PRAISE FOR A. R. TORRE

  A FAMILIAR STRANGER

  “A whiplash suspenser that’s a model of its kind.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “The author skillfully reveals the characters’ many lies and secrets. Torre knows how to keep the reader guessing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE GOOD LIE

  “Ambitious and twisty . . . Great bedtime reading for insomniacs and people willing to act like insomniacs just this once.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This kinky tale is compulsively readable.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A blend of serial killer story, court cases, and even romance, this is a tricky story that will keep readers going.”

  —The Parkersburg News and Sentinel

  EVERY LAST SECRET

  “Deliciously, sublimely nasty: Mean Girls for grown-ups.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Torre keeps the suspense high . . . Readers will be riveted from page one.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A glamorous and seductive novel that will suck you in and knock you sideways. I love this story, these characters, and the raw emotion they generated in me. I devoured every word. Exceptional.”

  —Tarryn Fisher, New York Times bestselling author

  “Raw and riveting. A clever ride that will make you question everyone and everything.”

  —Meredith Wild, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  OTHER TITLES BY A. R. TORRE

  A Familiar Stranger

  The Good Lie

  Every Last Secret

  The Ghostwriter

  The Girl in 6E

  Do Not Disturb

  If You Dare

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2023 by Select Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542039901 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 9781542039918 (digital)

  Cover design by James Iacobelli

  Cover images: © KK.KICKIN / Shutterstock; © Image Source / Getty Images

  To Jen Webster. Thank you for your friendship and support.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  CHAPTER 94

  CHAPTER 95

  CHAPTER 96

  CHAPTER 97

  CHAPTER 98

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The oldest love affair in Hollywood is that of an actor with themself. It’s not so much that they love who they are—but they fall for that image on the screen. They fall for the way that the public looks at them. They fall for the story that they’re telling. But the problem is, that story is a lie. The affair is a farce.

  Eventually, they realize that, and that is when things typically seem to fall apart.

  —Mayim Place, The Hollywood Report

  CHAPTER 1

  9-1-1, what’s your emergency?

  I’m calling from the Iverson residence in Beverly Hills—1224 Canary Drive. There’s been a murder.

  What’s your name?

  Brenda McIntyre. I’m the house manager.

  And you said there was a murder? Do you need an ambulance?

  No. No. They’re both dead.

  Is anyone in any danger at this moment?

  No. I mean, I don’t think so.

  1224 Canary Drive. Can you confirm that this is Hugh Iverson’s residence?

  Yes. We’ll need discretion, if you can—

  We understand, Miss McIntyre. Just a moment, let me connect you to the chief’s office.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE DETECTIVE

  “Well, this will be interesting.” Farah smoothed down the front of her blouse, hoping the bit of strawberry yogurt on the right breast wasn’t too apparent. The bright-blue, long-sleeved button-up was her favorite—it refused to wrinkle, no matter what she put it through—but she hadn’t expected to meet celebrities in it, or to have needed one of the Shout Wipes she typically kept in her car. She glanced at Kevin, who yawned, clearly unconcerned by the address or his rumpled appearance.

  They were on their second call of the day, the first one—a gas station robbery—having come in at 8:00 a.m. This was just two miles east but a different world from the dingy 7-Eleven. This wasn’t just rich people—this was Hugh Iverson and Nora Kemp, Hollywood’s golden couple. There hadn’t been a bigger “it” couple since Brad and Angelina, and Farah’s mind was ticking through the potential ways that two dead bodies had ended up behind their private gates.

  Kevin rapped the knocker on the copper double front door and smoothed a hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. The doors had probably cost more than Farah’s Grand Cherokee and were a glistening standout on the modern white adobe mansion, which was accented with dark woods, more copper, and rich foliage. “Nice place.”

  “Are you surprised?” she asked dryly, glancing back as two crime scene vans pulled through the gates and parked behind their unmarked SUV.

  “Nah. You know, me and Trish looked at a place just two doors down last week. Didn’t pull the trigger on it. No tennis court, so . . .” He tucked his hands in the pockets of his light-gray pants and shrugged. “You know Trish and her tennis.”

  Farah smiled at the mention of his wife, who would rather eat a tennis racket than swing one at a ball. “Well, you’ll find something else. I hear Bel Air has some nice places.”

