Then she stands back, aware they’re not alone in the house. “I thought you might be sleeping.”

  “Doc also gave me something to wake up.”

  “Jack.”

  “My only goal right now is to get through today. However I have to.”

  All she wants to do is hold him, to feel his comforting solidity, his presence that tells her everything will be okay. And from the way he’s looking at her—with a sad sort of longing—she knows he feels the same. Purposefully, she takes a seat in the chair opposite him. “Today’s conference. We control the questions, and if anything goes too far, you can signal us. We’ll both be there.”

  Between them is a little table that’s almost lost beneath an elaborate floral arrangement, dominated by white lilies. He wipes at a bit of pollen on the table, then looks at his skin, stained orange. “Someone told me she didn’t suffer. That it was quick.”

  Death flowers, her mother used to call the lilies, back when she cleaned at a mortuary. If sadness has a smell, she once said, that’s it. “People always say it was quick.”

  “You think the medical examiner was lying?”

  She wants to say yes, that she knows he’s capable of lying since he had certain directives. But the fact is she’s tired of people claiming a fast death is a good death. “I just don’t think that dying fast is better.”

  “You’d rather them be in pain? A long, drawn-out illness?”

  “Of course not.” A pause. “But at least there’d be a chance to say goodbye.”

  He nods, realizing whom she didn’t say goodbye to. “You know June made me mad, but she wasn’t supposed to die.”

  In the hall, a housekeeper passes by with another bouquet. “There’s a girl in front of the house named Agnes. She’s worried about you. And she said that she didn’t think June could die.”

  But Jack is staring out the window, his gaze on the treetops, his lashes tipped in light. “I heard that the president doesn’t eat in public so people can’t photograph him eating. Eating would make him human. And what would that do to our image?”

  “That can’t be true. I saw a photo of Hoover eating a doughnut, I know I did.”

  “True or not, I wasn’t allowed to be affected by war, and June’s not supposed to die. Yet here we are.” Again, he looks at the pollen stain on his finger, then scrapes at it with his nail. “O’Shea said I was yelling in my sleep. I did that when I got back from France. They say you can have years that are good, then something happens and it’s bad again.” He glances at her. “What if I was sober that night? Maybe you still would’ve taken me to the bungalows, but maybe I’d hear the shot. And see the person. Stopped them. Or gone to her and helped.”

  “If you’d intervened or stopped the person, you might’ve been shot too.”

  A half smile. “Two people who can’t stand each other, trapped together in life and then joined in death too? At least it’d be fast.”

  “Don’t say that. Not even as a joke.”

  He doesn’t close his eyes as much as he lets them close. As if up till now he’s forced himself awake. The morning light is soft on his face. “I wouldn’t want that. I’d take the pain if it meant I got to say goodbye to you.”

  “Jack.”

  Surprised at her anger, he opens his eyes. But she turns toward the window; she won’t let him see her cry. The bridge is in the distance, mist hanging at its sides. But then her eyes refocus, and in the reflection, she sees him reaching his hand toward her.

  “Don’t.” He lowers his hand, and she wipes her cheek before turning back to him. “If anyone found out about us, it would call everything into question. If you lied about me, they’d think you could lie about anything. And they’d see us as motive. Tell me you understand this.”

  He puts his hands together, pressing his thumb into his palm as if to work out a pain. “When I woke up, there was this moment when I felt good. I felt that there was no wedding and no fake relationship, and I had this surge of happiness, because for one split second I knew I could have my life back—but I forgot why.”

  “Jack, did you hear me? Nothing can happen right now.”

  “I heard you.”

  She stands up. “You’ll be all right?”

  He looks up at her and gives her a slow, sad smile. “Do I have a choice?”

  Chapter 16

  Toss Him to the Wolves

  At midday, the blue sky drains of color, then begins to deepen once more. White, almost whimsical clouds drift toward the horizon. The day is beautiful, and beauty at a horrible time has always infuriated Frankie, like a hard slap that life goes on even when it shouldn’t.

