CHAPTER 1
9-1-1, what’s your emergency?
I’m calling from the Iverson residence in Beverly Hills—1224 Canary Drive. There’s been a murder.
What’s your name?
Brenda McIntyre. I’m the house manager.
And you said there was a murder? Do you need an ambulance?
No. No. They’re both dead.
Is anyone in any danger at this moment?
No. I mean, I don’t think so.
1224 Canary Drive. Can you confirm that this is Hugh Iverson’s residence?
Yes. We’ll need discretion, if you can—
We understand, Miss McIntyre. Just a moment, let me connect you to the chief’s office.
CHAPTER 2
THE DETECTIVE
“Well, this will be interesting.” Farah smoothed down the front of her blouse, hoping the bit of strawberry yogurt on the right breast wasn’t too apparent. The bright-blue, long-sleeved button-up was her favorite—it refused to wrinkle, no matter what she put it through—but she hadn’t expected to meet celebrities in it, or to have needed one of the Shout Wipes she typically kept in her car. She glanced at Kevin, who yawned, clearly unconcerned by the address or his rumpled appearance.
They were on their second call of the day, the first one—a gas station robbery—having come in at 8:00 a.m. This was just two miles east, but a different world from the dingy 7-Eleven. This wasn’t just rich people—this was Hugh Iverson and Nora Kemp, Hollywood’s golden couple. There hadn’t been a bigger “it” couple since Brad and Angelina, and Farah’s mind was ticking through the potential ways that two dead bodies had ended up behind their private gates.
Kevin rapped the knocker on the copper double front door and smoothed a hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. The doors had probably cost more than Farah’s Grand Cherokee and were a glistening standout on the modern white adobe mansion, which was accented with dark woods, more copper, and rich foliage. “Nice place.”
“Are you surprised?” she asked dryly, glancing back as two crime scene vans pulled through the gates and parked behind their unmarked SUV.
“Nah. You know, me and Trish looked at a place just two doors down last week. Didn’t pull the trigger on it. No tennis court, so . . .” He tucked his hands in the pockets of his light-gray pants and shrugged. “You know Trish and her tennis.”
Farah smiled at the mention of his wife, who would rather eat a tennis racket than swing one at a ball. “Well, you’ll find something else. I hear Bel Air has some nice places.”
The irony was, even if Kevin won the lottery, he wouldn’t move out of his trailer, which sat on three acres an hour outside the city. Farah and her husband had gone over there a few times for dinner and “enjoyed” delicacies like fried squirrel and fresh goose while seated at a splintered picnic bench in their screened-in porch. Kevin’s wife favored a decorating motif of florals and lace curtains and had welcomed Farah with a warm hospitality she hadn’t expected. Not that she’d thought the woman would be jealous or suspicious of their relationship. Farah, with her stubborn New Jersey accent, and Kevin, who swapped out his detective suit and shield for an adult softball league T-shirt and camouflage pants, were an unlikely match. No, her trepidation about Trish (and initially Kevin) had been based on her opinion of people who kept hunting guns on display and watched Nascar on the weekends. She was happy to admit that concern had been unfounded.
The door swung open, and a petite woman wearing a dark-green pants suit nodded at them with a strained smile. “Please come in. Miss Kemp is waiting for you.”
Past a dramatic entranceway and water feature, Nora Kemp stood in the modern version of a formal living room, one with thirty-foot-tall windows and a wall of bloodred roses. She was in a cream camisole and legging set that appeared to be cashmere, her feet bare, toenails painted a fire-engine red that matched her hair. Farah reached her first and gave a short nod. “Miss Kemp, I’m Detective Farah Anderson. This is Detective Kevin Mathis. We’re with Beverly Hills PD.”
The actress nodded and attempted to smile, her lips trembling on the edges. Dabbing the corner of one eye, she made a visible attempt to square her shoulders and keep her composure. Farah watched closely, aware that the appearance could be an act. This was the woman who had brought audiences to tears with her role in Collapse, when she had nursed her cheating husband back from AIDS, only for him to die in the end.
“Hugh is upstairs. He’ll join us in a bit. I’m sorry, he just—” Nora inhaled a shuddering breath. “This is very hard for him. He and Trent were extremely close.”
Trent? Kevin’s and Farah’s eyes met, and she fought to hide a reaction. If Trent Iverson—Hugh’s twin brother and Hollywood’s resident train wreck—was one of the two dead bodies, their investigation was about to take a huge turn. It would be the biggest case of their careers. One that would require a task force, press conferences, a media liaison, and a mountain of oversight. They’d have to do everything perfectly, while not ruffling any feathers.
“You’re saying that Trent Iverson is one of the deceased individuals found?” Kevin asked the question calmly, as if the outcome wouldn’t change the trajectory of their careers.
“Yes. I thought you knew.” She glanced between the two of them, probably wondering what idiots had been sent to investigate the case.
“Your house manager didn’t share any details. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Farah said.
“Well, thank you.” She pulled another tissue from a holder on the table. “Hugh’s really in pieces right now . . . I’m not sure if you know what it’s like for twins, especially identical ones. There’s a bond there.”
“I have a good idea,” Farah said. “My sister had identical twins.”
Nora’s bright-blue eyes warmed for a moment, and if anything, she was even more beautiful in person than she was on the screen.
“Girls.” Nine-year-old hellions would be a better descriptor.
“Mind if we see the scene?” Kevin interrupted.
Nora gave a quick nod. “Yes. I’m sorry. They’re in the west guesthouse. Follow me.”
CHAPTER 3
THE HUSBAND
Kyle Pepper was slowly realizing that he was a slob. The living room, which had been tidy and clean when Kerry and Miles had left for California, was now littered with beer cans, dirty glasses, half-eaten bags of chips, and a few used Q-tips. Typically, Kerry would move along behind him, cleaning up as she went, and now, with her and Miles away, everything was starting to stack up.
It had been just one day, twenty-four hours, and he’d already lost the remote and grown tired of cooking for himself. Kerry would be back in three days, and he had already decided the first meal he wanted to eat. Her cream of mushroom hot dish, topped with French’s fried onions, and her double chocolate chip brownies for dessert.
He opened the bifold door to his side of the closet and pulled a fresh work shirt off a hanger. Stepping over his towel, he put on the gray button-up shirt with the plumbing company logo on its left pocket. The top drawer of the dresser had his underwear in neat rolls—like sushi—and he grabbed a pair of black Hanes boxer briefs and stepped into them, then pulled open the heavy bottom drawer for a pair of Carhartt khakis.
At least he didn’t have to worry about laundry. Before Kerry had left, she’d stocked his work shirts and pants, plus emptied the dryer and left a stack of fresh towels right by the shower, so he wouldn’t have to yell for her to get one when he was soaking wet.
Once he laced up his work boots and tucked in his shirt and buckled his belt, he moved through the narrow hall and into the kitchen. The dark-green counter was already crowded with leftover pizza, plastic cups, and his tool belt.
Taking a seat at the round table where they normally ate breakfast, he moved a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes remnants to one side and called Kerry again. It rang through to voice mail, just as his earlier call had, and his irritation grew.
For a woman who liked to get in his ear the minute she rolled out of bed, she could have called him by now. It was past ten in California. Miles would still be on Wisconsin time, so he had probably been up for hours—Kyle wasn’t asking for a blow-by-blow account of their time, just a quick call. Let him talk to his son and give Kerry some safety instructions so he could head to work and not worry about them.
He tried to remember what she had said last night, when they were getting ready for bed, about what time they’d be leaving in the morning. Had it been eight? Nine? He hadn’t been listening, his attention focused on popping open a brewski without her hearing and calculating if it was too late to make it to the Kwik Trip on the corner before it closed.
Whatever the pickup time had been, she and Miles were definitely at the park by now, probably decked out in Disney hats and T-shirts and on some VIP tour. Miles would be bouncing in his seat with excitement, and Kerry would be taking pictures of it all and posting them with some annoying hashtag.
Two brain cells connected with the realization that social media would be the easiest way to see her activity. without leaving a voicemail and tapped on the Facebook app, ignoring the bright-red flag of notifications with new friend requests and updates that had occurred since the last time he’d logged in, at least a year ago. Unlike his wife, Kyle put the idea of reconnecting and communicating with people online right in line with getting a colonoscopy. Unfortunately, Kerry was the queen of documenting everything about their life—even Miles’s cancer—and would have definitely posted something about their day and schedule, if not three or four posts, by now.
Kyle pulled up her page and was surprised to see that Kerry had changed her profile photo from one with her and Miles to a solo image—just her, giving a bland smile into the camera. It was a selfie, taken in their bathroom, based on the blue and white wallpaper behind her. Something about the picture was off, and he stared at it, trying to figure out what it was.
It was her smile. It was so stiff, so forced—but also so weak. Like she wanted to smile but at the same time wanted to cry.
He scrolled down to see her last post. Something was wrong and he moved farther down the page, then back up. He checked the dates on the posts, certain he had made a mistake.
This couldn’t be right.
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