of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.
I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.
With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.
“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”
My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.
“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.
“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.
“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”
“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.
“Do you remember anything about your accident?”
I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”
The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.
“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.
“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.
“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”
“Scott Turner?”
“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.
He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”
“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.
“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”
I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.
I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.
“What about your fiancée?”
“You mean, Katrina Moore?”
“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.
“That’s some ring you got her.”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.
The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” My muscles tense.
“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”
When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.
“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.
“I took