  The irony was, even if Kevin won the lottery, he wouldn’t move out of his trailer, which sat on three acres an hour outside the city. Farah and her husband had gone over there a few times for dinner and “enjoyed” delicacies like fried squirrel and fresh goose while seated at a splintered picnic bench in their screened-in porch. Kevin’s wife favored a decorating motif of florals and lace curtains and had welcomed Farah with a warm hospitality she hadn’t expected. Not that she’d thought the woman would be jealous or suspicious of their relationship. Farah, with her stubborn New Jersey accent, and Kevin, who swapped out his detective suit and shield for an adult softball league T-shirt and camouflage pants, were an unlikely match. No, her trepidation about Trish (and initially Kevin) had been based on her opinion of people who kept hunting guns on display and watched NASCAR on the weekends. She was happy to admit that concern had been unfounded.

  The door swung open, and a petite woman wearing a dark-green pantsuit nodded at them with a strained smile. “Please come in. Miss Kemp is waiting
for you.”

  Past a dramatic entranceway and water feature, Nora Kemp stood in the modern version of a formal living room, one with thirty-foot-tall windows and a wall of bloodred roses. She was in a cream camisole and legging set that appeared to be cashmere, her feet bare, toenails painted a fire-engine red that matched her hair. Farah reached her first and gave a short nod. “Miss Kemp, I’m Detective Farah Anderson. This is Detective Kevin Mathis. We’re with Beverly Hills PD.”

  The actress nodded and attempted to smile, her lips trembling on the edges. Dabbing the corner of one eye, she made a visible attempt to square her shoulders and keep her composure. Farah watched closely, aware that the appearance could be an act. This was the woman who had brought audiences to tears with her role in Collapse, when she had nursed her cheating husband back from AIDS, only for him to die in the end.

  “Hugh is upstairs. He’ll join us in a bit. I’m sorry, he just—” Nora inhaled a shuddering breath. “This is very hard for him. He and Trent were extremely close.”

  Trent? Kevin’s and Farah’s eyes met, and she fought to hide a reaction. If Trent Iverson—Hugh’s twin brother and Hollywood’s resident train wreck—was one of the two dead bodies, their investigation was about to take a huge turn. It would be the biggest case of their careers. One that would require a task force, press conferences, a media liaison, and a mountain of oversight. They’d have to do everything perfectly, while not ruffling any feathers.

  “You’re saying that Trent Iverson is one of the deceased individuals found?” Kevin asked the question calmly, as if the outcome wouldn’t change the trajectory of their careers.

  “Yes. I thought you knew.” She glanced between the two of them, probably wondering what idiots had been sent to investigate the case.

  “Your house manager didn’t share any details. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Farah said.

  “Well, thank you.” She pulled another tissue from a holder on the table. “Hugh’s really in pieces right now . . . I’m not sure if you know what it’s like for twins, especially identical ones. There’s a bond there.”

  “I have a good idea,” Farah said. “My sister had identical twins.”

  Nora’s bright-blue eyes warmed for a moment, and if anything, she was even more beautiful in person than she was on the screen. “Boys or girls?”

  “Girls.” Nine-year-old hellions would be a better descriptor.

  “Mind if we see the scene?” Kevin interrupted.

  Nora gave a quick nod. “Yes. I’m sorry. They’re in the west guesthouse. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE HUSBAND

  Kyle Pepper was slowly realizing that he was a slob. The living room, which had been tidy and clean when Kerry and Miles had left for California, was now littered with beer cans, dirty glasses, half-eaten bags of chips, and a few used Q-tips. Typically, Kerry would move along behind him, cleaning up as she went, and now, with her and Miles away, everything was starting to stack up.

  It had been just one day, twenty-four hours, and he’d already lost the remote and grown tired of cooking for himself. Kerry would be back in three days, and he had decided the first meal he wanted to eat. Her cream of mushroom hot dish, topped with French’s fried onions, and her double chocolate chip brownies for dessert.

  He opened the bifold door to his side of the closet and pulled a fresh work shirt off a hanger. Stepping over his towel, he put on the gray button-up shirt with the plumbing company logo on its left pocket. The top drawer of the dresser had his underwear in neat rolls—like sushi—and he grabbed a pair of black Hanes boxer briefs and stepped into them, then pulled open the heavy bottom drawer for a pair of Carhartt khakis.

