Ashes to Ashes Read online

  I smiled back wanly. “I know.”

  I knew she’d try to prevent anything bad from happening to me—that she and Rocky would work their asses off to keep me from harm’s way—but my stalker wasn’t the only scary thing out there. As much as this person had infiltrated my life, they’d also opened the door to my demons … and I’d learned the only person who could truly protect me from those was me.

  She and Rocky could call the police and set up a watch on my house, but they couldn’t force me not to drink. And right now, I really wanted a taste of whiskey.

  The need must have shown on my face because she asked, “Do you want to call Monty?”

  My sponsor Monty was one of the few people who knew just how bleak things had gotten before Charlotte and Rocky forced my ass into rehab after finding me face down in a pool of my own vomit while two men were tangled up in each other in my bed down the hall. There’d been needles on the nightstand and I hadn’t been able to remember if I’d shot up with them. It had taken a blood test at the hospital to confirm the only thing in my system had been copious amounts of booze. That test had kicked off several additional tests over the coming weeks to ensure I hadn’t picked up some disease during my long spiral downward.

  Charlotte led me to the edge of my bed, and then ran back to my office to grab my phone. When she came back, it was already ringing on the other end. As I waited for Monty to pick up, Charlotte pulled out two suitcases and started throwing clothes haphazardly into the them. I watched, mesmerized by the whirlwind of her activity, as the call went to voicemail.

  “Monty, it’s Rae. I could really use some whiskey right now.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Charlotte, Rocky, and I sat around a conference room table in his office while a plain clothes detective explained how their investigation would work. They’d taken ownership of the letter and planned to test it for traces of DNA to see if they could link it back to anyone who was already in the system. I didn’t have high hopes they’d find the culprit that way. I’d seen enough serial killer movies to know these sort of people didn’t just slap together their death threats willy-nilly. I’d bet good money there’d been latex gloves and tweezers involved in its construction.

  “And in the meantime,” Detective Staufferson continued, “I recommend hiring a personal security detail. We’ll have teams stationed outside your house, but having someone with you at all times until we catch this person wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

  “Okay,” I replied, the word coming slow and drawn out. “Is that something you can handle?” I asked, turning to Rocky.

  “Already taken care of,” he replied, his deep voice gruff. “I have a call set up this afternoon and we’ll have someone lined up by end of day. I’m not leaving anything to chance so I’m using the same team that protected you in Brazil a few years back.”

  I nodded, satisfied with his answer. I hadn’t felt particularly vulnerable during my South American tour, but there’d been some concern about my safety after an actor’s daughter had been abducted from his hotel and held for ransom. The security detail Rocky had hired for that leg of my tour had been comprised of ex-Special Forces, and while the three men had been hard to ignore given their size, they’d fitted in seamlessly with my day-to-day activities. After the first couple of days I’d even forgotten they were there. Thankfully, there’d been no need for their protection, but I couldn’t deny I’d felt safe knowing they were watching my back.

  Detective Staufferson rolled his chair away from the table. “I’m going to get back to the station to get our analysis started. If we find anything, we’ll be sure to let you know.” He turned serious eyes my way. “I know this is frightening for you Miss Griffin, but let me assure you, we are very good at our jobs and I am confident we’ll have your stalker in custody soon.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, trying to wrap my head around how drastically my life had changed in the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday, I’d had a meeting with the label about a tour in support of my album, and now I was meeting with the police because some deranged person wanted me dead.

  Once the detective left, I turned to Rocky. “Has someone reached out to Crawford?”

  Briefly, his eyes flicked Charlotte’s way and then met mine. Something told me I wasn’t going to like his answer. “We have. Or rather, we’ve contacted his manager.”

  I sighed. Kurt Macintyre had hated me from the moment we’d met.

  “Let me guess. He said this was my problem and I needed to deal with it like a big girl?”

  Rocky shifted looked out the window to the valley below. “Not exactly,” he replied, crossing his hands over his belly. “Let’s just say he wasn’t helpful.”

