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  Can you say prime suspects? Still, he had to keep it professional.

  “May I ask where you two were last night?”

  Jill jabbed him in the ribs. “Derek!” she hissed.

  He ignored her. She had her job to do, and he had his. Right now, it appeared that his was a hell of a lot more fun than hers.

  “Answer the question,” Derek instructed the brothers.

  Seeming to realize Derek wasn’t going to back down, Jill turned to the Baxters. “I assure you that the Special Agent is not accusing you of anything.”

  “Actually—” Derek started to say, but Jeremy yawned.

  Then replied, “Spago’s.”

  “For Spielberg’s birthday party,” Jason supplied, as he examined his nails.

  “And there are people who can verify this?” Derek asked, scowling. Not that they would be hard to forget.

  “Of course ...” Jeremy replied, rolling his eyes.

  “... It's Spago’s.” Jason finished.

  Oh. Spago’s. As if that cleared it up for Derek. Jab to his ego noted.

  “So if you have any other questions,” Jeremy said as he and his brother rose from their chairs.

  “We have a premiere to prepare for. Ms. Connor knows where to reach us,” Jason finished.

  Oh, Derek definitely had more questions. Like exactly what planet were they from? He opened his mouth, ready to tell them to take a seat, when Jill interrupted. Her mouth stretched into a thin line.

  “Don’t. Just don’t,” she hissed.

  What was it that stopped Derek from pressing the Baxters? Was it that Jill’s cheeks flushed a rosy red when she was angry? Or that he could see the desperation in her eyes? In the end, even after all this time and all that had happened, Derek couldn’t bring himself to cause her more distress. He inclined his head. Besides, he knew where the brothers were going to be tonight.

  Their very own premiere.

  Jill turned back to Jeremy and Jason, her PR smile back in place. “Yes, gentlemen. That will be all. Thank you so much for your time.”

  The brothers walked to the conference room door. Even their footsteps were in sync. Before they stepped out, they turned to Derek and Jill, tipping their hats. Their matching smiles triumphant.

  Derek nearly wiped those smug looks off their faces, but he felt Jill’s hand upon his arm. Her fingers gripped him through his sleeve. It wasn’t a warning grip or a pleading gesture, yet it was one born of intimacy. He doubted that Jill would have reached out if it were Fred standing here.

  Again, Derek held his tongue. Let the bastards think they ruled the roost. If the Baxters were involved in the editor’s death, they were prone to make more mistakes if they thought they had the upper hand. Or at least that is what Derek convinced himself of as the brothers made their way down that long, glass hallway.

  Jill might have loosened her grip, but her tone packed a punch as she turned on him.

  “What the hell are you doing? Antagonizing the Baxters? They have got Access Hollywood on speed dial.”

  Okay, Derek may have let the brothers walk out the door for her, but put up with attitude like this? He simply gave her the stare.

  Words died upon her lips. Jill closed her eyes, clearly regrouping, and then opened them again. Her tone saccharine. Sure she sounded sweet, but did she realize how false it rang?

  “Derek, there’s really no logical reason for you to be questioning the Baxters, because …” she explained, as if she were talking to a toddler. “The police already have the murderer in custody.”

  “Suspected murderer ...” Derek corrected. “I prefer to make my own conclusions.”

  Jill sighed. “So what do we have to do to convince you that the Baxters had nothing to do with Elmore’s death?”

  Not many people would have noticed that Jill’s voice cracked on the editor’s name. That had been the real Jill talking, the one who would have sent flowers and a casserole to Elmore’s family instead of the PR-Jill who was trying to spin his death as nothing more than a freak accident. But Derek wasn’t most people. Jill was still in there. Perhaps under five layers of makeup trying to hide the dark circles under her eyes, but the Jill he knew and loved was still there.

  Derek nodded toward the door. “Let’s go talk to this Mitchell Dixon.”

  * * *

  Jill followed Derek out of Temple Studios’ main lobby. She squinted against the glare of the midmorning sun. The Studios’ driver, Cecil, waited at the curb, the door to the limo open.

  “Thanks, Cecil,” Jill accepted his hand as he guided her into the vehicle.

  Inside the stretch limousine, there were four TV monitors, each tuned to a different station. CNN, E!, Headline News, The View. Terror in the Trees was the top story across the board. Jill picked up a bottle of water chilling on ice and took a sip.

  Derek whistled as he climbed in behind Jill. “Guess there was more money in PR work than I thought.”

  Jill set her water down. “There was a lot more of everything to PR work than you thought.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they tumbled from her lips. Derek’s eyes narrowed and a grimace settled onto his lips. Jesus, hadn’t she hurt him enough already? No matter the fact he had some pretty Cro-Magnon ideas about a woman’s duty to stand by her man, no matter her own career opportunities, Derek had never done anything to justify her Runaway Bride move.

  Or her harsh words, but she was as much at a loss right now as she had been three years ago. And hadn’t he let the Baxter brothers go? She knew he could have pushed the matter and really gotten in their grill, but he had tempered his approach. Still, as she watched him finish his telephone call, no words of thanks would rise to her lips, either.

