“I need to see Graham,” she said to Antoinette when she finally reached the office floor. Antoinette was the long-suffering office manager/production assistant Lauren had met a few times before—rumor had it she’d worked on every season of this show and never smiled. She gave Lauren and Andrea a strange look but didn’t rise from her desk.

“They’re working,” she said flatly.

“I don’t care,” Lauren said, and grabbed Andrea’s hand to continue down the hall.

“Uh, hey!” Antoinette sounded shocked. “I said they’re working!”

The writers’ room was the last door on the left—Lauren had come once, on a tour with Matthew when he was a few weeks old. The door was shut, but the knob turned, and Lauren pushed it open with force. Inside, a table of sloppily dressed people looked up. Lauren half-expected Graham not to be there—this whole scenario felt Hitchcockian, suddenly. It seemed very plausible that Graham didn’t even have a job here. But there he was, seated at one of the table’s long ends, twiddling a pen. She recognized a few others—a writer named Matt whom Graham said was a jackass, a writer named Rami who’d low-key hit on Lauren at the Christmas party, and of course Gracie Lord at the head of the table.

Everyone blinked in surprise, as though Lauren were wearing a clown suit and Andrea was carrying a bomb.

Graham leapt to his feet. “Lauren. What are you doing here?” His eyes flicked to Andrea with confusion. “And . . . hi?”

“I need to talk to you,” Lauren asserted.

“But . . .” Graham glanced nervously at his fellow writers.

“It’s okay,” Gracie said gently. There was a look of understanding on her face—of pity. For Graham. To Gracie, Lauren was the unstable one, the wife who needed handholding. Lauren seethed with the idea that Gracie was so cavalier about sending her away. Separating her from her child. She had it so wrong.

Graham gave the room an apologetic smile and hurried out, but when he closed the door, the corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly. “Lauren, what are you doing here?”

She took a deep breath. “Did you hurt Piper Jovan?”

Graham’s eyes went wide. “Why would I—”

“I know you weren’t working that afternoon she was attacked. And . . .” Say it, she told herself. “Why didn’t you tell me you dated her?”

The color drained from Graham’s face. But instead of answering, he whirled around and darted through the fire door.

“Hey!” Lauren cried, and she and Andrea started after him, catching the door just before it swung closed. Graham clambered down the stairwell; both women followed. Lauren could see the top of Graham’s head on the first-floor landing. “Graham, what the hell? Just talk to me, damn it!”