I opened the IMDb page. Celeste Day, a teen actress. Born in Albany, New York. The word Albany lit up in eggplant, tickling the back of my mind with a memory. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it, though. And I couldn’t waste time trying to figure out why that eggplant color looked so familiar to me. I pushed it away and went back to Celeste’s bio. She’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue her acting career when she was thirteen. She’d managed to land a few theater roles, a commercial voice-over, and one independent movie, currently being filmed at Pear Magic Studio. Mottled yellow-green Pear, velvety burgundy Magic. Those had been written on the pad by her name. I had thought they were nonsense, but apparently not. Whoever had written Celeste Day on that pad was talking about this Celeste Day.

There was only one photo attached to her profile; she wasn’t a big enough star yet to have a gallery. But to read her bio, it seemed she was poised to take Hollywood by storm, and soon.

I leaned back, idly playing with a chunk of my hair. Celeste Day, actress. How was she connected to Luna? Was she one of Bill Hollis’s protégées? More likely she was part of Hollywood Dreams. Young, aspiring actress. Beautiful in the same creamy, delicate way Peyton and Luna were beautiful, only with darker hair, softer cheekbones, and poutier lips. Definitely motivated.

Maybe motivated enough to help Luna get away.

God, it seemed like Luna knew everyone. Like the list continued to get longer and longer every time I thought I had a handle on everyone who could possibly be involved.

Luna was getting help. That much was for sure. A sixteen-year-old orphan didn’t just disappear from the face of the earth—breaking probation in the process—without somebody knowing where she was. Maybe that was why Celeste’s name had been written in the notepad. Maybe Celeste Day was the one hiding her.

The only way to find out was to find Celeste Day myself.

6

THIS TIME I was the one waiting on Chris first thing in the morning with a coffee in my hand. Well, two, actually—one for each of us. It was a joke—I’d thrown away every coffee he’d ever tried to give me—but it was also a guilt offering. I figured I owed him.

I parked my car next to his and waited, hoping today wasn’t the day he planned to stay home and clean the apartment or watch a movie marathon or do an all-day physical therapy blitz. Nah. I knew him too well. He was a restless type. Always sniffing out a case or punching a heavy bag . . . or following me around. Well. In the old days, following me around. Not so much anymore.