"Probably. I'm not that unique. Cassie has brown hair. Kaitlyn does, too. From the back, we might look alike. But that could be true of lots of other women."

  "It's also possible this woman is part of a bigger crew."

  "There seems to be a lot going on for one person. But a bigger crew doesn't feel right either because this is really personal."

  "I agree. But a crew could just be one person and a friend."

  As a breeze lifted my hair, I shivered despite the warm evening air. "I'm sorry about your car, Ethan. You want your life to be simple, and I keep complicating it."

  "This isn't your fault. Let's get you home."

  I wasn't thrilled to go home, but I also didn't like standing in the middle of a parking lot, where anyone could be watching, where something else could be about to happen.

  "All right. When we get to my building, I'm going to pull into my garage. If you want to come in behind me, the code is 34657. There are three guest spots by the elevator. But if you don't want to come in, that's fine, too. I know I'm taking up a lot of your time."

  "I'll go into the garage and walk you upstairs."

  "Thanks. I feel a little nervous about entering another garage."

  "Understandable."

  Ethan walked me to my car, which was untouched, something that brought another irritated frown to his face, but he didn't comment on my perfect paint job, just waited until I had locked the door and then returned to his car.

  As we left the lot, I wondered about the restaurant cameras. Maybe they had caught the person scratching Ethan's car. I was going to need someone to help me investigate because I had to go to work tomorrow, and I couldn't spend more time trying to chase down security footage that probably wouldn't reveal anything, anyway. Perhaps my car hadn't been touched because it was in view of the cameras and Ethan's was not. Or they'd just wanted to scare him away from helping me.

  But he hadn't been scared; he'd been pissed. He was now more invested in my problems, not less, and I secretly liked that. Because I felt like I needed him. When I'd run into his arms in the garage, I'd felt safe for the first time in a long time. I'd also felt comforted, which was another unusual experience. I'd been self-comforting myself since I was ten, but having someone put his arms around me and hold me in a moment of panic and terror had felt unbelievably good.

  Not that I hadn't had a man hug me before, but this had been different. This hadn't been about passion or lust or sex. It was like I finally had someone I could count on, and that was a weird thought because I barely knew Ethan.

  But we were getting to know each other better. Since Friday night, he'd been a constant and increasing presence in my life, coming at a time when everyone else's presence was suspect, when my current relationship seemed to be falling apart and I wasn't even sure why.

  Ashton was like a ghost now. I'd barely thought about him today, and that was telling. I hadn't rushed to call him, and he hadn't rushed to call me. What did that say about us?

  We definitely needed to have a conversation, but it would have to be tomorrow. It was almost eight here, nearly eleven in New York. Maybe Monday would bring some clarity to my life. Or maybe it would bring the opposite: more chaos, more fear, and whatever intangible something that someone was dragging me toward. That's what I really worried about—where all this was going. But I had no answers and there probably weren't any more coming tonight. I'd regroup tomorrow.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into the underground garage at my building, and Ethan followed me inside and grabbed one of the guest parking spots.

  As I got out of my car, I saw my neighbor Monica putting something in the trunk of her vehicle, which was parked one spot away from mine. Monica had on denim shorts and a gauzy top, bright, dangling earrings hanging from her ears.

  "Hi, Emily," Monica said, as she shut her trunk. "How's it going?"

  "Good," I lied. "How about you?"

  "I had a great day. Went to the Santa Monica Pier with a woman I met in my yoga class. It was nice to have someone to hang around with."

  Ethan gave me a questioning look as he joined us, his gaze encompassing both of us. I realized in that moment that Monica also had brown hair about my length, but her eyes were more gold than brown.

  "Hello," he said, giving Monica a nod.

  "Uh, hi," Monica replied. "You look familiar."

  "I work security for the jewelry store next door."

  "Oh, of course. That's where I've seen you. I'm Monica Paul, Emily's neighbor."

  "Ethan Burke."

