with heavy silence. The cigarette smoldered, already half forgotten between his long fingers.
“What does that mean, do you think?” he asked. “The fact that no one’s seen him, I mean.”
Harper hesitated, wondering how much truth he could take. “It’s not great,” she said, finally.
He nodded, slowly. As if he’d expected her to say that.
She couldn’t get over the change in his demeanor. The animated, angry bandmate from the day before was gone. Behind his smudged glasses, his face had the stunned look of someone who’d been punched.
Lifting a cup from the tray, she held it out to him. “Drink this. I think you need it.”
When he leaned forward to take it, his eyes—brown with specks of gold—met hers. “It was nice of you to do this. None of us has left the house since … Well. Since yesterday. I haven’t even showered.” He looked down at his rumpled band T-shirt with distaste. “I can’t seem to do anything. My phone keeps ringing—managers, journalists, lawyers. Everyone but Zay.”
His cigarette had grown a long tail of ash. He tapped it into an overfull ashtray at his feet. “At least if I get cancer now I deserve it,” he muttered. “I must have smoked a hundred cigarettes in the last twenty-four hours.” With a sigh, he straightened. “Do you know what happens now?”
“They’ll keep looking for him.” She kept her tone calm. “Boats went out again this morning just after seven.” Seeing a spark of panic in his expression, she added hastily, “It’s just a precaution.”
His eyes fluttered shut and he whispered, “I hate this so much.”
Soft sounds from upstairs—a thudding of footsteps, a faint murmur of voices—indicated the others were coming down. Hunter must have heard it, too, because his eyes flew open. “Listen, don’t tell them what you just told me,” he said with quiet urgency. “Tell them there’s no news. But nothing else.”
Harper didn’t know how she felt about that. Before she could make up her mind, though, Cara walked into the living room talking over her shoulder. “Could someone turn the coffeemaker on? I’m so tired, I…” Spotting Harper, she stopped abruptly.
Allegra, who was right behind her, looked around her shoulder and brightened.
“You’re back.” She said it like it was no big deal, and bounced into the room.
Cara remained frozen in the doorway, watching Harper like a dog might observe a rattlesnake.
Uncertain of how to handle this, Harper found herself rising, awkwardly. “I’m sorry to show up out of the blue. I’ll leave if you want me to.”
“She brought coffee.” Hunter pointed at the cups. “And food.”
“Oh thank God.” Snatching the bag off the coffee table, Allegra opened it and peered inside. “Doughnuts!” She looked up at Harper, gratefully. “There’s no food at all in this house. I was about to eat my own hair.”
As she spoke, Cara moved slowly into the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw her give Hunter a look that was part question, part accusation. His response was a very slight shrug. It could have been apology or rebellion.
It made sense that Cara would be the most suspicious of a journalist, Harper supposed, given what she’d learned the night before when she’d researched all three of them.
She knew Hunter had met Xavier at Juilliard. He was a classical pianist before the two formed a band. There was nothing in the articles about his background, but something told her he came from money. He had the confidence a wealthy childhood brings. The polished sheen of a worry-free life.
Her research had turned up almost nothing about Allegra. It was unclear how Xavier had discovered her, although her voice made it obvious why he’d chosen her.
Cara had the most interesting history. She’d started modeling while in her teens, doing the usual round of commercials, music videos, and voice-overs before being cast in a hit TV series playing a teenager at a haunted boarding school. The series had run for four years. By then, she was in all the celebrity magazines. She developed a substantial following.
Last year, though, there’d been a minor scandal when she was accused by the tabloids of cheating on her boyfriend—her costar from the TV series—with Xavier. One publication in particular—a tabloid blog called L.A. Beat (or L.A.B., as its logo would have it)—had gone for her viciously, running numerous attack articles and unflattering paparazzi photos of her covering her face, hiding behind her bag, ducking into a car. It seemed to Harper the blog had gone out of its way