  Late in the afternoon, she’s in Nico’s car, about to leave the studio to return to Jack’s house for the press conference. Though she lives closer and would’ve preferred to drive separately, Nico suggested that it might be a good time to talk, and when Nico makes suggestions, they’re not suggestions.

  Just outside the studio gates, there is a spot designated for flowers. Pink roses carpet the ground, some in bundles tied with twine, others stuffed in mason jars. Little lanes of loose stems and petals creep between everything as if someone sheared off a rose garden and turned it into a pathway. Last night, Betty told her, six studio janitors walked as carefully as they could, removing any wilted blooms in order to keep the grief fresh and pleasant.

  Now, she and Nico pass a woman holding a sign. Justice for June. On the corner, three young boys have their shoeshine kits set up, their backs against a wall.

  “Tell me how hungover he was when he called you yesterday.”

  Frankie knows what Nico’s really asking, and she’ll make him say it. “Why?”

  “You believe he didn’t do it, right?”

  “Of course I believe he didn’t do it. You believe he did?”

  A sidelong glance at her. “Would I be doing what I’m doing if I believed that? The answer is no. If I thought someone killed my star, I would not hold back.”

  “Even if it’s your other star.”

  He’s quiet for a bit. Finally, he says, “You won’t like this, but Jack killing June would be a story to end all stories.”

  She turns in her seat to look at him.

  “Sure,” he continues, “we’d fire him. And he’d be arrested—the works. But publicity alone would skyrocket June and all her films beyond anything we’re experiencing now. Even his films. And I’m not saying this because I’d like it—it would kill me. It’s a disgusting part of this business that I can even say these things, but I’m good at my job, and this is what the job demands. You get that, right? It’s not me, it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  And she does get that. The second she chose to lie to Jack about the woman and child in the alleyway, in order to keep him in good form, she did the same. It was what the job demanded.

  Continuing, Nico says, “Jack causes problems, but he’s as down to earth as a star can be, and I respect that. Still, in a heartbeat, I’d throw him to the wolves if he did it. Not just for the job but for June. That’s the truth. And here’s another truth: The country needs Jack and June. And they will always, always be ‘Jack and June,’ even with her gone. Their rags-to-riches stories, their love, their success. In this world where everything’s gone to hell, for two people to rise up like that? And find each other? I can’t take that away. And can I tell you one more thing?”

  “Do you really want an answer, or—”

  “I had bungalow two searched. While we were all in number one with the cops, and while Jack was being interviewed. I had one of my guys go there to look for the gun and the necklace.”

  Frozen, she studies his profile.

  “And they weren’t there. What’d you think I was going to say? You think if we found the gun that killed June in with Jack’s stuff, we’d even be having this conversation? Refer back to what I said earlier, please—I’d toss him to the wolves if I thought he did it. But here’s what I’m saying now: It’s not just that I believe he wouldn’t do it, it’s that I looked into it. You and I both know the only way he’s maybe capable of doing something like that is if he’s having one of his moments and is confused. Even then, it’s a huge stretch. But let’s think about it . . . In that state, you don’t also remember where the gun is and then have the presence of mind to hide it and the necklace. To be messed up enough to kill someone means he’d be too messed up to cover it up.”

  The relief she feels is immediate and encompassing but worrisome—because she didn’t realize how much she needed this assurance. She sees Jack in the alley with the shotgun, and reminds herself that he only intended to scare whomever it was. Even if she weren’t there to stop him, nothing might’ve happened.

  Nico continues. “Drunk people leave a trail. I want to believe he told us everything, but if you know otherwise, then I need to know too. You can’t play your hand till you’ve looked at all your cards. Strategy relies on information.”

  Frankie sits with his words on the drive from the studio to Jack’s house in Pasadena, which takes almost an hour. After a while, Nico tells her about Tank Adams, found hiding out in Westchester, a Los Angeles County city that’s mostly rows and rows of bean plants and an airport called Mines Field.