  I swiveled to face Charlotte. “Tell me what he said.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  I stood and started pacing. “Yes, it matters. One of his clients’ fans want me dead! I know Ford never loved me and stupid fucking Kurt begged him not to marry that white trash singer—” I used my fingers to make air quotes “—but the least they could do is tell those lunatics to back the fuck off. I didn’t do anything wrong,” I cried as tears filled my eyes.

  Defeated, I sagged back into my chair. “I never did anything wrong.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Rocky cooed as if he was talking to a wounded, frightened animal. “But what did you expect, Rae? Given everything Ford has put you through, did you honestly think he’d help you now?”

  And that was the saddest part. A small part of me had hoped the bastard would extend me this one tiny kindness. Lord knew he’d failed me in every other regard, but no one had ever wanted me dead before now. And it was all his fault. Before he’d gone on that damn talk show and announced he was divorcing me while strongly hinting that I’d been unfaithful—something he was the one guilty of—his fans had loved me. They’d been thrilled when our wedding was plastered on the cover of Martha Stewart Weddings.

  “But it’s the least he could do.”

  Charlotte scoffed. “No. The least he could do is tell the world he’s a lying piece of shit who did everything he accused you of and more, but we all know Crawford Madigan is a text book narcissist who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, much less continue to be adored by millions.” Once Charlotte got on a roll about the injustice that was Crawford Madigan, there was no stopping her. “I don’t know why you continue to honor that godforsaken pre-nup Kurt made you sign without Rocky or your lawyer seeing it first. It’s not as if they actually had the balls to sue, you couldn’t pay.”

  Charlotte and I had had this argument countless times in the past, but sitting here now—worrying about my safety and knowing that Ford wasn’t going to lift a finger to help me—was the first time I’d truly considered her point. Now, I was willing to concede maybe she was onto something.

  At just 20 years old, I’d had stars in my eyes and thought Ford and I would grow old together, surrounded by a gaggle of grandchildren. I’d had no reason to think otherwise. And so I’d naively signed a prenuptial agreement that stipulated everything Ford made during our marriage remained his in the event of our divorce. That was fairly standard practice for any celebrity pre-nup, but what hadn’t been, was him getting final say in what music I released and a “fat clause” that gave him $50,000 of my hard-earned cash for any weight I gained over 120 pounds. Since I was naturally small-boned and had a quick metabolism, that had never been a problem.

  What had been a problem was the clause I’d glossed over before signing on the dotted line: in the event of our divorce, I could never reveal what had transpired during the course of our marriage. If I did, I’d have to pay Ford a one-time lump sum of $10 million. Obviously, Kurt and his team of lawyers had known more about the state of mine and Ford’s relationship than I had because the gag order prevented me from revealing my ex-husband’s drug use, plastic surgery, and serial cheating. It also meant he could say whatever he wanted about me with absolutely no recourse.

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sp; “Ten million dollars is a lot of money,” I reminded Charlotte with a cynical laugh. Never in my life had I thought those words would cross my lips. I’d grown up dirt poor, and the idea that I’d have one million dollars—let alone ten—to pay my way out of an untenable situation was preposterous. Shit, it was a miracle I wasn’t living paycheck to paycheck like everyone else who’d grown up in the small desert town I came from.

  “You know I’ve always advocated for you taking the high road,” Rocky interjected, “but I’m with Charlotte on this one. I thought things would get better once there was a new scandal for people to glom onto, but this is your life we’re talking about here.”

  “It was my life we were talking about when I nearly killed myself with booze,” I reminded him, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping out.

  “Yes,” he responded sadly, “and I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing it sooner. Which is why I’m not going to sit back and let this happen now. I think it’s time for you to come out swinging, Ford and his ridiculous pre-nup be damned.”

  I’d been cowering for so long, hunched in on myself trying to shoulder the blame for everything that had gone wrong in my marriage, it was like I didn’t know how to stand up for myself anymore. I’d been scared for so long, the idea of telling the world what had really happened was paralyzing.

