to surface—the part of her that did love him, or at least the version of him she thought existed.

But then she saw it again in her mind: the back room at Corso, the blood, the sounds of that man being beaten while Mickey stood there watching.

Her gaze drifted downward. “It’s over,” she said softly.

Before he could answer, she ended the call. The silence afterward felt enormous.

Suzanne lowered the phone slowly, standing alone in the quiet condo as emotion flickered across her face before she forced it back down again.

* * *

The pool house felt unusually quiet in the late afternoon light, the curtains stirring faintly from the breeze drifting in through the cracked windows. Sadie sat curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, looking pale and delicate in an oversized cream-colored sweater, a mug of herbal tea resting between both hands.

Iris stood nearby sorting through mail before glancing over at her sister. “When’s your next chemo appointment?”

Sadie blinked slowly, as though pulling herself back from somewhere far away. “Mm. I can’t remember,” she said softly. “I’ll have to call the clinic and confirm. Time feels very slippery lately.”

Iris frowned. “I still wish you’d let me help you through this more.”

Sadie gave her a smile. “You are helping me.”

“No, I mean really helping. Going with you. Being there.” Iris shook her head slightly. “We’re sisters.”

Sadie lowered her eyes to the tea in her hands. “Some journeys have to be walked spiritually alone,” she said gently. “Otherwise you interrupt the soul’s healing process.”

Iris sighed faintly. “That sounds like something you read on a candle.”

Sadie smiled. Then, calmly: “Any word from Blake?”

Iris nodded. “He left a note at the house.” She moved to sit down across from her. “Said he needed to get away for a while.”

Elated that the forgery worked, Sadie let out a cleansing breath. “See?” she said. “Everybody has their own journey. Their own energetic reset.” She took another sip of tea. “He’ll probably come back better than ever.”

Iris wanted to believe her.

A brief silence passed before Sadie spoke again. “I’ve been thinking maybe we should leave town.”

Iris looked up immediately. “What?”

“Go back to Edmonton for a while,” Sadie said. “Maybe we need a reset too. Everything here feels… poisoned lately.”

Iris stared at her. “Sadie—”

“You got fired from the agency—”

“You got me fired from the agency,” Iris corrected bluntly.

Sadie winced slightly but continued. “And then my cancer diagnosis, and all this stress with Blake…” She looked around the little pool house sadly. “Nothing seems to be going well.”

Iris shook her head firmly. “No. I’m not leaving.”

Sadie watched her carefully.

“I’m going to get my career back on track,” Iris said with growing certainty. “You’re going to beat this cancer. And Blake is going to come home.”

She stood, clipping Betsy’s leash into place.

“End of story.”

With that, Iris headed outside with Betsy trotting beside her, leaving Sadie alone in the suddenly quiet room.

The softness drained from Sadie’s expression almost immediately as she stared toward the door after her sister, her mind visibly working beneath the calm exterior.

* * *

James had insisted they get out of the house for the evening, calling it “a course correction,” and by the time he and Lara arrived at Corso, the club was already alive with music, low lighting, and the steady churn of Hollywood nightlife. James had secured them a quieter table tucked slightly away from the dance floor, though Lara still seemed distracted, her eyes drifting more often than not toward the crowd around them.

“You okay?” James asked gently after the waitress walked away with their drink order.

Lara forced a smile. “I’m trying. I just still feel so silly about earlier. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

Before James could respond, a familiar voice cut in.

“James.”

Mickey appeared beside the table in a dark suit, composed as always but with something sharper beneath the surface tonight. His eyes passed briefly toward Lara before settling back on James. “Mind if I steal you for a second?”

James hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Excuse me.”

Lara watched the two men disappear a short distance into the crowd near the bar.

Mickey wasted no time once they were alone. “I heard you left with Suzanne after the club opening.”

James looked at him evenly. “She was upset. I ran into her outside and asked if she was alright.”

“How valiant.”

James folded his arms lightly. “I just made sure she got home alright. That’s all.”

Mickey nodded slowly, but his expression didn’t change. “Did she say what she was upset about?” 

“I think it was just a lot of emotions catching up to her at once,” James replied after a brief pause.