  "Ethan has been trying to help me figure out who mugged me Friday night," I said, feeling like I needed to give Monica some explanation for why I was with Ethan when she knew I was dating Ashton. Although, why I felt I had to explain anything was beyond me. But since I'd been living my authentic life, I seemed to care more about what people thought of me, maybe because I was putting the real me on display.

  "Any luck?" Monica asked.

  "Not yet."

  "I really wish the police could catch the guy. I think twice every time I go out the front door now," she added as we walked toward the garage lobby.

  "So do I," I said. "How's your grandmother feeling?"

  "Improved," Monica said, as we got on the elevator. "She's bounced back a little. She still needs care, and I don't think she'll be getting out of rehab any time soon, but I'm hopeful one day she'll be back in her own bedroom. I'll be sad to leave then but happy to know she's home."

  "Give her my best, will you?" I asked as we walked down the hall, and Monica paused in front of her door.

  "I will. She asks about you, too, Emily. She says you're a sweet girl, and she keeps hoping you'll find the right guy." Monica gave me a mischievous look. "Seems like I should tell her you're doing just fine."

  "I am doing fine," I replied, ignoring the innuendo in her comment. Clearly, she thought I was messing around with both Ethan and Ashton.

  "Have a good night," Monica said, as she entered her unit.

  As I unlocked my door and pushed it open, I silently prayed that there would be no unwelcome surprises waiting for me inside. I had changed the locks, but I wasn't sure a lock could stop my stalker. They seemed able to get into all aspects of my life with no problem. On the other hand, I had the only keys to this lock in my tight possession the last twenty-four hours, so I should be good.

  My condo was quiet, and nothing appeared out of place. There were no open doors, nothing overturned, and I let out a breath of relief as I turned on all the lights and drove the darkness away. I wished it was that easy to do in the rest of my life.

  Ethan walked through my apartment and came back with a smile. "Everything looks good to me."

  "Me, too. Thank goodness."

  "The woman across the hall. How long have you known her?" he asked.

  "About three weeks. Her grandmother, Delores, fell and has been in rehab for a few months. Monica moved in so she could be closer to her grandmother." I paused. "Are you asking about Monica because she has brown hair? Because half the women in LA do."

  "Maybe a quarter," he said with a small smile. "A lot of blondes around here. But I get what you're saying. You mentioned her grandmother had a key to your place."

  "I don't think Monica would know that. I certainly never told her."

  "Perhaps her grandmother did."

  "I doubt it. And Monica would have nothing against me. We barely know each other." I paused as I heard my phone buzz with an incoming text. I took it from my bag to see a text from an unknown number. As I clicked on the text, photos appeared, and I gasped.

  "What's wrong?" Ethan asked.

  I stared at the first image in horror, and that horror only deepened when I saw the next two photographs.

  Ethan moved closer to me, looking over my shoulder.

  "Is that you?" he asked.

  "No, it's not me," I snapped. "It's Ashton and some woman having sex. This has to be from Friday night."

  "Her hair looks about the same length as yours," he mused as he gave me a long look.

  "Well, like I said, it's not me."

  "But they want people to think it's you."

  "I don't know if that's true."

  "Oh, I think it is." He took the phone out of my hand and enlarged the pictures. "This isn't just about sex; it's also about drugs. Look at the nightstand."

  "Ashton doesn't do drugs."

  "Maybe it's part of the setup." He handed me back the phone.

  I didn't want to look at the photos again, but I knew I had to. I couldn't run away from this. I couldn't miss a clue. But I felt sick to my stomach as I saw the look on Ashton's face as the woman straddled him, her brown hair falling down her back, exactly the same length as mine.

  "Maybe this is about blackmail. But does that make sense?" I looked back at Ethan. "These photos will hurt Ashton more than me, because this isn't me."

  "They're going to imply it is you. That's why you were sent the photos."

  "Okay." I tried to think how that would work. "Let's say it was me, and I was having sex with my boyfriend—how is that so damning?"