  It seemed that they were in the same stalemate as they were years ago.

  Derek closed his phone. “We need to talk.”

  With his wounded eyes boring into her, she suddenly found her task list filled with urgent matters. Quickly, she dialed the number for E! News. She needed to confirm that Ryan Seacrest would be on the red carpet. He was the King of E!, like the Baxter brothers were going to be the Kings of Horror.

  “Look, I’m not trying to avoid you,” Jill said as she was transferred to the show’s producer.

  His eyes read, liar.

  God, he could read her as well now as he could before. But her job and her reputation, the only things that mattered in this town, were at stake. She just couldn’t do the whole “how could you?” scene.

  Jill just powered on. “I’ve got a lot of arrangements to make for the premiere.”

  “Not anymore,” Derek stated flatly.

  “Hold on a sec,” Jill told Ryan’s producer, and then turned to Derek. “What do you mean ‘not anymore?’ ”

  Derek settled back against the soft leather seats. “I talked to my agent in charge. We’ve decided to impound the film.”

  “Pam, can I call you back?” Jill hung up before hearing the response. She turned to Derek. “Impound the film? Have you lost it? That is so … so … overreaching.”

  There were a thousand other things she wanted to say, but her mouth simply stopped working. It was either shut up, or simply spew out a litany of curse words.

  “It was one thing to have a string of medical deaths, but now that there is a documented homicide related to the film,” Derek shrugged again, “it is being impounded as evidence.”

  Count to five, Jill. But why would that technique work now? It never calmed her in the past. There was something so insufferable about Derek when he was in his “I’ve got a badge and you don’t” mode that kept red covering her vision.

  “The premiere’s tonight!” Jill knew that she sounded partially hysterical, probably because she was halfway to being hysterical. And having an event this large, with this much press, being canceled? It was career suicide. Her career, in particular. Oh God, and the president. The amount of security and clearance it took to secure him.

  “Postpone it.” Derek stated acting as if
this were just some rain delay at a Padres game.

  “You can’t do this,” Jill hissed. She blinked back the tears threatening to break free.

  Don't cry. Don’t let him see you cry.

  “I just did,” Derek tapped his phone. “Now are you going to call your boss, or am I?”

  From the rippling muscles of his jaw, Derek wasn’t bluffing. But maybe he didn’t understand the magnitude of what he was suggesting. Maybe if she explained it to him.

  “Derek, this isn’t about the Baxter brothers. This premiere is about thousands of people, some flying in from around the world—”

  “On their private jets, from their yachts in Morocco?” Derek asked. He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm. “Yet somehow I think they will find a way to move through their disappointment.”

  Oh, how she hated it when Derek minimized her side of an argument. Now that, that she didn’t miss. Fine. Compromising with Derek had never worked before. How about just fighting fire with fire?

  “I know enough that you can’t just impound the film,” she said, trying her best to sound defiant. “You have to have some legal grounds, or a subpoena.”

  Derek held up a finger for her to wait as he dialed his phone. “Yeah, Fred. How’s that warrant coming?” Jill gulped as Derek listened to the answer, and then repeated it. “Signed already, huh? And a fax of it will be at the station when we arrive? Great. Thanks. And keep that foot propped up.”

  He cocked his head to her in false sympathy. “I guess we found the only judge not on your guest list.”

  It honestly felt to Jill as though she were tumbling down a flight of stairs. The sense of helplessness. The getting knocked in the head, and not being able to breathe. All of it felt so surreal. Like it could not be happening. That Derek hadn’t just doomed her premiere, but the career she had fought so hard to build. Amanda would have her blacklisted over this. Forget ever working in LA, Vancouver, hell, even Dallas wouldn’t take her. Even though none of it was her fault, Amanda would need a scapegoat. A head to be served up to the investors.

  With growing dread, Jill pulled up the number for the head of Temple Studios. She brought the phone up to her ear, but not too close. On a call like this to Amanda, you were likely to lose an eardrum.

  * * *

  Amanda sat at the head of the twelve-foot-long oak table in Temple Studios’ client meeting room. This chamber was reserved exclusively for studio heads and captains of industry. With an elaborate, vintage chandelier and private screening room, it was meant to impress. To reflect the power that Temple Studios held in the film industry.

  If Amanda had any hope of salvaging the studio from bankruptcy, she needed Showtime to pick up the Terror in the Trees documentary. They might not know it, but the men seated before her were not going to be allowed to leave this room until they made an offer.

  “Come on, Amanda. Look at what you are asking us to produce,” Tony, a junior executive with Showtime questioned.

  “Truth or Scare?” Amanda replied. Did they not understand the genius of it? “The real story behind Terror in the Trees.” The way the masses were eating up all of the publicity, Amanda was certain the documentary would really grab them. She continued, “Is it real, or isn’t it? That is the million-dollar question.”

  “A fake documentary about a fake documentary,” he answered, tapping his pen on the table. “I don’t know. And the cost ...”

  “But have you seen our latest ads?” Amanda interrupted, as Howie cued the projector.

  The screen bloomed to life as the lights dimmed. The deep baritone voice of the announcer filled the room.

