“And that proves what?”

He closes his notepad. “That you’re a fraud from start to finish. You’ve covered your tracks well. What I don’t understand but want to is why?”

I reach for my coffee. It’s cold, the almond milk now separated into yellow flecks that look like pus. I take a sip anyway.

“Sylvie, what are you hiding?”

Rubbing my hands together as if this were great fun, I say, “Absolutely nothing. But if I was hiding something, why on God’s green earth would I tell you?”

“I’ve heard criminals are relieved after they come clean. Their blood pressure drops. They sleep like a baby.”

“I’m healthy as a horse and sleep just fine.”

“Then I’ll appeal to your survival instinct. Prove to me there are no skeletons in your closet and that you’re the real deal and I’ll leave you out of the exposé.”

“How would I do that?”

Thomas meets my gaze. “Two ways. First, tell me the truth about your past. Second, you have a show in Portland, Oregon, in one week. Do it without cheating.”

I don’t let myself break eye contact. “I’m not saying you’re right about the research, but if you were, how could you be sure I didn’t find a way to do any prep before the show?”

“I’d be with you the entire time.”

My stomach flutters. “And if I don’t agree?”

“I’ll run with the story I already have—you’re a fraud just like Victor and Doug.”

“You’ve already decided that.”

“Yeah, but I’m offering you a last chance to prove me wrong.”

“And if I do everything you ask and you still don’t believe?”

“At least your side of the story will be told.”

His silence says he thinks there’s no other choice. “Is this an attempt at blackmail? I’m not rich, so that leaves sex.” If he says yes, will I do it?

“Don’t insult me.”

I stand. “It’s been . . . entertaining. I’d like you to leave now. Please.” Moose growls when Thomas walks by him. Good boy.

At the door, Thomas pauses. “Don’t wait too long. This story will go to my editor soon.”

Sweetly I say, “Do hold your breath.”

He winks. “You’ll call. People about to drown always lunge for a life ring, even if they don’t trust the person who threw it.”

SEVEN

Thomas

As I step through the entryway of the L.A. Times, my cell phone comes alive with the sound of bullfrogs. I answer on the third ring, “Mom.”

“Hello, dear. All things good?”

I head to the elevators and push the up button. “Yes. Busy, though.”

“It’s not a big deal . . . but I’m a little short this month.”

I scratch the stubble on my chin. It’s been days since my last shave so I could look like a grieving husband at Sylvie’s show. “How short?”

“Seven hundred and fifty.”

My stomach tightens but it’s not like I’m surprised. “Have you paid your rent, utilities, and health insurance for the month?”