Well, fuck it, then. He was just going to have to go to LA.
"I'm so glad," his mother said when he called to tell her he was driving down that morning. "We're stuck down here for at least three more days, and I was afraid we wouldn't have enough time together before you had to pack and head for Massachusetts."
"I'm just going to grab my backpack. I'll be there in time for a late lunch. Can we maybe go to Gladstones?" The Malibu restaurant was touristy, but he was in the mood to sit by the ocean.
"Why don't you go with your father, and we'll all three go somewhere tonight. I'm going to be stuck on the lot until tonight. The producers have notes." She sounded less than thrilled, and he supposed he understood that. She loved writing, but hated revising to please the corporate know-it-alls.
"Sure," he said, trying to sound like he didn't care. "Dad and I will just gossip about you."
"You do that. It'll be good for him. He's been in such a funk lately, and I hate that I've been so busy with work."
"He knows, Mom. But I'll entertain him. I'll drag him out for a walk or something."
"You're a good kid, Wyatt. Love you, baby."
"You, too, Mom."
He called his dad next, but there was no answer. He left a message, knowing his dad never answered the phone if he was reading or working on a client's spreadsheet. Then he went home, told his grandmother he was heading to LA for a couple of days, and hit the road.
He spent the drive trying not to think, and mostly managed that task by shoving a constant stream of CDs into the player. And whenever one of the songs touched on relationships or breaking up or broken hearts, he just pressed the button to pop to the next song.
By the time he reached their house in Beverly Hills, his mood had actually improved.
He left his car in the drive just past the gate, then walked to the front door. As far as Hollywood families went, the house was relatively small, but that was because his mom preferred cozy. Probably because she'd grown up in a mansion that required a map and a compass. They also didn't have live-in staff, though his mother kept a chef on call, and a housekeeper came in every morning when the house was occupied.
He entered through the kitchen, and saw the note from Tilda on the island outlining what she'd done and when she would be in the next day. "Hey, Dad! It's me," he called, as he punched in the code to deactivate the now-beeping alarm. "You busy?"
No answer, but sometimes his dad wore headphones while he worked, and so Wyatt headed out of the kitchen and through the living area to the dark-paneled office that his father had claimed when his parents bought the house six years ago.
The door was shut, which was unusual, as Carlton usually kept it open when he was alone. Wyatt knocked twice, got no answer, and pushed the door open.
Or tried to. It moved about a half an inch, then stuck.
Annoyed, he shoved harder. The door gave, and he lost his footing and tumbled into the room, hitting his head on something in the process.
He broke his fall with his hands before twisting around to see what the hell had assaulted him.
His father's feet.
Immediately, he leapt up, the sound of his own scream ringing though the room.
He'd hit his head on his father's feet.
Carlton Royce had hanged himself.
Wyatt's father was dead. He was really dead.
And behind him, a white note was taped to the door, the words printed large with black marker.
I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore.
12
Wyatt looks up at me from where he's adjusting his camera on a tripod. It's aimed at a corner that's draped in white cloth and illuminated by lights of differing intensities.
The middle drape is long and flows out onto the ground, forming a silky floor upon which sits a four-poster bed, perfectly made with deep red linens and at least a half-dozen decorative pillows. A matching side table is next to the bed with two half-full wine glasses and a bottle beside it.
It looks like something from a high-end hotel suite. Actually, it looks like a honeymoon suite. It's a space made for romance, and my heart skips a beat as I look from it to the man behind the camera.
"You came."
I swallow. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Honestly, Kelsey, I didn't have a clue what you would do. I don't know you that well."
He says the words blandly, but I hear the anger buried inside, and I force myself to stand up straighter. It doesn't matter what he thinks. I'm only here for the job, after all. The more distance there is between us, the easier it will be to walk away once it's over and he pays me.
"Well, you didn't give me much of a choice. I need the money. So that means I put up with your demands." I try to mimic his tone, keeping my voice emotionless. But I can't help the way my eyes dart to the bed, or the small trill of excitement that shoots through me as I wonder what it is that he intends to have me do there.