  “Ever get lost in the woods?”

  The screen flashed to a group of teens treading carefully through a darkened forest.

  “Ever hear bumps in the night?”

  A group of teens huddled around a campfire. Eyes wide. Panicked. Searching around them.

  “Ever live to tell about it?”

  A young girl runs, terrified, through the woods. Blood splatters across the screen, and then goes black. A strangled scream, followed by a wet gurgle, then silence.

  Amanda relished the look on the executives’ faces as the second promo came up.

  “The day you’ve prayed for has come. Graduation. You’ve finally earned your freedom.”

  A group of coeds laughs as they throw backpacks and beer into the back of an SUV.

  “How better to celebrate than a little camping trip to the woods?”

  With a wink, one of the male students tosses a box of condoms into the SUV as two girls in short-shorts run up to the car.

  “No parents ... No teachers ... No responsibilities ...”

  Tents are set up in the background. The group of students drinks around the fire.

  “No one to hear you scream!”

  Amanda could feel her own heart beat faster, not out of fear but out of victory as the co-eds run through the dark woods. Screaming. Covered in blood. Then a smash cut to black. The only sound, a girl’s frantic panting as she whispers, “As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ...”

  Light flooded the conference room. Amanda pushed herself to her feet. Her eyes hit on each executive seated at the table. Now was the time to close the deal. To prove that she was worthy of carrying the Temple name. She was the one who insisted that they take the risk with Terror in the Trees. Amanda went against the majority in securing it.

  “Those promos, gentlemen, will be playing on MTV, the SyFy channel, and the WWE Smackdown next week.”

  The executives shared a glance with each other before Tony responded. “How much did you want for the rights?”

  Elated, Amanda sat down, ready to talk numbers. Jill had her skill set, Amanda had her own. She knew the crazy deaths, the hijacked reels, every bit of gore that Jill fretted over would ultimately help sell Terror in the Trees. It couldn’t have worked better if Amanda planned it herself.

  Amanda’s phone vibrated on the table. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”

  She snatched the phone up as she rose, heading out of earshot of the executives. Was her assistant brain-dead?

  Answering the call, Amanda whispered, “I said, no interr—”

  “I know, Ms. Temple. I tried to tell Jill that you were in the middle of a meeting. She says this is as ‘9-1-1 as it gets.’ ”

  “Fine. Put her through,” Amanda said, and then turned to the executives. “My Vice president,” Amanda nodded toward Howie, “can work out the numbers with you.”

  She stepped out of the room to take the call. This had better be something to do with the president’s need for organic, wild-caught salmon, or Jill would be facing a firing squad when she returned.

  When the line clicked live, Amanda warned Jill, “This had better be good.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  “Oh, God. I told you for the thousandth time! I didn’t do it!” Mitchell dropped his head in his hands. He’d been in this cold, damp interrogation room for hours.

  The drab, gray walls pressed in on him like he was smack-dab in the middle of an episode of Oz. He knew how young guys like him fared. To make matters worse, he’d also had to pee for the last two hours. If they didn’t let him go soon, well, he wasn’t cleaning up the mess.

  Mitchell lifted his head, the one-way glass showed his hair standing on end. His skin pale. “Jesus. This is straight out of The Fugitive.”

  “And I suppose you’re gonna blame this on some one-armed man?” asked the dark-haired detective who had been grilling him since dawn.

  “Ugh!” Mitchell moaned. “I wish I could.”

  To think, a few hours ago he was sitting on his bed watching Halloween. And then … Mitchell shuddered as he thought about the blood that had seeped through his pants and covered his hands. As soon as he arrived, they bagged his clothes and gave him the standard orange jumpsuit. His mother would have a fit if she saw his stained clothes. She had just bought the shirt from Sears.

  And where was she, an
yway? He’d used his one call for her, and she was out getting her hair done? And his dad, well, who knew if Dad even took down the message? No matter how hard Mitchell tried to explain that he was at the police station, accused of murder, his dad just kept saying, “Momma-bear will be home soon enough.”

  Um, clearly not.

  The one time he wanted his mom hovering over him, she was at the beauty parlor. He might have relished the irony if, you know, he didn’t have to pee like a racehorse. Mitchell considered invoking his rights and asking for an attorney, but he knew how that looked. If they didn’t already suspect you, asking for a lawyer sealed your guilt. Besides, his parents had taken out a second mortgage just to afford his doctoral studies. They couldn’t afford the five-hundred- dollars-an-hour fee, plus the retainer. And a public defender? Yeah, Mitchell had watched enough Law & Order to know that he was probably doing a better job then that.

  Just as Mitchell was about to ask to go to the bathroom again, the door jerked open. A man in a suit followed the police lieutenant into the room. The new guy was definitely a Fed. Sure, he had on the same cheap suit and close-cut hair as the lieutenant, but his attitude? Oh, he owned the room. This guy was used to going anywhere he wanted and getting his way.

  “This is Special Agent Derek Boulder,” the lieutenant explained.

  Bingo. Mitchell was good. Well and he’d seen Silence of the Lambs enough times to understand protocol.