“She’s a decorated pilot,” Pete said.
“He said that.”
“And we needed someone, especially after the crash,” Pete continued. “Ty was pretty shaken up after the accident, and the ordeal—and he’s still getting used to his new knee, so . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “I think Chet realized that Ty wasn’t going to get back in the cockpit anytime soon. And Chet certainly couldn’t do it. He can barely walk. And I’m sure there’s some tension there, especially since Chet nearly died. Kacey was coming home anyway to be with her daughter, so I guess Chet saw a chance to get her on the team.”
Brette just stared at him, trying to process the information. Accident. Ordeal. New knee. Chet nearly dying. “Oh, wow, uh . . .” And she was trying to figure out where to start when he held up his hand.
“Wait.” Pete stood up and pulled his phone from his pocket. He answered it. “’Sup?”
He glanced at Brette, nodded. Then, “Roger that. I’ll track him down. But did you call Jess? He might be at her place.” A pause. “Okay, well, I’ll look around, then head back.” He hung up.
When he turned back to Jess, he wore a grim expression. “We got a call from Gage. He found Oliver, but apparently he’s hurt and they need an extraction. They’re waiting for the winds to die down, but we might have to go in on snowmobile. Have you seen Ty?”
She was about to shake her head, but his words suddenly registered. “What did you mean, he might be at Jess’s place?”
“Oh, they’re dating. Let me know if he turns up.” He turned to leave, was two paces to the door when he stopped. “If you need anything, consider me a friend. I’ll see if I can track down my brother for that interview too.”
She managed a nod, but he vanished out the door before his words could register.
She simply couldn’t get past “Oh, they’re dating.”
Dating.
She felt as if a hand had reached in and run claws along her insides. Dating?
She couldn’t breathe. Closed her eyes.
She rewound her memory to Ty leaning over the map, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jess. Wow, Brette had read that wrong.
Her memory, for a moment, focused on Jess. What else had she read wrong?
Brette slid out of bed, hobbled over to her personal effects in a plastic bag on the bed tray, and fished out her cell phone.
She climbed back into bed and pulled up her Facebook account. Searched for Selene Taggert.
Nothing.
She pulled up Instagram, did the same, then Tumblr, and finally Twitter.
Nothing.
Selene had been thorough in deleting her accounts.
Brette did a Google search and clicked on images.
Sure enough, Google still stored a few tagged photos of Selene, most of them taken during the allegations and arrest of her father. And these showed a woman with shorter hair and makeup; she was thinner, and for the most part her face was hidden by an arm, or a newspaper, or a jacket.
Inconclusive, but scrolling down she found a grainy old picture of an engagement announcement. Selene Taggert to marry Felipe St. Augustine. She clicked on the image, found it attached to a blog post over five years old detailing a lavish engagement party with pictures worthy of a gossip page.
26-year-old Felipe St. Augustine, heir to the 7.2 billion St. Augustine Corporation, celebrated his upcoming nuptials in a style fit for the daughter of American investment tycoon Damien Taggert.
The first shot showed beautiful Selene Taggert wearing a silver sequined dress, waving while standing in the cutout of a stretch limousine, her handsome fiancé beside her with one arm around her neck, the other holding a bottle of frothy champagne.
The second was a Vine that ran over and over of Selene on a dance floor of some New York Club, laughing as she danced with a group of people.
Brette stilled.
Selene stood in the middle of the room, one arm raised. Beside her, her fiancé bobbed, clearly laughing. And behind him, in a shot caught over and over, a man turned and flashed a smile at Selene.
Tall. Dark hair, curly around the ears. A hint of five o’clock shadow.
Brette would recognize that smile anywhere.
Ty Remington.
He wore a printed T-shirt, a suit coat with the collar up, and his sunglasses tucked in the center of his shirt.
Ty knew Selene Taggert.
The realization rushed over her.
Brette’s instincts hadn’t been addled by her appendicitis attack. Jess Tagg was Selene Jessica Taggert. More, Ty knew it.
And was hiding her.
Brette felt suddenly naked and foolish as she recalled telling him her story. He was probably out right now, warning Selene, telling her to run.
Brette leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. She was a fool. She ached everywhere, and not just because of her surgery.