Chapter 27

27

E ver since her second-to-last work layoff, Sol feared opening her email in the morning. Call it professional PTSD. So she'd started doing it only after breakfast. If the electronic mail carried bad news, let them not ruin the sweetest meal of the day.

She was glad she had followed that arrangement that morning because her breakfast would have been utterly sullied otherwise. When she finally opened her email—and after she sifted through an inbox filled with PR pitches bearing titles as catchy as "Michelle Yeoh gains over 450,000 Instagram followers after winning Best Actress Oscar," "Camila Morrone is the most influential cast member of Daisy Jones & The Six, new study shows," and "SEX EXPERTS REVEAL: The PERFECT Toy To Match Your Zodiac Sign"—she found a message from Fionna. Sol's interview with Richard Fynn was postponed.

Fionna told Sol not to worry about anything, which of course caused the journalist to panic. Fionna explained in her email that the studio distributing the movie Fynn was promoting would update them soon about the new date of the interview once everything was newly scheduled. But Sol would not be flying to Los Angeles that evening as initially planned.

She almost saw the whole postponement as a sign that the interview would never happen. Or it would happen, but it would not be her conducting it as one of Conceit Fair 's many regular contributors could become available then.

She also knew that sometimes in Hollywood's fast-paced, cut-throat environment when things started being a hindrance, they were simply scrapped. If the interview wasn't scheduled soon, they risked missing the magazine's tight publication deadline. Fionna believed that all would be set in a couple of days, but Sol knew that estimation was terribly imprecise.

If the interview didn't happen in the end, she would not be paid for it.

Her finance guru had still not gotten back to her since her parents had informed her about their new economic reality. The accountant was on a cruise in Antarctica, her out-of-office email said—and Sol was worried about money.

But the worst part was that there had been no need for her to fly to London. She could be trying to figure out her life—and career—from sunny and cheaper-than-London Barcelona instead of looking at the gray skies through the window in her home office.

She was still musing about the uncertainty she faced once again, upset because she didn't know when or if she was supposed to fly halfway around the planet, when her cell phone buzzed with an incoming call from Luke. She picked up, almost managing to forget everything that had happened the previous night between the two of them, along with her decision to move on from him and basically delete him from her mind.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Ciao." He sounded hesitant and apologetic. "I know I should be letting you decide whether you ever want me back in your life or not…"

"Uh-huh," Sol agreed. The And yet… was implied in her condescending tone.

"But my bosses really want the Meshflixx case finished, and I could use your expertise again. "

"Is that what you've been doing with all these questions about The Privateers ? Covertly prying insider information from me?" She suddenly realized the depth of his deception. "I thought you were just a regular person debating whether to watch a popular show."

"And I am also that , but I'm a junior detective with two incompetent managers who want to wrap up a case that's nowhere close to done." Sol felt he was sharing too much information with her this time. But she sort of liked this new, more transparent version of him.

"So you still don't know who stole the script?"

"No idea. And I'm afraid if we don't find something soon, you'll become suspect number one again," he said bluntly.

"What do you mean?!" she asked. "When have I ever been the main suspect?"

"When you found yourself out of a job and decided to leave the country."

"I'm a journalist. Being laid off is a common professional hazard," she said. "And I like going back home from time to time. Where's the crime?"

"I know. But try explaining that to two middle-aged, upper-middle-class arseholes with a not-so-moderate case of prejudice against immigrants and the will to overcharge Meshflixx while doing the least amount of work possible." Luke sounded frustrated.

"What sort of place do you work for?" Sol asked, alarmed.

"Not the one I thought it was when I took the job."

"Luke, this could end my career," she said. "If Meshflixx thinks I stole the script of one of their TV shows and then leaked it online, my days as an entertainment journalist are done. This time for good."

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm calling you. I need to get to the bottom of this. I know you're flying today, but?—"

"I'm no longer flying today actually," she said.

"Could I ask you for an odd favor then?"