A faint smile touched Mickey’s mouth, though there was no warmth in it. “I see.”

Back at the table, Lara sat quietly with her champagne untouched when James’s phone lit up beside her on the velvet seat.

Suzanne. The text preview glowed briefly across the screen. I’m starting to think Mickey is never going to leave me alone…

Lara’s face remained perfectly still. Only her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass before she carefully looked away just as James returned to the table.

“You alright?” he asked as he sat back down.

Lara lifted her eyes to him smoothly, smiling once again. “Of course,” she said softly.

Then she took a sip of champagne, pretending she hadn’t seen a thing.

* * *

The interrogation room had long since stopped feeling cold to Jason Merrick. At this point, the fluorescent lights overhead only sharpened his irritation as he sat across from Detectives Carver and Morales with his sleeves rolled up and his jaw clenched from repeating the same answers for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I already told you,” he said sharply, “I couldn’t have killed them because I was in San Francisco.”

Carver leaned back slightly in his chair, watching him carefully. “Can anyone verify that?”

Jason let out a disbelieving laugh. “Yes. An entire ballroom full of people can verify it. I was at a Silverdale corporate event.”

Morales slid a folder across the table. “You could’ve left early.”

“I would’ve shown up on a flight manifest.”

“You could’ve driven.”

That visibly struck a nerve. Jason’s expression darkened immediately as Morales continued.

“There was enough time to leave the event, drive back to Los Angeles, go to the victims house, and drive back before morning.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Carver asked calmly.

Jason leaned forward now, anger beginning to overpower restraint. “Why would I kill her?”

Carver didn’t blink. “Maybe because the two of you had a major blowup days before the murders.”

Jason looked away.

“She had a protective order against you,” Morales added. “That’s not exactly normal post-relationship paperwork.”

“What were you fighting about?” Carver asked.

Jason stayed silent, his jaw tightening further.

“Mr. Merrick?”

Finally, Jason shook his head sharply. “I’m done talking. I want my lawyer.”

Before either detective could respond, the interrogation room door swung open hard enough to rattle the glass.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Franklin Merrick stormed inside accompanied by an officer trying unsuccessfully to stop him. Even furious, Franklin carried the polished authority of someone accustomed to controlling every room he entered. His expensive suit was immaculate, his voice sharp with outrage.

“You bring my son back down here after clearing him?” he demanded. “On what basis?”

“Mr. Merrick, you need to step outside,” Morales warned.

“No, I’d like an explanation.”

The room erupted into overlapping voices as Morales stood, the officer tried calming Franklin down, and Jason rose halfway from his chair in frustration. Amid the chaos, Carver’s attention drifted briefly downward toward Franklin’s hand resting against the table.

The torch insignia of Silverdale Telepictures gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights exactly like the one the lab had isolated from Ty Stratton’s cell phone photo.

Carver looked up slowly. 

Jason followed his gaze a second too late. “I just didn’t want her going to the media,” he blurted suddenly.

The room went silent almost instantly.

Jason looked panicked now, realizing too late what he had said. “I couldn’t let her do it.”

Carver’s voice lowered carefully. “Do what?”

Jason swallowed hard. “That’s what we were fighting about.”

For one suspended moment, it sounded like a confession. Then Jason turned toward his father, desperation written all over his face.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t want her ruining you.”

The detectives exchanged a look.

Franklin closed his eyes. When he finally spoke again, the fight had completely drained out of him. “I did it.”

Jason stared at him in shock. “Dad—”

Franklin slowly pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly looking much older than he had moments earlier. He kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop as he spoke.

“We were at a company retreat in Carmel. Zoanne was there with Jason.” His brow furrowed slightly. “She found me with someone. A married woman.”

The memory flashed through his mind vividly…

“All that moral high ground you and your board ride is total bullshit,” she snapped. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“If this gets out, the board will destroy me.”

“You should’ve thought about that before sleeping with another man’s wife.”

“Silverdale will be finished.”

Zoanne crossed her arms coldly. “Then I guess my silence is going to cost you.”

Franklin rubbed a hand shakily across his mouth. “She blackmailed me for months,” he admitted. “Cash payments every few weeks. More and more demands.” His voice cracked slightly. “Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Jason sat frozen beside him, visibly horrified.

