MAY 18

DAKOTA

"So, Dakota." The journalist was beautiful in the artificial and polished way that I'd come to associate with Hollywood. Her platinum blonde hair and the unnatural whiteness of her teeth seemed ridiculously out of place on a rainy island that was a thousand miles away. "How has the recent tragedy in your hometown impacted you?"

"Home island," I corrected with a tight smile. Beneath the scorching afternoon sun, my tact threatened to evaporate. "It's been a challenging week, and I'm lucky to be part of such a supportive community. We're sharing the weight of this loss together."

Deep down, I felt guilty for regurgitating the statement my publicist gave me. I didn't want to morph into an emotionless robot only capable of obeying directions and smiling when I was told. However, the dead orca had raised hell on Friday Island, and I'd convinced myself to make an exception.

"You have the heart-felt support of the Cinema Chronicle during this trying time," she said, oblivious to my inner turmoil. She transitioned to a series of mundane questions that I had no problem answering.

After another grueling fifteen minutes, my facial muscles were numb from conjuring too many fake smiles.

"One last question," she said, her lips twisting into a coy smirk. "Is there anything you can tell your fans about the mystery brunette who you shared a hug with on the ferry last week?"

The question didn't catch me off guard. Not even in the slightest.

For starters, my publicist showed me the photo earlier today. It'd first surfaced on a gossip blog, but now it was scattered across prominent tabloids that I'd learned to resent. Then, of course, there was the fact that my relationship status existed under a microscope ever since my split with Maud. There was always at least one photo floating around, fueling rumors that made me want to throw my phone into the sea. The rumors had reached an apex in March, and Brenna even suggested that we stage a fake romance in an attempt to stop them. I hadn't considered it, preferring not to invest in something that wasn't a long term solution.

I should've known that the photo would come back and bite me in the ass. The only silver lining was that said mystery brunette was facing away from the camera. That detail might be enough to deter Allix McGovern from plotting my demise.

"She's not a mystery," I replied, my smile calibrated. "She's a friend from the island who values her privacy, and so do I."

The journalist seemed satisfied with my response, and thanked me for my time. With my interview finally over, an actor swooped in to take my seat, and I excused myself.

I took my good sweet time navigating through today's filming location - a marina of one of the island's most elegant resorts. In addition to its waterfront location, the lush gardens and historic white buildings that made it a popular wedding venue. I'd attended more weddings here than I could count thanks to my mom's business, and I'd be lying if I denied envisioning my wedding here one day.

I eventually found Brenna sitting on a bench beside a blue hydrangea bush, sipping a cappuccino. Her faded jeans, band-tee, and Birkenstocks made it evident that she hadn't changed after shooting her scenes on set today. She wouldn't be caught dead wearing an outfit like this otherwise. She was too east coast and old money for that.

"Would you believe me if I told you that you look good?" I asked, joining her on the bench.

Brenna threw me a sideways look. "I always look good. I just hate that this whole ensemble screams fake hipster."

"Don't let the locals hear you say that," I chuckled. "How did your interview go?"

"Miraculously uneventful." She bit down on her bottom lip as she considered me for a long moment. "So, are we going to talk about it or what?"

"Talk about what?"

"Don't play the fool, Dakota. It's not a good look, especially when you wrote Apex's screenplay."

A chill rattled my entire body. "You don't think it's a coincidence?"

I didn't need to specify.

"A dead orca washed up on the beach, and a group of unruly teenagers discovered it." Brenna's blue eyes darkened. "Sounds familiar, right?"

There was something inherently paradoxical about hearing someone confirm your worst suspicions. I was relieved that I wasn't a mad conspiracist, but I was terrified of the consequences.

When I didn't initially respond, Brenna continued. "I've watched enough crime dramas to know when something isn't a coincidence."

I raked a hand through my hair and glanced around the garden. We were alone, but I wasn't willing to continue this conversation in a public space. "We can't talk about this here."

"You're right," Brenna nodded. "That's why I've arranged for the six of us to get brunch."

"Tell me you're joking."

Brenna sighed, examining her nails. I'd never seen her without nail polish or having whatever the long, dagger-like fake nails were called. "Fine. It was Syd's idea, not mine.

"Traitor," I said through gritted teeth. "Stop stealing my friends."

"I'm borrowing them," she clarified. "You know, I think this could be fun. We can be like the Scooby gang."

"Brenna, this is serious," I groaned.

"I know, and I want to help," she insisted, and took a deliberately a slow sip of her cappuccino. "Why else would I be doing this, Dakota?"

I gave a dry laugh. "I don't know, maybe to impress me?"

My sarcasm earned me a sharp elbow in the ribs. "Get the hell out of here," Brenna instructed, shooing me away. "Enjoy your meeting, boss."

I flipped her off as I walked away, and made a mental note to do the same to Syd later. There was nothing to be gained by forcing the six of us to get brunch and talk about our feelings.

Enjoying my meeting proved to be impossible.

Gretchen England, one of the higher-ups at Global Broadcasting Company, had dialed in via video conference to make two messages abundantly clear: filming must continue full steam ahead, and they needed to make amends with the island community. Gretchen was a big name in the film industry; when she'd released a solo directed debut film ten years ago, it was nominated for four Oscars, including Best director. It was rare that women behind the camera got mainstream success and fame - which was shitty for all of the obvious reasons. She'd also worked with Conrad before, and her administrative role at GBC had only increased her fame. I imagined she was a modern role model for young women in the industry and anyone had dreams of producing their own films.

But Gretchen's brief appearance resulted in my head throbbing; everyone in the writer's room had started debating over whether Apex needed to make amends when we'd done nothing wrong. The skepticism pouring out of my coworkers' mouths should've made me feel better, but it didn't. Someone here could be mimicking innocence, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"This is already a PR disaster," Myles Bennett said, slamming a folder onto the boardroom table. "Our ratings will tank before the show can even air."

I eyed the folder like it was roadkill. It contained graphic photos from the crime scene at Cape Blue that Sheriff Wakeman sent to Conrad and me. I didn't need to examine the contents, not when my memory of that night played on a loop inside my head.

"Not necessarily," Conrad said from the head of the table. "Publicity is power, regardless of whether it's positive or negative."

"Conrad is right," I added. "Acquiring an audience is the challenging part, but once we solidify ours, molding their opinion only requires a skilled hand."

Myles exhaled a hard breath. "What are you suggesting, Mr. Black? I doubt an apology will resurrect our popularity with your tree-loving people."

"It doesn't need to be a formal apology," Mike Bennett interjected, shooting me a sympathetic look. He seemed to be more level-headed than his brother, and graduated from the UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television. "A kind and simple gesture of good faith should do the trick."

"There's a fundraising banquet at the Friday Island Whaling Museum on June 6th," I said, opening the official list of invitees on my laptop. The surnames McGovern, Hamilton, and Watson might as well have been in bold. Sydney Atwood and his family were essentially above going to these events, but I knew he'd turn up. "We can make a generous donation and reiterate the show's environmentalist agenda."

"Excellent idea, Dakota," Conrad praised and stood up. "I think we can call it a day."

If I didn't know any better, I'd dismiss the dark circles under Conrad's eyes as the result of spending long hours on the set. However, I'd worked alongside him for the last six months, and something in his demeanor had shifted.

Maybe it was stress. Maybe I was projecting.

"You handled yourself well in your interview today," Myles said on our way out of the conference room. "But if I may, I'd like to offer you a piece of advice."

"Go ahead," I said. It wasn't like I actually had a choice. Myles would tell me whether I wanted to hear it or not.

"Entertainment journalists are parasites. They'll suck every last ounce of decency out of you if you don't take certain precautions."

"Like what?"

"Find out what they want to hear and use that to your advantage. When they ask about your love life, throw them a bone," Myles said, with a hyper-focused stare and I shifted my weight. "But make sure you throw them the same bone each time because as soon as you give them something new, they'll learn to expect that every time."

I nodded, understanding him. "Control the narrative to avoid falling victim to it."

"Precisely," Myles confirmed and continued down the hall. "Do that, and you'll always tell more truth than lies."

As I watched the producer disappear around the corner, I wondered if I was the only one pretending to be someone that I wasn't

*

"There's something you should know," I told Syd later that day.

We lounged on the sectional in the Atwood's bonus room with game controllers in hand and Super Smash Bros blaring on the 65" TV screen. An orange he subset blazed outside the window.

"Okay, shoot," Syd said, his gaze locked on the scene as his Pikachu fired a lightning bolt at my Lucas.

Out of all of the video games we'd played together, Super Smash Bros was the one we took the most seriously. Not even Call of Duty elicited the same level of ferocious cursing and ego inflation. That was why I made the executive decision to pause the game and set my controller down on the coffee table.

"Oh my god, bro," Syd complained, throwing his hands in the air. "We can multitask."