  "The drugs on the nightstand."

  "That's true. That's not good. But I work in Hollywood, Ethan. Sex and drugs don't take people down. It's not like Ashton is a politician or a married man."

  "I think it's just a piece of the puzzle," he said. "You need to figure out what the puzzle is going to look like when it's done, because if you don't get ahead of this soon…"

  His voice trailed away, and I could easily finish the sentence. "It's going to be too late to stop them."

  He met my gaze. "Yes."

  Chapter Fourteen

  My phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call. I looked at the name flashing across the screen. "It's Ashton," I said.

  "You should take that. Do you want me to leave?" Ethan asked.

  "Could you wait? He might have more information."

  "Sure. I'll give you some privacy."

  I answered the call as Ethan opened the doors to the deck and stepped outside. "Ashton?"

  "God, Emily! My life is so fucked up," Ashton said.

  "I know. Someone just sent me photos of you and a woman in bed together," I said, a little irritated that his first sentence had only been about himself. But I tried to give him a little leeway for that. He was the target in this latest incident. It was understandable that he was upset. I also realized he didn't know what else had happened to me. That was my fault, not his.

  "I don't remember anything from that night," he said. "I know someone drugged me. It's the only explanation."

  "Have you gotten a request for money to not publish the photos?"

  "Not yet. Just a text message saying there are lots more, as well as a video. I can't believe this is happening to me. Just when I have a chance to get taken more seriously as an actor."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, confused by his words.

  "I had another chat today with Mitchell about the role of Dominic. I know everyone thinks I can only do comedy, but I like the darkness of Dominic's soul, hidden by his dry humor. I can bring that character to life, Emily."

  "I don't understand how you even know that much about the character if you just glanced at the script in my apartment one night. And that draft is being rewritten."

  "Mitchell sent me a copy of the script."

  "When did he do that? You just talked to him Friday night."

  "He sent it yesterday. Do we have a problem, Emily?"

  I heard the terse note in his voice. "We have a lot of problems, Ashton, and the biggest one isn't the role of Dominic. The woman that you're with in the photos—do you think she looks like me?"

  "What? No. Of course not. I mean, it wasn't you." He paused. "It wasn't you, was it?"

  "Absolutely not," I said, astounded by his question. "I was at home that night after getting mugged, remember?"

  "Hey, you brought it up. Why would you even say she looks like you? I can't see her face in the photos I saw."

  "And nothing about the photos rings a bell in your mind as to her identity?"

  "Zero. I don't know if I had sex with her or if it was just made to look that way."

  "What about the drugs? Did you have drugs on you?"

  "No," he snapped. "I don't do that shit. Do you even know me at all?"

  "How could I? We've only been going out for six weeks."

  "I'm sorry." He let out a breath. "I'm pissed. And I'm taking it out on you. It's late here. I need to go to bed, but I don't think I can sleep. I hope these photos don't derail my career. I need you on my side for the part of Dominic, Emily."

  "Do you?" I asked wearily. "Mitchell will have final say, not me. And it sounds like he wants you."

  "I want you to be happy about it."

  "Right now, I'm having trouble being happy about anything."

  "I know you're upset about the photos. But I didn't knowingly cheat on you, Emily, if that's even what happened. Anyway, I'm burned out. We'll talk tomorrow."

  Before I could tell him there were a lot more things we needed to talk about tonight, he was gone.

  "Dammit," I muttered, angry with him, myself, and the whole situation.

  I walked out to the balcony, feeling the need for some fresh air. Ethan was leaning against the railing, looking out at the city, his brown hair mussed from the wind. He turned to me. "Are you all right?"

  At his simple question, I realized that's what I'd wanted Ashton to say, but the man I'd been seeing hadn't asked me anything about myself, my situation. Maybe he didn't know it all because I hadn't filled him in, but he knew I'd been robbed. He knew I'd gotten the same disturbing photos he had, but his first thoughts—and maybe all his thoughts—had been for himself, his situation, what was going to happen to him.