  You’ve gone through worse, my subconscious reminded.

  As if I needed reminding.

  “What would that even look like?” I asked, letting the idea percolate. “Do I just give an interview to set the record straight?”

  “That would be the first thing,” Rocky said, his voice growing animated as he slipped into manager mode and his mind whipped through all the ways we could turn this tale on its head. “The public loves a good tell-all and I’m sure I could get you a fat advance from one of the big publishing houses.” His enthusiasm waned and his face turned thoughtful. “There’s no way you can tour now. Instead, I’d recommend getting back in the studio and recording your next album—one where you sing all those sad songs you’ve been writing for years.”

  “I don’t know,” I breathed, tense at the idea of sharing that much of myself with the world.

  I had five thick notebooks filled to the brim with lyrics I’d written over the course of my marriage, and fifteen additional ones I’d filled in the two years since the divorce. I’d needed to get those feelings out of me as much as I’d needed air to breathe and food to live.

  But still … how could I share all that?

  “You don’t think an interview would be enough to set the story straight?”

  I was being naïve and everyone in the room knew it, but Charlotte was the first to say so. “Right. Because everyone is going to magically believe your side of the story when for years Ford has been creating his own narrative of who you are, what your marriage was like.”

  “She’s right,” Rocky added. “The second you give that interview—and I’m thinking we go with Grace Trombley to give it some gravitas—his camp is going to issue a rebuttal and come back at you harder than ever. Ford knows you were in rehab, but he’s miraculously kept quiet up until now. The second word gets back to him that you’ve broken your silence, he’ll concoct some lurid tale about how you drank during your marriage and stayed silent because he thought that’s what you needed to get better. No matter what you say about his misdeeds, he’s going to turn them around on you. I swear the man studied Nazi propaganda with the way he plays to the press and his fans.”

  Rocky wasn’t wrong. Everything Ford had publicly accused me of were things he’d done himself … and then some. The cheating, the late-night parties, the out-of-control spending—that was textbook Crawford Madigan. If I wasn’t certain Ford hadn’t read a single, solitary book during the entirety of our marriage, I might have believed he’d studied Joseph Goebbels’ playbook.

  That snake Kurt, though? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I was filled with shame and regret all over again. Why I hadn’t divorced Ford before he could destroy me remained one of the great mysteries of my life. Almost immediately after the wedding I’d realized he wasn’t the man I’d thought he was, but love was a strange thing. It made you do things you never thought you’d do … like try to make someone love you when you knew they were incapable of it, or stay in a marriage that was dead because you kept hoping you could somehow make it work.

  “If I’m opening myself up to all that, why do it?” I asked them both. While I’d warmed to the idea, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

  “Because it’s time you told your side of the story,” Charlotte said, slamming her palm onto the table. “You’ve kept quiet too long. You’re not the villain here, he is. It’s time he paid for what he’s done to you. His fans are sending you death threats, for fuck’s sake, and he refuses to tell them to back the fuck off. It’s time you stopped walking on egg shells.” Her tone softened. “You have the money, Rae. Use it to buy your freedom.”

  I looked between the two people I trusted most. They loved me, wanted me to be safe, and would do anything in their power to help me. They were also professionals. Their advice wasn’t just coming from my friends; it was coming from the team I paid to guide me.

  “Okay,” I said with a nod, deciding to throw my fate to the wind. “An interview, a tell-all book, and a new album.” I nodded again, this time with more surety. “Let’s get started then.”

  Chapter Three

  Rae

  The black SUV with tinted, bullet-proof windows drove through the darkened passage of an underground garage. As the industrial-grade door clanged shut behind us, Charlotte laughed nervously. “Should we be worried?”

  “If I’m not safe here, I’m not safe anywhere,” I reminded her.

