Fields' Guide to Abduction by - (diy ebook reader TXT) 📕

crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me guess—the DuChamp kid didn’t get any A-listers, so he needed you.”

The DuChamp kid? Really? André was a huge success. He hadn’t reached his quota of A-listers. He’d surpassed it. My friend was the agent to the temporarily famous. Housewives (both desperate and blogging), rejected bachelorettes, and Kardashian wanna-bes—they all wanted André representing them. And when they posted on Instagram about juice cleanses or charcoal tooth powder or their fabulous vacations, André made a cut.

Reality stars who auctioned off their fifteen minutes of fame on Instagram were one of James’ pet peeves. André was another. “How much is this resort paying you? How often do you have to post?”

“It’s not like that.” The thought of escaping to Cabo had been so tempting—an escape from grief and guilt and loneliness—and all I had to do was pose for a few pictures at the opening night party. Thirty minutes of my time, and the resort would give me a luxury villa for the week. “Like I said, this is a favor.”

“Forget about the resort. Come to La Paz with me. At the end of the week, I’ll fly you to Paris.”

Paris. Chariss was shooting a movie in Paris and I was supposed to visit the set. “What’s this film about?” After a while, the films and the parts ran together.

“Chariss is playing a woman who pits herself against a drug cartel after the man she loves dies.”

I laughed—a guffaw tied around a sob.

James’ expression turned disapproving. “It’s not a comedy.”

I shook my head—the only apology I could manage without falling apart.

He tilted his head and the slight wrinkle between his brows deepened. “Do you think she’s too old for the part?”

“Of course not.” I spoke quickly. Decisively. Glad to talk about Chariss. Glad to discuss my mother’s age rather than Jake.

Chariss and my dad met when she was eighteen and married in a summer-long fit of lust. I arrived nine months later. I wasn’t a month old when a television pilot Chariss made before my parents met got picked up. Chariss was gone. It was Dad and me for fourteen years. When he disappeared, Chariss, who’d been passing for a woman in her twenties, had to explain how she had a teenage daughter. Making such an explanation hadn’t made her happy. Nor did my current age of twenty-three. Neither math nor advancing years were Chariss’ friends.

“Forty is the new twenty.” I was willing to fudge math facts on her behalf. “She’s still the most beautiful woman in the world.” Why was I arguing her case? Any number of magazines had already decided that, despite middle age creeping up behind her, Chariss Carlton was more fabulous than ever. They trumpeted her ageless beauty on their covers. Scribed articles about being sexy and forty. Chariss didn’t need me—didn’t want me—standing up for her.

“When you wrinkle your nose like that, you look just like her.” James meant well. He did. But being a carbon copy of Chariss Carlton wasn’t the bed of roses everyone imagined.

I wiped away the expression.

James settled back into the buttery soft leather of his seat. “There’s something bothering you. I can tell. Level with me. Please.”

“I’m fine.”

“I wish you weren’t going alone.”

“I’m not. Mia is coming.” Another lie. Mia, my best friend, was the daughter of a country-star who’d defined a decade.

James’ gaze settled on the empty seat next to me.

“Mia takes two days to pack a gym bag. There’s no way she could have made this flight. She’ll get in tomorrow.” What was one more lie in the greater scheme of things?

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s a five-star resort. What could happen?”

“You could be kidnapped.”

“I won’t leave the grounds. I promise.”

“You could get food poisoning.” Now he was clutching at straws.

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“You could—” he shifted his gaze to the darkening sky “—you could need someone and you’ll be alone.”

Lately, that was nothing new. “I’ll be fine.”

James pursed his lips. “Mexico can be a dangerous place. So much violence. Did you see the news stories about the grain alcohol some of the resorts served? We won’t even talk about the drugs.”

Drugs. An open sesame word.

The police detective investigating Jake’s death, Detective Parks, houdinied his way out of the locked steamer trunk in my brain and took the seat next to me. He crossed his left ankle over his right knee. He laced his fingers behind his neck. He leaned back in his seat. And he leveled his suspicious gaze right at me.