  At least he didn’t have to worry about laundry. Before Kerry had left, she’d stocked his work shirts and pants, plus emptied the dryer and left a stack of fresh towels right by the shower, so he wouldn’t have to yell for her to get one when he was soaking wet.

  Once he laced up his work boots and tucked in his shirt and buckled his belt, he moved through the narrow hall and into the kitchen. The dark-green counter was already crowded with leftover pizza, plastic cups, and his tool belt.

  Taking a seat at the round table where they normally ate breakfast, he moved a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes remnants to one side and called Kerry again. It rang through to voice mail, just as his earlier call had, and his irritation grew.

  For a woman who liked to get in his ear the minute she rolled out of bed, she could have called him by now. It was past ten in California. Miles would still be on Wisconsin time, so he had probably been up for hours—Kyle wasn’t asking for a blow-by-blow account of their time, just a quick call. Let him talk to his son and give Kerry some safety instructions so he could head to work and not worry about them.

  He tried to remember what she had said last night, when they were getting ready for bed, about what time they’d be leaving in the morning. Had it been eight? Nine? He hadn’t been listening, his attention focused on popping open a brewski without her hearing and calculating if it was too late to make it to the Kwik Trip on the corner before it closed.

  Whatever the pickup time had been, she and Miles were definitely at the park by now, probably decked out in Disney hats and T-shirts and on some VIP tour. Miles would be bouncing in his seat with excitement, and Kerry would be taking pictures of it all and posting them with some annoying hashtag.

  Two brain cells connected with the realization that social media would be the easiest way to see her activity. Kyle ended the call without leaving a voice mail and tapped on the Facebook app, ignoring the bright-red flag of notifications with new friend requests and updates that had occurred since the last time he’d logged in, at least a year ago. Unlike his wife, Kyle put the idea of reconnecting and communicating with people online right in line with getting a colonoscopy. Unfortunately, Kerry was the queen of documenting everything about their life—even Miles’s cancer—and would have definitely posted something about their day and schedule, if not three or four posts, by now.

  Kyle pulled up her page and was surprised to see that Kerry had changed her profile photo from one with her and Miles to a solo image—just her, giving a bland smile into the camera. It was a selfie, taken in their bathroom, based on the blue-and-white wallpaper behind her. Something about the picture was off, and he stared at it, trying to figure out what it was.

  It was her smile. It was so stiff, so forced—but also so weak. Like she wanted to smile but at the same time wanted to cry.

  He scrolled down to see her last post. Something was wrong and he moved farther down the page, then back up. He checked the dates on the posts, certain he had made a mistake.

  This couldn’t be right.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE DETECTIVE

  Farah, Kevin, and Nora cut through the house, which was a quick tour in how the upper echelons of society lived. Farah had forgotten, in the eight years since she had worked private security in Bel Air, what this life was like. The memories hit her in the gut—the familiar twist of both envy and frustration. Her awe of the environment that was always followed by the painful recognition that it would forever belong to someone else.

  Nora strode in front of them, her bare feet silent against the black wood, and the house had a hush—like a museum, or a mausoleum. Though a museum was a better fit, at least in terms of decor. Based on Farah’s untrained eye, that was a Picasso they had just passed, framed in gold and lit by a spotlight pendant. And as they stepped down a geometric metal-and-glass staircase, a collection of Andy Warhols graced the wall beside them. The walls, furniture, and curtains were all white, which set off the expensive art dramatically. The only thing more distracting to the eye was Nora Kemp herself, and if God had set out to design the perfect woman, he’d done an annoyingly good job with her.

  Even Kevin, who typically didn’t notice a woman unless she was dead or guilty, had straightened up at the sight of her and checked the tuck of his shirt in his pants.

  The movie star moved lightly down the stairs, her red hair bouncing and streaming behind her, like a tiki-torch flame caught in the wind. “I’ve put the staff in the pool cabana. You can talk to them there, though everyone was off last night, which is when it must have happened.” She faltered, then took the last step.

  “What makes you think that?” Kevin beat Farah to the question. “You hear anything?”

  She twisted to face them, and the smooth skin between her eyebrows wrinkled as she thought. “Not that caught my attention. I guess we should have heard the gunshot, but we probably assumed it was the fireworks starting up, or we were already asleep by then.”