The Rock Star’s Fake Fiancee - Kenzie Reed Page 0,108

I don’t see anything.”

I stare at the screen, which displays the camera feeds from every location where we have a camera. Or, it should. I’m looking at a dozen screens of snowy static.

“We’ve been hacked. Look at it. Starting a couple of hours ago, all the cameras went down. That’s not a drunk, angry, impulsive kind of thing to do, it’s a deliberate act that took calm, careful planning.”

I twist around to look at them, and they respond with grim nods of agreement. There’s no denying it. The saboteur trashed our penthouse.

I’m at the sheriff’s office ten minutes later, gasping for breath.

I make my way past a crowd of reporters who are standing on the front steps, ignoring their shouted questions.

Sheriff Buckley is standing near the door, talking to a patrol sergeant. He waves me over and nods at the sergeant, who strolls off.

“I was going to call you when I got a chance,” he says. “Terra Jones is making a big deal about wanting to talk to you. She won’t tell us why.”

I snort in contempt. “She just wants to try to threaten me into dropping the charges against her. She can sit in her cell and rot. I came to tell you that someone hacked into our security cameras. It’s got to be the saboteur. Magnus didn’t get dead drunk then carefully disable the cameras, get rid of the security guard, and only then trash our hotel room. Oh, have you found the security guard?”

“Yep.” He nods. “Passed out in the broom closet on the second floor. He’s being transported to the hospital. It looks as if he was drugged. So far as the medics can tell, he should be okay. He’s starting to regain consciousness. And we know it wasn’t Magnus. We’ve heard from witnesses who saw him leave the bar and go to the park downtown. He was just pacing around there for a while, and by the time he headed back to the hotel we’d already been called about your room.”

“I appreciate that. Where’s Sebastian?”

“He’s being booked. We’ll probably release him on his own recognizance in the morning.”

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Can you let me know when you find out anything else? Like who actually trashed our penthouse suite?”

He smiles wryly. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I’ll update you when I can.”

I trudge back to the hotel with a heavy heart. The opening day of the Tricentennial, and Heat Lightning’s opening gig, is the day after tomorrow, and it should be cause for celebration. Instead, I’m weighed down with dread and worry. A darkness has come to visit my corner of the world, and I don’t know when it will ever leave us.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Sebastian

It feels as if the whole world has shown up for the first day of the fair. It’s so crowded and everyone’s so distracted by all the pageantry that nobody even notices us as we stroll past the booths. A small swarm of bodyguard trail discreetly behind us, scanning the crowd constantly for any threats.

Costumed re-enactors are everywhere, both on stage and mingling with the fairgoers. They have every kind of ride imaginable, a 1720s-era reproduction of a village with demonstrations and a tavern and historical food being sold, picnic tables, booths, face painting, pony rides, a petting zoo, and stages set up everywhere. The crowds are entertained by comedians, jugglers, magicians, and local bands. Our gig is set for seven p.m. tonight, and it’s only eleven a.m., so we’ve got all the time in the world.

“Look, there’s Sorrowful Abernathy,” Monica says, pointing to a costumed character who’s making his way through the crowd. She’s really got her Bitter End history down. Sorrowful was Daisy’s great-great-great et cetera grandfather, who brought his whole family with him from New England, dreaming of a tropical paradise.

When they arrived in August of 1720 and found that he’d spent every cent of his hard-earned money on a swampy, marshy mosquito farm, he said to his family, “This is the bitter end.” And that’s what he named the town he founded.

“Woe is me!” the actor playing Sorrowful calls out to the tourists who stand back to snap his picture.

“Wow, he looks even more bummed than you do,” Monica says. She pats my arm. “I’m sorry about Magnus. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“You’re not being a jerk to me at all today,” I say to her. “Are you feeling okay? Did you take your vitamins?”

She shrugs and gives me a wry smile. “I hate to kick a man