“I auditioned for Nate Walker. He asked me to do things that made me very uncomfortable.” Tonya looked away from Philip’s clinical gaze. “I did many of these things anyway because I wanted a chance at being in one of his films. I guess I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound, you know?”

She forced a chuckle. The sound came out strangled, a desperate gasp rather than a guffaw.

“Anyway, what happened would have been embarrassing to both of us if it came out, but especially to Nate since he was married. As a kind of consolation prize, he wrote Layla a recommendation for school and agreed to put money toward her tuition.”

Philip’s stare turned cold. “Is Nate Layla’s father?”

Part of Tonya wanted to answer, to let the room reverberate with Layla’s dad’s real name like charged air after a thunderclap. But she couldn’t. The man’s identity was worth three hundred thousand dollars and then some.

“It’s not important,” she said.

“Does anyone know who he is?”

Tonya shook her head. “No.”

“Who does Layla think he is?”

Tonya shrugged. “Until recently, she thought he was a sperm donor.”

“What does she think now?”

A bitter snort escaped her as Tonya considered the question and realized the horrible, likely answer. “I haven’t told her the truth. However, I recently learned that she was taking Nate’s writing class and didn’t tell me. Given that he was paying for her schooling and other folks know about it, she probably thinks it’s him.”

Philip was on top of her before Tonya could react. He grabbed an arm and spun her around. She tried to reach for the knife block with her free hand. But he pinned both her arms behind her shoulder blades before she could do anything but scratch air.

“What are you doing?” Tonya screeched. “You can’t think that I killed Nate too.”

“No. But I think the police might.”

Tonya pulled forward. “What are you saying?”

Philip yanked her arms, jerking her backward. Something sharp pressed against her spine. She felt a wetness trickle toward her behind. “Walk,” Philip instructed.

Tonya did as told. If she stopped, the sharp point against her lumbar section might sink deeper into her skin, preventing her from ever walking again. “I don’t understand,” she said, continuing to march in a straight line as Philip steered her with rough pulls of her held hands. “Why are you doing this?”

“You had an affair with Nate for years, Tonya. You had a child with him. You’d hoped he’d leave his wife.”

“That’s not true.”

The knifepoint slid down her spine. She felt her long-sleeved top part in the back, chicken skin separating from the meat. “When he didn’t, you two got into an argument. You shot him.”

“I didn’t.”