I didn’t, of course. For one, Mama’s hand settled on my arm and squeezed. A warning squeeze, one that said I know what you’re thinking and Don’t you dare, all at one time. For two, I wasn’t a barbarian. I did have some form of self-control, some respect for our God Almighty and for Pastor Dinkon, even if that day’s sermon was a load of fundraising crap.

I sat there, my nails biting into my panty-hosed knee, my toes pushing against the front of my shoes, and waited. All through the sermon. The offering. All through three songs of worship. Through the closing, and then, with the crowd rising as one polite mass, I grabbed my purse and bolted out, my eyes frantic for the mayor.

“That Bobbi Jo girl never did anything to nobody. And now she’s in an insane asylum after what Summer Jenkins did.”

“An asylum? I thought Bobbi Jo was up in Athens. Dating a doctor up there.”

“Nope. She’s in an asylum. Doped up on drugs all the time. That’s why no one’s heard from her. Her mama made up that Athens story to save face. But Summer’s the one who should be locked up. That’s my opinion.”

CHAPTER 12

IS CODIA FINISHED?

Associated Press. Los Angeles, California.

Police and emergency personnel were called to the Hollywood Hills West home of Cole Masten and Nadia Smith Saturday night at approximately 7 PM. Shortly after their arrival, an ambulance departed, heading to Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center where Jordan Frett was admitted into ICU, his head wrapped in blood-soaked cloths. There were no arrests made as of press time, but police stayed at the Masten residence until almost midnight, photographers clogging the narrow street leading to their home. “Paparazzi were so thick we couldn’t get through,” Hollywood Hills resident Dana Meterrezi said. “It was a crowd of cameras and people, all converged on the Mastens’ gate, some trying to crawl up the fence. I saw the police arresting three of them, just in the ten minutes it took me to get through.” A total of eleven paparazzi were arrested and charged with trespassing and unlawful entry.

Rumors have ripped through Hollywood, both parties’ representation declining to comment. The only quote we could get was from Jordan Frett himself, who said from his hospital bed, “Nadia Smith is an incredible woman.” Frett is the director of Smith’s current project, a romantic comedy set in South Africa. Why Frett was at the Mastens’ home is unknown.

The Mastens have been married for five years.

CHAPTER 13

“Is this bad?” I leaned against the countertop and looked at Ben, whose expression was pale and tight, his fingers a blur over his laptop, my puny internet service already cursed into oblivion an hour earlier. “I mean, I know this is bad, but how bad is this?”

“Gargantuanly bad.”

I broke open a boiled peanut and popped the nut in my mouth. Thank God my check had already cleared. I mean, not all of it. The studio still owed Ben a quarter of his paycheck, so Ben still owed me five grand, but I was sitting on a fatter bank account than I’d ever seen so if The Fortune Bottle went up in flames, it didn’t make too much difference to me. I tossed the shell into a Solo cup and watched Ben, a man who seemed awfully stressed considering he had also received the bulk of his monies. “Why do you care if The Fortune Bottle crashes?”

He looked up. “The Fortune Bottle isn’t crashing. Movies don’t fall apart over this.” He waved his hands to encompass whatever this was.

Another peanut followed the first into my mouth, the resulting chew squirting in beautiful salty goodness. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is Codia. Cole and Nadia are the glue that holds our picture perfect world together. The glittery ideal that we all strive to become. They are at the center of our world and the forefront of the public’s eye. They buy each other extravagant gifts, have ridiculously hot sex, and vacation on yachts in St. Barths. Codia can’t fall apart, they can’t get divorced, they can’t even squabble over dinner reservations! And they certainly can’t have Cole attempt murder on Nadia’s lover!” His voice squeaked, and I saw, for the first time in four-and-a-half months, a break in the perfect landscape that was his forehead.

I pointed a finger in wonder. “I think you have a wrinkle.”

“What?”

“On your forehead. When you were just yammering on about Cadia. Your forehead actually moved.”

“Codia. Not Cadia. Codia.” His chair shot away from the table, my internet performance forgotten, his smooth-soled shoes heading to the bathroom in search of a mirror.

“Whateveria,” I mumbled, stepping to the fridge to grab the sweet tea. I refilled my own and then poured him a glass, setting it down with purpose next to his energy drink. I didn’t care if it happened the last day of his visit. The man would, eventually, drink my sweet tea and love it. Ben stepped from the bathroom, his hand on his forehead, his face irritated. I waited until he sat down before I spoke.

“I got a call from the sheriff.”

Aww… the cute little wrinkle reappeared. “About?” he asked anxiously.

“Cole Masten. Jeff’s worried he’s violent. Doesn’t want him in our town. He’s gotten some calls from voters.”

“Voters?” The wrinkle deepened, and I fought back a smile.

“It’s an elected position. Being sheriff, I mean. Votes are everything, especially in an election year.”

“Which, I assume, this is.”