  She leaned forward a bit and looked out the window. “I’m pretty sure I saw this place in a kidnapping movie,” she said with a tremulous laugh. Inappropriate humor was how she dealt with her nerves.

  Drinking was how I dealt with mine. Or it had been. Now, I usually counted to one hundred and waited for the moment to pass. But when I reached ninety-nine and still hadn’t calmed down, I swiveled on the leather to face my friend. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” I said, wringing my hands. “What if we’re being followed?” Showing up at a building with the company’s name written in bold white lettering didn’t exactly scream subtle.

  “Keeping you safe is not a bad idea,” Charlotte answered as the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of a steel gray door. There stood a man in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. As he stepped forward to open my door, she laid her hand on my arm. “And if we’re being followed, that person is an idiot. This place is like Fort Knox here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I know she wanted to believe that, but so far, all evidence pointed to the contrary. Earlier, Charlotte had swung by my house with a police escort to pick up more of my personal belongings, and when they’d arrived, the officer sensed something wasn’t right. He’d immediately turned around and driven Charlotte back to the station. When he’d returned with Detective Staufferson in tow, they’d found “die bitch” scrawled across my garage door in a viscous red liquid Staufferson believed was animal blood.

  Needless to say, no one was returning to my house anytime soon. And I didn’t know where Charlotte and I would be spending the night since the man who ran McClintock Security had told Rocky we needed to immediately clear us out of the hotel. Having lived my life on the road for years on end, being itinerant wasn’t a hardship, but I felt awful for Charlotte. My drama had taken over her life as well.

  “Good afternoon Miss Griffin,” the suited man greeted us in a deep baritone. “Right this way.” He punched in a code and the metal door swung open. Stepping aside so we could go through, he said, “McClintock is waiting upstairs to brief you.”

  “Thank you, Mister …?”

  “Gage,” came his abrupt reply.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gage.”

  “Just Gage. No mister.”

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nbsp; Next to me Charlotte snickered and I could almost read her mind. This exchange sounded an awful lot like something you’d hear in one of her favorite spy movies.

  “Please tell me your first name is Jason,” she said with a sly smile, referencing her favorite spy of all—Jason Bourne. It wasn’t that she loved the character, per se. The truth was, Charlotte had a deep and abiding love for all things Matt Damon.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am?” Gage asked as a perplexed frown crossed his brows.

  Charlotte groaned. “You had to go and ruin my fantasy by calling me ma’am, didn’t you?”

  Gage looked at Charlotte like she’d sprouted two heads, and I suppressed a laugh. I loved Charlotte like a sister, but she could be a handful. I’d had years to get used to her antics, but poor Gage hadn’t had even a moment to acclimate to her particular brand of crazy.

  Straightening to his full height, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and crossed his hands in front of him. “My apologies.”

  “Miss Jones,” I supplied. If he was going to use my last name, he could damn well use hers too. I hated when people treated assistants like they weren’t worthy of notice, and I’d be damned if this brute was going to “ma’am” her when I’d bet good money he absolutely knew her name. McClintock Security hadn’t become the best celebrity security company in the country by not doing its research. The second they’d agreed to take me on as a client, they would have pulled a file on all of my closest associates, and Charlotte’s name was at the very top of that list.

  The elevator dinged and the door slid open. “After you, Miss Griffin. And Miss Jones.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, I spied a slight smirk cross his lips as we walked past, but when I turned back around his face was an impassive mask once again.

  Gage pressed the button for the fifteenth floor and stood between us and the elevator bay. Not that there was any danger afoot here, but out in the real world, you could never be too sure. With a twitch of my lips, I recalled this being something of a game back in Brazil with my previous guards. They hadn’t appreciated me trying to get one over on them, but at the time, I hadn’t appreciated being watched like a hawk every second of every day either. The only place I’d had a moment of privacy was in the bathroom, but even then, Fitch and Maguire hovered outside like silent sentinels. There was nothing quite so embarrassing as two men hearing the sound of your pee hitting the porcelain.