“Ella Wade.”
He types something on the computer in front of him before he looks at me again. “Right, Miss Wade. Come with me, please.”
I follow him down a hallway to a private office. He knocks. “Come in,” a strong, pleasant male voice says before my guide opens the door and ushers me in.
The door closes behind me and I’m left staring at an attractive, tall man in his late twenties to early thirties. He has dark hair and captivating hazel eyes. His broad shoulders and strong pecs are visible underneath his light blue buttoned shirt.
“Miss Wade, please, sit down,” he says, offering me the chair in front of his desk. He sits behind the desk, fixing his navy blue tie. “Detective Esposito,” he says, extending a hand.
I take his hand, cautiously. The shock of the news of Madison’s death has abated enough that I can now realize the oddity of this encounter.
Detective Esposito has been waiting for me. The question is why.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
He tilts a crystal bowl on his desk to offer me some candy. I shake my head to refuse the offer. Candy? Just how old does he think I am?
He furrows his brow as he considers my words. “You don’t know? Aren’t you Madison Starr’s sister, the one working for the Daily Scandal?”
“Stepsister. And yes to both. I still don’t know why I’m in your office. There was supposed to be a press conference.”
“Yes, yes. That was postponed as new evidence accumulates. You’re a lucky woman, Miss Wade. Mark Devlin had to pull quite a few favors to get you in here.”
His cologne is so intense it penetrates not only my nostrils, but, I swear, it’s irritating my eyes. Maddy would have been able to name the brand, I’m sure. “I don’t feel particularly lucky today, Detective Esposito.”
“Please, call me Rick,” he says. “After all, we’ll be spending some time together these next few days.”
What the hell is he talking about? If this whole thing has been a dream, it’s about time I woke up and the sooner the better. I slap my thigh hard. It hurts. Like a lot. I’m not asleep.
Rick Esposito fixes his eyes on me, trying to determine the meaning of my sudden thigh slap. To my relief, he keeps his curiosity to himself.
“What will we be working on?” I manage to ask, now that I’m certain I’m not dreaming. Always ask the right questions if you want the right answers is a phrase that Mark constantly repeats at the office.
The detective taps his fingers on the desk as his eyes zoom in on my puzzled face. “Devlin didn’t tell you much, did he?” he concludes with a smirk that could be amusement or annoyance, or both.
“Not really,” I admit, getting quite annoyed myself.
“All right,” Detective Esposito says, picking the jacket from the back of his chair and putting it on. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Finding myself seated next to a hardboiled police detective in his Toyota Avalon on the way to The Next Big Thing, one of the world’s most prestigious modeling agencies, was the last thing I expected when I woke up this morning.
I don’t know how Mark pulled this off and, frankly, I don’t want to know but according to Rick Esposito, I will be the one and only reporter to follow the investigation from up close as it happens.
It’s not hard to understand why Mark is so invested in this. It’s his one chance at a breaking story that will stretch beyond the scandalous nature of his publication. The mystery of Madison Starr’s murder covered by her very own stepsister in an exclusive blow-by-blow account.
It’s likely to push traffic to the site through the roof.
“Here we are,” Esposito says as he pulls into an underground parking lot on Wilshire Boulevard.
We take the elevator up to The Next Big Thing offices that completely consume two entire floors.
“You’re not a big talker,” Esposito says as we go through security at the main entrance to the agency.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask the lady who takes my bag and asks me to raise my arms to shoulder height and spread my legs slightly so she can scan me with the stick she’s holding.
“Yes,” she says dryly, patting down my arms and legs.
I turn to watch Esposito’s overly pleased expression as he’s watching me being probed and patted. I can’t shake the thought that he specifically asked the security guards to check me thoroughly for no other reason than his personal amusement.
“Well?” he says as we’re finally cleared to enter the agency premises.
“Well what?”
“Why’d you take the assignment?”
So far he’s not very likeable. “Does it matter?” I say as I exhale.