  But Ethan was here for me. He'd gone above and beyond to help me, and now he had a damaged vehicle because of it. But he was still here. And I felt both gratitude and something else I didn't really want to define as our gazes clung together.

  "Emily?" he questioned, as if reading something on my face. "What's going on?"

  I pushed aside the odd feelings running through my body. I had too much to think about. I couldn't put Ethan in the mix. "Ashton got the same photos—or, actually, I don't know if they were the same, but he got a text with the threat of more photos and a video."

  "Is he supposed to pay them off?"

  "That's the thing. There wasn't a demand attached to it, which is confusing."

  "It's probably coming. Whoever is running this play we're a part of enjoys making people sweat."

  I felt sweaty right now and was grateful when a light breeze lifted my hair off the back of my neck. "It's like they get an evil pleasure out of watching me squirm." I looked down at the street. "Maybe they're watching me now, hidden in some car or a doorway."

  "Do you want to go inside?"

  "I think so," I said, heading into the living room. As we sat down on the couch, I said, "Ashton is terrified that the photos will hurt his reputation as a serious actor. I didn't realize he was so worried about his image. I thought he was happy being known as a television comedic actor. Apparently, he wants more dramatic film roles."

  Ethan's gaze narrowed. "Is that what you were talking about?"

  "Yes. He wants a part in the movie I'll be co-directing with Mitchell, and I guess they're talking about it, and now he's afraid of what these photos or video will mean for him."

  "Like you said, it's Hollywood. Is it really going to hurt him?" Ethan asked dryly.

  "I don't know. Maybe if he has to come up with a lot of cash to get rid of them, that will hurt." I tucked my hair behind my ears. "I didn't have time to tell him anything about what's going on with me. He said he was exhausted, and he was going to bed. It is late there. I understand that he's upset. He was drugged and used. That's terrible."

  "You're making a lot of excuses for him, Emily."

  "I'm just trying to see things from his point of view," I said defensively.

  "Or you don't want to see him for who he is."

  "You don't know who he is, Ethan."

  "Do you?" he challenged.

  I wanted to say I did, but I wasn't sure anymore. "I don't know," I admitted.

  "Even if Ashton didn't know all the shit that has been going on with you, he should have been worried about what you would think of the photos. Staged or not, you're looking at your boyfriend having sex with another woman."

  "But he didn't know what he was doing. I don't think his eyes were open. Were they?" My hand tightened around my phone. "I really don't want to look at the photos again."

  "Then don't."

  "It feels like this situation has to do with me, too. But I don't understand the connection, the motivation to screw with Ashton like that. Maybe your love triangle idea is more on the mark than I thought."

  "It would make sense now that we've seen the photos. A lot of planning went into that setup, too. It wasn't like sending you a note with a couple of words on it."

  "I agree."

  "You said your assistant was with him after your event. Why don't you ask her if she knows where he went after the first bar and who he went with?"

  "I guess I could do that tomorrow."

  "It's not that late."

  I frowned. "I've never called Kaitlyn at home. It seems unprofessional."

  "It's more unprofessional to have a conversation about your boyfriend at work," he countered.

  "Good point. I'll call her."

  "Put it on speaker, if you don't mind."

  "All right." Opening my phone, I punched in her number.

  "Hello? Emily?" Kaitlyn asked, surprise in her voice. "Is something wrong?"

  I had no idea how to answer that question. Kaitlyn talked a lot. I needed to be careful. "Ashton lost his phone on Friday night. He's desperate to find it. He said he went somewhere after Harry's, but his memories are a little off."

  "Ashton doesn't remember where he went?" Kaitlyn asked, eager interest in her voice. "Was he that drunk? He didn't seem that drunk. Unless—was he doing other stuff? He and Liam disappeared for a while."

  I ignored her stomach-churning question. "Do you know where Ashton went after he left Harry's? Did you see him leave with someone?"