“I went to her house that night with another payment. We argued. Things got physical.” Franklin stared blankly ahead now, trapped inside the memory. “She grabbed a gun. We struggled over it. I took it from her and I shot her.”

Carver remained silent, letting him continue.

“Then the younger man walked in.” Franklin swallowed hard. 

Morales spoke quietly. “Ty Stratton.”

Franklin nodded faintly. “He saw me.” His composure finally broke. “I couldn’t let him leave.”

“He tried taking a picture with his phone before you shot him too,” Morales said.

Jason recoiled slightly in his chair, staring at his father with complete disbelief. “You killed them?” he whispered.

Franklin lowered his head into his hands as the reality of what he’d admitted settled over the room.

Carver finally stood. “Franklin Merrick,” he said evenly, “you are under arrest for the murders of Zoanne Voss and Ty Stratton.”

As Morales moved forward with the cuffs, Jason remained motionless in his chair, watching the complete collapse of the man he had spent his entire life admiring.

* * *

Morning sunlight spilled across the kitchen of Kelly’s house as the television murmured softly in the background. Breakfast dishes and coffee mugs cluttered the island while Kelly flipped through emails on her phone, Keaton worked through a plate of eggs, and Phoebe rinsed dishes quietly at the sink.

The tone of the morning shifted instantly when the anchorwoman’s voice sharpened from the television.

“We are following breaking news this morning in the murders of Zoanne Voss and Ty Stratton. Silverdale Telepictures chairman Franklin Merrick was arrested late last night after confessing to both killings—”

Kelly’s head snapped toward the television.

Onscreen footage showed Franklin being led into police headquarters in handcuffs while reporters shouted questions from behind barricades.

“…sources say Voss had allegedly been blackmailing Merrick over an affair he was having with a married woman…”

“Oh my god,” Kelly breathed.

Keaton sat up straighter. “Wait. Isn’t that the guy who fired Riley because they claimed he was ‘morally bankrupt’?”

Kelly let out a stunned laugh despite herself. “Yes,” she said incredulously. “That would be him.”

The hypocrisy of it all settled heavily over the room as the report continued detailing Silverdale’s “family values” branding alongside Franklin’s confession.

Kelly shook her head. “You know what? I want to go tell Riley about this personally.”

Keaton smiled faintly. “I support this level of pettiness.”

“It won’t change anything,” Kelly admitted as she stood and grabbed her bag. “But maybe it’ll give him at least a little vindication knowing those people were complete frauds.” She pointed lightly between them. “You two okay here?”

Phoebe turned from the sink and nodded. “Yeah. Go.”

A moment later Kelly was gone, the front door shutting behind her as the news continued playing softly in the background.

Phoebe moved around the kitchen gathering plates and cups, trying to refocus herself on small tasks while Keaton remained seated at the island scrolling absently through his phone.

Then another report interrupted the broadcast.

“This morning, recovery efforts continue after a passenger jet crashed overnight outside Jakarta…”

Images flashed across the television screen—smoldering wreckage of the fuselage, twisted metal scattered across a field.  

Phoebe froze instantly. The plate slipped from her hands and shattered against the floor.

Keaton looked up sharply. “Phoebe—”

But she was already unraveling, staring at the television as though she couldn’t look away. Her breathing became uneven almost immediately. “Turn it off—no, wait—”

Keaton rushed toward her just as another image of the wreckage appeared.

Phoebe crumpled downward beside the broken dishes, tears spilling over before she could stop them. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she cried. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t.”

Keaton knelt beside her quickly. “Hey, hey—”

“My dad,” she sobbed. “What he went through on that plane—those last minutes—I think about it constantly.”

Keaton gently took the broken plate pieces from her trembling hands before she could cut herself.

“I keep imagining it,” she continued hysterically. “The fear, the falling, the panic… I can’t make it stop. What is wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Keaton said softly.

“Yes there is!” Phoebe cried. “Normal people don’t obsess over things like this.”

Keaton immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her carefully against him as she broke down on the kitchen floor. He held her tightly, one hand against the back of her head, grounding her while she cried into his shoulder.