  “Why didn’t you lead with this?” she asks. “This is big. They found him.”

  “Could be great, if he did it. Tank claims to have an alibi.”

  “But he was there. Outside the premiere, watching June.”

  “That was earlier. Story is he met up with friends later. But till the police talk to those friends, it’s empty words. He’s still our best bet. And we need something to stick, because I don’t love how things look.” He taps the steering wheel as if ticking off a list. “Jack found her. Jack’s the last person she was with. Jack was in a relationship with her—and cops know that doesn’t always mean bliss. God help us if they find out he didn’t want to marry her. No, I don’t care if Tank did it or not, he’s the carrot I need dangled in front of the police so they don’t look to Jack.”

  As they drive, small stretches of land become buildings and houses and jam-packed life. Soon they pass through the Figueroa Street tunnels, geometric patterns on the retaining walls and on the mouths of the portals. Beautiful designs that lead the way to a plunge through the hills. On the sidewalk alongside the roadway, a man, woman, and child walk together, the mother’s hand over her mouth as she coughs.

  “These tunnels saved me,” Nico says, as they emerge back into the light. “Used to take me twice as long to get to him. But I do like him being out of the way. Less spying eyes, if you know what I mean.” He takes in the view from his window. “Pasadena used to be where the tourists and rich snowbirds went. Then this Depression hit. One day, what’s left of the orange groves will be gone. Every one of them. Orange Grove Boulevard will just be a name, and no one will know why. Fifty years from now, a hundred years, what survives? For June, what survives? That she was a mess? That she was knocked up and needed saving? They’ll never know her. They’ll just know the bottom line.”

  “That people remember her to begin with would be nice.” Frankie’s thinking of Fiona, gone as if she never was.

  “True. What’d Oscar Wilde say? There’s only one thing worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about. Something like that.”

  The San Gabriel Mountains rise in the distance, bracing the valley. Still growing, Jack once told her about the range, a comment that, from that point on, made it impossible to look at mountains without imagining the force of the many earthquakes involved in their creation. Isn’t there something nice about that, he asked, that they’re not done?

  When they round the corner to Jack’s street, Nico taps on the brakes. “So much for people not wanting to journey to Pasadena.”

  The entire street is packed with people and cars, signs propped up on hoods and roofs as if with hopes Jack might spot them from his house. Nico noses his car into the chaos, and people step aside, craning their heads to look through the windows. Frankie searches the crowd for Agnes, at last spotting the girl picking a yellow flower from the clover. She places the stem in her mouth, and makes a face. “I could’ve told her it would be sour.”

  “What?” Nico asks.

  Frankie nods toward the girl. The flower hangs from her mouth as she sucks on the stem. “We called it sour flower.”

  “It’s wood sorrel. Betty said crowds are at June’s too. Ida’s afraid to go outside.”

  Ida, demanding and unsatisfied. The opposite of June in all ways—dark to June’s light, silence to June’s laughter. Yet Ida was also the one who set her own alarm earlier than anyone in the house so she could open June’s door and slowly raise the shades, or bring the lights on one by one to ease June awake. No one wants to wake up in the middle of a dream, she once told Frankie. “I can’t believe Ida’s not signing autographs.”

  Nico gives her a sidelong glance. “I’m mad at her too, if it helps. I know she was hard on June. Impossibly hard, like a mother, really, ever since their own mother’s mind started slipping.”

  “That was almost a decade ago. That’s years and years of Ida bossing June around and making June prove herself. All June wanted was her approval. To make her proud.”

  “Never try to make sense of family.” The iron gate swings open, and they start to wind up to the house. “And this probably won’t help, but Ida didn’t get to be Ida growing up. Ida was always June’s sister. Everything was for June. Doesn’t excuse anything, but I get the sense that Ida’s not sure when her life begins. Maybe it’s now, I don’t know.”

