Back Lesson In Red
Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Lesson in Red
  3. Dedication
  4. Cast of Characters
  5. Lesson in Red
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. Acknowledgments
  36. About the Author

According to a Valdivia newspaper article, Brenae Brasil had killed herself in her LAAC studio one night with the gun she had been using on-screen. She’d been found dead a couple of days later. That was the official take on it.

Official takes didn’t sit well with me anymore. Maybe Brenae hadn’t ended her life. Maybe someone had ended it for her. Gun suicides are easy to fake. There was more to discover, I was sure, but I had resisted the itch to dig further. Let Janis make her case to me first.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said lightly, trying to suppress my dread. Now that I’d arrived, I wanted to turn around. I wanted to crash the dinner with the rich cousin.

Yegina caught sight of my face and slowed to a stop beside a big black truck. “You’re sure Janis and Dee are coming? We could go in with you for a few minutes.”

Hiro blinked and took a breath. They were already almost late for dinner. “Sure,” he said.

“Just a few,” Yegina said to him, and he nodded.

The pity in both my friends’ faces gave me resolve.

“No need. I just got a voicemail,” I lied, holding up my phone. “They’re already inside. Can you imagine how uncomfortable Janis is?” Janis hated to expose her personal life; it had taken her months to see how this hurt Dee, but now the two made appearances together as a couple from time to time. “I’ve got to go,” I added, leaping out. “She’s probably going to last about five more minutes.”

The sound of Yegina’s worried laugh broke as I slammed my door and headed through the dust to the bar.

IN THE FIRST ROOM AT The Oasis, two men leaned beside a pool table that looked like it had barely survived a sandstorm. They glanced at me, then back at their game. Customers clogged every inch of the wooden counter beyond. Skinny female hipsters in embroidered T-shirts shoved up against bleach-haired lady smokers giving them the stink-eye. The clamor was intense, but no one seemed to be talking to one another, just shouting in the general direction of the liquor bottles about whether or not our new celebrity governor was going to keep any of his campaign promises.