I ground my teeth.

“What’s wrong?” asked James.

“Nothing.” I focused on James and ignored not-really-there Detective Parks and his accusatory gaze.

“You don’t look fine.”

I forced a smile. “I’m on my way to a week of luxury relaxation.” I couldn’t afford to scowl at the phantom sitting next to me.

“Why didn’t you bring that man you’ve been seeing?”

My heart lurched and my smile faded.

“Did you break up?” James softened. He was ready with sympathy or anger—depending on my answer.

The one thing—the one person—I didn’t want to talk about. I shook my head, unable to speak. I’d be okay if I could just keep quiet and keep the grief and guilt locked inside.

“Poppy.” James’ brow furrowed. His eyes questioned. “Tell me what happened.”

I couldn’t keep lying. Not to James. I swallowed the enormous lump in my throat. “He died.” My voice was small.

“Died?” James leaned forward in his seat and reclaimed my hands. His face was a mask of concern. “What happened?”

My throat tightened and I tilted my head and stared at the ceiling of the plane. “He overdosed.”

“Oh, honey.” His grip on my hands tightened.

That morning counted among the worst of my life. Guilt, tired of idly nibbling, sank its sharp teeth deep into my psyche and shook me like a ragdoll. It had been doing that a lot lately.

I’d slept while Jake’s life dribbled away.

Infuriating Jake, with his golden hair and golden smile and devilish sense of humor, was gone. If I’d awakened an hour earlier, he might still be alive.

I freed one of my hands from James’ grip and patted beneath my eyes.

“When did this happen?”

“A month ago.”

“A month? And you’re just now telling me?”

“I couldn’t.” My voice gave out and I gasped for air.

“You shouldn’t be alone.” James never went anywhere alone. There was always a personal assistant or manager or agent around. Or me.

“I’ll be fine.” I snuck a peek at Detective Parks. For a figment of my imagination, he was awfully solid. His face was stony—judging me, my lifestyle, my values. At least he remained silent.

The words he’d said when he brought me in for questioning had scored deep wounds. Words like accessory to a homicide and manslaughter—as if I had actively taken part in Jake’s death.

“Jake didn’t take drugs,” I’d insisted.

“Oh?” Detective Parks had packed more disdain in that single syllable than I would have dreamed possible.

“He didn’t. Just party drugs.” Jake didn’t touch anything that could hurt him—not heroin, not meth, not opioids.

“So party drugs aren’t real drugs?”

“No.” So sure I was right.

“Party drugs are real drugs.” Detective Parks had smacked his palm down on the table.

“Oh.” A barely there oh.

He glared at me with eyes the color and temperature of ice chips. “There’s a synthetic party drug trickling across the border that’s five times more deadly than heroin.”

“Oh.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

“It’s probably what killed your boyfriend.”

Now I had no words. Not even oh. I’d simply stared at top of the scarred table and let my tears fall.

“They’re calling it Venti.”

I glanced up at him. “Venti?”

His mouth twisted. “As if it’s a harmless coffee.”

“Oh.”

“You could make a difference. Stop another death.”

“How?”

“Where did he get the stuff?”

I didn’t do drugs. Ever. Partying with Molly—no, thank you. As a result, people had given up offering it to me. The likelihood I could help the detective was infinitesimal. “I don’t know.”

Detective Parks responded with an I-don’t-believe-you scowl.

I’d gone home and cried—ugly cried—till my eyes were swollen and my skin was blotchy. I’d cried till the walls closed in then I’d walked on the beach.

I walked until my tears were spent, until my leg muscles shook with tiny tremors, until sadness nearly swallowed me whole.

Tears, walks on the beach, pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and fifths of tequila became my life. Day after day. Grief wouldn’t let me go.

When André called and offered me this trip, I’d said yes. Immediately. Cabo. A place where Jake’s memory might not haunt me.

“Poppy, you okay? You seem a million miles away.” James stood, shifted, and