There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(49)

“He killed Erin.”

“Only on impulse. He was there for you.”

I imagine Shaw’s heavy hand clamping over my mouth while I lay sound asleep on my old mattress.

Going to Cole’s house that night saved my life.

It will lose Shaw his.





Three days later, Gemma Zhang publishes her article about me.

She’s complimentary to my work and the show in general.

But the final paragraph makes my stomach lurch:

I contacted Mara’s mother Tori Eldritch to get her comment on the autobiographical show that references themes of neglect and abuse.

Tori said:

“It’s all lies. Mara had a perfect childhood, anything she could ever want. She was pampered. Spoiled, even. She’ll do anything for attention, she’s always been that way. I took her to so many psychiatrists, but they could never fix her. I don’t call that art. Fantasy, more like. A filthy, deceptive fantasy to slander the people who took care of her. My lawyer says I should sue her for defamation.”

That puts a different spin on the collection of ostensibly personal images.

In speaking to Mara Eldritch, she told me, “Childhood shapes all of us—the events we remember, and even those we don’t.”

Perhaps Mara is leaning hard on those events we “don’t remember.”





I shove the laptop away from me, face burning.

“That fucking CUNT!” I shout.

“Gemma, or your mother?” Cole inquires.

“Both!”

“No one’s going to believe your mother,” Cole says dismissively. “She’s nobody. You’re the one with the microphone.”

I’m still seething, the room spinning around me.

“She can’t let me have anything. She can’t stand what it would mean, if I succeed without her, in spite of her.”

“You already are succeeding,” Cole says serenely. “And she can’t do a damn thing about it.”





14





Cole





Mara’s mother’s giving interviews.

If Gemma Zhang can find her, so can I.

It’s been too long since I put my online stalking skills to use. I spend an afternoon in my office at the studio, hunting down Tori Eldritch and Randall Pratt.

This is something I’ve been intending to do for some time now. I want to know exactly where those two are living and what they’re up to.

Randall is surprisingly difficult to locate.

I assume somebody other than myself is interested in breaking his kneecaps, because his supposed address was only a rented office space, with no car registered under his name.

I still manage to find a phone number that I’m pretty sure is a working cell.

He answers the second time I call.

“What?”

Rough as a bag of rocks rolling around in the back of a truck—just like Mara said.

The voice I plan to use is clear and friendly, with a slight Midwest twang. The kind of voice designed to disarm Randall without quite mimicking him.

“Hey there Mr. Pratt. My name’s Kyle Warner. I write for the Chronicle, and I’m doing a story on an artist named Mara Eldritch. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

A long pause.

“Not interested,” Randall grunts, rustling the phone like he’s about to hang up.

“Well, hang on!” I say. “Could ya at least confirm a quote I got from her mother Tori Eldritch?”

Another pause, even longer.

I hear his heavy breath on the other end of the line.

“You talked to Tori?”

“That’s right.”

“In person, or over the phone?”

“I flew up to speak with her.”

“Flew where?”

Now it’s my turn to let a brief silence fall between us. Keeping my tone cheerful, I say, “Well, we can discuss that in person. I need another source for this article. Pay’s five hundred bucks, and it won’t take but a little of your time.”

Breath. Breath. Heavy breath. Hot and wet in my ear.

“Alright,” Randall grunts. “I’m in La Crescenta. You can meet me at a pub called The Black Dog.”

A smile spreads over my face where Randall can’t possibly see it.

“Perfect.”





Mara and I drive out to Burbank together. She’s going to be interviewed for the DBS morning show.

“I don’t know if I want to be on TV,” she tells me, raising her hand to her mouth, then quickly putting it back down on her lap, twisting her fingers together in anguish.

She got a manicure and doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. “I’ll be right there with you, watching the whole time.”

“What do you think they’ll ask me?”

“Nothing challenging—it’s a morning show, for fuck’s sake. If they weren’t talking to you, they’d probably be interviewing the lady who baked the world’s biggest donut.”

“They should interview her,” Mara laughs. “What an accomplishment.”

“You know we have to be at the studio at 4:15 a.m. for hair and makeup.”