I grabbed my cell and started a text to Ry-an. “Oh my God. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.”

“Call me asap”

My cell chimed. I opened Ryan’s text.

“working what up?”

I texted back.

“CV mag says I’m pushing drugs on you and Marie is not happy about cover of Starr”

“Drugs? cover? wtf”

“Mike and Paula”

“call me now”

This was not a conversation to have while paying for groceries.

“2 minutes?”

“ok-love you”

“Love you more”

I shoved my phone back in my pocket.

“Ryan

freaking

Christensen,”

Marie

groaned. “He’s a megastar. You’d think he’d have better friends.”

The fact that she was lamenting over Mike and not about filing for a divorce from Gary was, I thought, a good thing.

“All I know is that they went to dinner. I’d talk to him before you get further bent out of shape. You of all people should know that those mags are nothing but poison.” She grabbed the magazine again and opened it up to the pictures inside. “His hand is on her back, Tar. He told me he was bored.

That lying sack of shit. All the same; every one of them. Cheaters, liars, scum-fucking assholes.”

When we got to the car, Marie flopped her little body into the passenger seat. “Are you ever going to give me my phone back?” I snapped my seat belt on. “You going to refrain from jumping to conclusions and making a call you might regret?”

She held out her hand. “I promise I won’t call him.”

I dug it out of my purse just as Ryan called on mine.

“What’s this message about drugs?” I could tell he was keeping his tone low.

“CV magazine has a write-up that you’re taking antidepressants, hon. How would they find that out?”

“Whatever. Just about every person I know takes them.”

“No, not ‘whatever.’ It said that an insider told them I force you to drug up before public appearances. What the hell, Ryan?”

“They printed that?”

“Yes. There are only a select few that know you take medicine for anxiety. Your parents don’t even know. This is not public knowledge.” I glanced over at Marie, knowing she knew about Ryan’s medical condition.

Ryan cursed, loud and clear. “I can’t deal with this now. Call Trish. Get her on it.”

“Will do. I’ll call you later.” Marie gave me an odd look when I turned left instead of right. “Where are we going?”

“I need to take care of this bank thing while we’re over here. I got another call about late fees for my father’s safe-deposit box.”

Twenty minutes later I paid the fees to a box for which I didn’t have a key.

“A hundred and eighty bucks to drill a lock out? Pete would do that for free,” Marie said as we walked out of the bank.

I unlocked the car doors. “Guess I know what I’m doing today.”

I set my purse and the copy of the bank bill down on the kitchen table when we returned to the apartment.

“The woman at the bank didn’t even say what kind of key to look for,” Marie said, going through the junk drawer in the kitchen.

I put the rest of our groceries away. “It wouldn’t be in there.”

I pulled out the top drawer of the desk in the third bedroom.

“Here, go through all these files and I’ll look

through

these.

Open

envelopes,

everything.”

She started paging through the stacks of documents my dad had rubber-banded together.

“Tar, these are old gas and electric bills from six years ago. I’m pretty sure you don’t need to keep these.”

I took a quick scan and then placed the garbage can between us. “Toss anything that isn’t financial. I don’t need to keep old bills.

What is in those new boxes over there? Is that your stuff?”

Marie tapped the bottom box with her foot. “Nope. That’s all Ryan Christensen fan mail.”

“Are you serious?” The stack was as tall as me and spanned the entire wall. I opened the top box, finding letters and packages addressed to both of us at Mitchell’s Pub.

“Oh holy hell.”

“Yep. I didn’t know where else to put them. Hey, here’s a key. Looks like it belongs to an old Chevy.”

“Make a pile.” I grabbed the first letter on top, slicing it open with my finger. I scanned through the regular fangirl fawning—how he’s so wonderful, sexy, marvelous. I tossed it into the garbage bag. I noticed another one addressed to me care of Mitchell’s Pub. The address was handwritten in chicken scratch.