Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(12)
Pending doom. Swelling with despair, I sweep my hand across my forehead and then along my jaw. “I know. Fuck. Blake, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”
Blake cheers me up a bit in what is otherwise a dire, futile situation.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to talk to my wise old man. He’s a whiz when it comes to shit like this.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather you not.” The thought of Saul Bernstein, the mighty head of Conquest Broadcasting, knowing my f*cked-up dilemma is unsettling to say the least. Blake’s father’s words of wisdom, which he shared during our lunch on the lot, whirl around in my head. “Sometimes it’s better to forget than remember.”
If only I could make everything with Katrina disappear with a snap of my fingers…abracadabra. It’s not going to happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the psycho bitch strutting our way—Gucci in one arm, a dozen designer shopping bags in the other. A long-sleeved cashmere cardigan camouflages her bandaged wound.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite men doing some male bonding,” she coos as she approaches our booth.
“Hello, Kat,” Blake says icily.
“I hope you and Jennifer will be coming to our wedding.”
Blake narrows his eyes at her. “Not if we can help it.”
A suspicious Katrina shoots me a scathing look. “Don’t f*ck with me, Brandon, if you know what’s good for you.” And then she turns to Blake. “We’ll expect you both there.” She turns on her heel and saunters away.
Blake and I exchange a look of doom. Then, he orders another round of drinks.
Brandon
Back from Cannes after five tortuous days, I let the driver bring my bags into my house while I dash to the guesthouse. A ray of optimism brightens my forlorn state. The lights are on. I knock loudly on the front door.
“Zoey, are you there?”
No answer.
I bang harder. So hard I shred my knuckles.
“Zoey, if you’re there, open up!”
Still no answer.
“Dammit, Zoey. I know you’re there. Stop playing games with me.”
Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I’m ready to knock down the door but on a whim try the doorknob first, giving it a jiggle. To my surprise, the door swings open and my eyes grow wide. The place looks like it’s been ransacked. My first thought, a dark one, almost suffocates me—oh no, Donatelli got to her! While the bastard who murdered both Zoey’s mother and my parents was the last person on my mind in Cannes with all I had to contend with, he now totally consumes me. My heart pounds so forcefully it hurts to breathe. Then my heartbeat calms down when I realize all her personal belongings are gone. Empty closets and cabinets have been left wide open as have drawers. A few are strewn on the floor. There’s only one thing that remains in her bedroom—a shattered Kurt Kussler poster. The one I gave her for Christmas and didn’t even bother signing. My heart leaden, I gather it into my hands and transport it to my house. I feel like I’m carrying some dead version of myself. Reality sinks in—Zoey’s gone for good. She said goodbye in her note and she meant it. There’s someone I need to call.
Setting the poster against a wall in my living room, I scavenge my house. Where the hell did I put it—her father, Pete’s number? He handed me a business card the first time I met him; it’s got to be here somewhere. After a desperate search in which I turn the house upside down, I finally find it tucked under my computer in my office. Pulling out my cell phone from my jeans pocket, I immediately dial his number. He picks up on the first ring.
“Detective Pete Billings, LAPD.”
“Hi, Detective, it’s Brandon…Brandon Taylor.”
“Hello, Brandon.” The coldness in his voice could freeze over Lake Michigan in the summer. It unnerves me.
“Um, uh, sir, I’ve been trying to reach Zoey. I-I’m worried she lost her phone.”
A beat of silence. “No, Brandon, she didn’t lose her phone.”
“Is she all right?” Panic creeps into my voice.
“No, as a matter of fact, she’s not all right.”
Fuck. Does he know what happened in Cannes? Chances are he does. Zoey’s very close and open with her father. She’s the apple of his eye.
“Is she ill?”
“Yes, Brandon, she’s very ill.”
My heart thuds in my ear. “What’s wrong with her?”
“You know as well as I do.” His voice rises with anger. He knows.
A long beat of silence on my end. Guilt and remorse claw their way up to my vocal chords until I have to clear my throat just to be sure I can talk.
“Can I possibly see her?” I sound like a frightened mouse.
“No, Brandon.”
“Can I possibly talk to her?”
“No, Brandon.”
“Detective—”
He cuts me off, but the truth is I don’t know what to say. Words are failing me.
“Listen, Brandon, I want you to stay out of Zoey’s life. You’ve hurt her enough. I, for one, cannot bear to see my little girl hurt anymore.”
“I didn’t mean to.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself.