Game over.

Jordan shrugged. “Whatever, man. This is bullshit.”

“Be that as it may,” Lorna said, picking up a mug and pouring herself a cup from the fancy silver carafe next to the Sub-Zero. She added a slug of cream and stirred. Everyone in the kitchen watched her.

As she intended.

Tom tugged Jordan’s arm, and the defeated man went out the back door with the security guy, leaving Chase alone with her mother, and his co-caine to be flushed.

“You do that so well, you know,” Chase said, setting her fork on the marble and looking at her mother.

“Do what?”

“Act.”

Lorna studied Chase. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’re a very good actress, Chase. You’re just a stupid person.”

The words hurt. They always did. Chase figured her mother didn’t like her much. To Lorna, Chase was a tool, a way for her mother to make the money to pay for the cashmere, the plastic surgery, and her house in Beverly Hills. Lorna needed Chase. She just didn’t want her.

“Where are we, by the way?” Chase looked around the kitchen and dining room.

Her mother sucked in a measured breath, then released it through her mouth. “We’re at the beach house, the one we bought three years ago. It’s on the market now, of course, because you can’t get work and we still have bills.”

Chase looked around. “This is the Malibu beach house? I knew it looked familiar.”

Weird. She’d seen the place years ago when she’d bought it. Back then, it had been filled with modern pop art, black leather furniture, and bad lighting. Her mother had hired a decorator, but Chase had been on location in Brazil for a horror movie and had missed the beach rehab edition of LOLA magazine that featured a spread of the house. Then she’d gone to Cannes for the film fest, back to rehab, five days in county for the DUI, a stint of community service, and then a hazy period of partying and a month in Paris. She’d planned to come live at the beach, do yoga, meditation, eat healthy crap, but for some reason she hadn’t made it. But she’d had the keypad entry code on her phone. She now remembered finding it last night while the Uber driver waited to make sure she could get inside.

“Yes, I hate to sell it, but we can’t keep it and stay afloat. I’m sure you’re wondering how I knew you were here? No, the monitoring company didn’t call me. I’m guessing you figured something out with your ankle monitor.” Her mother’s eyes moved down to the heavy black monitor on her right ankle.

“The battery died. I took the tracking app off my phone, so I’m guessing someone called you?”

“We have a doorbell camera, not to mention other security cameras. A few of your friends put on quite a show, I must say. But no matter. We’re done with this sort of behavior. Marshall called, and they can’t get you insured. Conrad Santos still wants you for the part, but if you can’t get insured, you can’t work. Do you see what I’m saying here, Chase?”