"It's about what happened the other night," I said. "I know that there are some rumors about Apex."

Syd propped his sock-clad feet on the coffee table. "First, just let me say that the first thing that came to mind was that you were about to be a baby daddy."

"What? No, not yet," I managed a short laugh. "And not for the foreseeable future."

"Well, since you're an only child, I better be The Godfather." He fiddled with his controller before exhaling a breath. "So, what's the deal with Apex?"

I opted to rip off the bandage. "What happened at Cape Blue is eerily similar to the show's screenplay...It's like the show became real life."

Syd gawked at me. "Define eerily similar."

And so I did. I told him about my discussion with Brenna, how she'd noticed the similarities, too. The explanation could fit inside a box with a red ribbon on top.

"That's whack," he said, shaking his head. "That also doesn't make sense. Why would anyone want to sabotage Apex?"

I could think of numerous irrational reasons, but they weren't worth saying out loud. "Beats me." I worked my jaw. "We're about halfway through filming. The show's key details are under wraps, which is why none of the official statements have addressed it."

"Whoever killed the orca had to have access to the screenplay, right?" Syd asked. "How many people receive that level of authorization?"

My mind traveled back to my interview with the deputy on the night of the incident. Everything had gone smoothly, and while I was calm under pressure, I couldn't help but feel guilty.

Conrad and my publicist had applauded me for how I'd handled myself and reassured me that there was nothing I needed to worry about. If I encountered trouble, GBC had a team of lawyers ready to launch into combat. Questions could be dodged, just like the truth.

I scratched the faint dusting of stubble on my jaw. "The entire production team, the main cast, and probably some of the research consultants."

"Damn that's a lot, but still manageable," Syd reasoned, slipping into detective. He was the type of person who could track down someone's social media handle without even knowing their last name. "We should always consider indirect involvement. I'm assuming that whoever is behind the curtain wouldn't want to get blood on their hands, and would hire someone to do the dirty work."

"Maybe I should make a list," I rolled my eyes, feeling like I was about to be sucked into a black hole.

"Does Maud know?"

I threw him a deadpan look. "Name one good reason why I'd tell Maud."

"That's easy. You guys found the orca together. She deserves to know."

"It doesn't. She's not entitled to any information about what may or may not be true about Apex. I only told you because you're my best friend."

"I'm touched," Syd gushed, and I frowned. "Really, I am, and I respect your opinion. I do think you should check in on her, though."

"That's not my job, and I doubt that Mimi wants me to do that," I grumbled, her nickname falling from my lips out of habit. "She has other people who can check in on her."

"I went over for breakfast this morning, and she's quiet," Syd said, snagging the bowl of snap peas from the coffee table and popping one into his mouth. "It's not the sad kind of quiet, but like the angry and scheming kind. I'm worried about her."

I interlaced my fingers on the back of my neck and exhaled a harsh sigh. "I'm not going over there. I'm not that person for her anymore, and I don't want to be."

Maud Hamilton sucked the life out of me. My heart might as well be a tumbleweed in the Sahara desert.

"You don't need to physically check on her," Syd said, munching thoughtfully on another snap pea. "Just send her a friendly text."

Somehow, Syd succeeded in making his suggestion sound stupidly straightforward. It was a simple, uncomplicated text. Maybe, it was the mature thing to do.

"The things I do for you, Sydney Atwood," I muttered and opened my phone to draft a text to Maud. It was slightly jarring to see the blank space below her contact. I had deleted all of our previous messages, unlike her, apparently.

Before I started typing, I remembered that one of my recent texts had gone unanswered, and I looked up at Syd. "Have you heard from Allix?"

"No, but she's Allix," Syd said as though her name alone was an answer. "Falling off the grid is her MO...unless you're an exception to her silence."

"I'm not," I said, working my jaw. "But listen, if you want all six of us at this damn brunch, then you should make contact."

"Fair enough. Allix likes me better, anyway."

A loud crack suddenly sounded from behind us. We both swiveled around as the window opened, and Maud Hamilton swung herself through in one seemingly effortless movement. She landed on her feet like an agile cat.

"Maud!" Syd beamed, unfazed by her arrival. "Your timing is impeccable."

I didn't have time to take a single breath before Maud was standing in front of us.

"There was a yacht," she said without any preamble and speared me with her dark gaze. "Before we started truth-or-dare, I was down by the water and saw a yacht. I think it belongs to whoever killed the orca, and I know how we can know for sure."

✘ ✘ ✘

dakota, maud, and syd are *not* a power trio