  Bringing up something Nico’s already dismissed can be tricky, but if Tank is cleared, there’s another person who warrants examination. “Nico, we need to look into the father of June’s baby.” He shakes his head. “If Tank’s alibis check out, and it wasn’t him, don’t we—”

  “I know who the father is. All right?” He parks the car, and glances at the mirrors before continuing. “I want to respect her privacy, but what I will say is that the guy’s decent enough, but didn’t want anything to do with a baby. That made me furious, if you want to know the truth. But he was fine with her having it, as long as he wasn’t involved—which actually worked a hell of a lot better for us than if he did want to be in the picture. Still, he wasn’t angry, or mad or jealous. He had nothing to gain or lose with her death. So, if I keep dismissing the guy, that’s why—because it’s a dead end, and would only cause problems and put her reputation at risk.”

  She leans against the car door, her head on the glass.

  “Sometimes I don’t tell you things,” he continues. “Not because I don’t trust you. But because I feel bad that our stars shouldn’t trust me. Because I do what I gotta do to protect them from their secrets, and that means revealing those secrets at times. To you, for instance. And it doesn’t make me feel the best. So I keep quiet when I can.”

  On the second floor, a light goes on. “Come on,” Nico continues. “And it’s not over with Tank. We all know how alibis can be bought.”

  Inside, cameramen are set up in Jack’s living room, and reporters do their best to pretend they’re not impressed with the surroundings. “This seems like a bad idea,” Frankie says as a man runs his hand along the rim of a ceramic vase.

  “Here, we need Jack up and presentable for thirty minutes. Anywhere else, there’s travel time, there’s talking to other people. This was our best bet.”

  Upstairs, they’ve just turned the corner when a man steps out of Jack’s room. The studio doctor. Gray, thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an uneven gait. A man people either dread or look forward to seeing; there’s no in-between.

  Nico nods to him and knocks on Jack’s door before pushing it open and disappearing inside. But Frankie waits to intercept the doctor. “He doesn’t need more.”

  The man hitches up his bag on his shoulder. “Says who?”

  Though Nico hates anything and everything to do with the doctor, the man works for Nico’s boss, not Nico. Frankie certainly has no say.

  The doctor smiles, sympathetic yet patronizing. “You want him asleep for the press? Because he’s not snapping out of this. Not today. Hell, not even tomorrow.”

  “He just lost his fiancée. He needs time.”

  Now he raises an eyebrow as if to challenge Frankie’s lie. Perhaps thinking better of it, he says, “I’m not that kind of doctor, but you ask me, it’s not grief I’m seeing. It’s guilt.”

  Frankie tries to be calm as the doctor continues.

  “He wasn’t there to protect her. Survivors of accidents too, they feel guilty it wasn’t them.”

  A rush of relief. She thanks him for his insight, as patronizingly as she can, and opens Jack’s bedroom door. The bed is unmade. The closet door open. There are pill bottles on his bedside table, stacks of scripts by a love seat that have spilled over, pages splayed. A soup bowl on a tray by the wall. Jack, standing at the window, turns when he hears her. Never has she seen him this sad, this deep in his own misery.

  Nico picks a sweater off the floor. “I need to make sure the reporters are good girls and boys and stick to their questions. Frankie, get some concealer under his eyes, would you? It’s radio, but people in Europe could see those circles.”

  Frankie waits till Nico’s gone, and finds the concealer in a drawer, there to assist after late nights. Jack’s still facing the window when she goes to him. Dabbing the makeup on her finger, she angles his face toward her. “You looked better this morning.”

  His eyes meet hers, that gut-wrenching blue gaze, but then he’s looking lower, to her mouth. In the silence of the room, she can hear him breathing, and it feels like when they first met, when they were off-limits and not allowed.

  “Frankie,” he says, so quietly she wonders if maybe she imagined it. With two fingers, he touches her wrist, tentative, as if he’s unsure. He’s watching her. Steady.

  “I’m worried about you,” she says.

  From the hall, Nico yells to someone downstairs. Jack drops his hand. “You have to let me be a mess.”