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“Color me shocked,” her aunt said sarcastically.

“There’s more. I also think.” Harlow hesitated.

“Think what?” Birdie prompted.

“He’s having an affair with his assistant.” She braced for her aunt’s rant, but Birdie’s expression remained stoic. “You’re not surprised.”

“I’ve sat on the sidelines watching you soar,” her aunt finally replied. “You have it all, Harlow. Fame, fortune. You’re young and beautiful, at the pinnacle of your career. Yet here I sit thinking you look sad and lonely, perhaps maybe even depressed.”

Harlow could feel the back of her eyes burn. Aunt Birdie saw it all. The hurt. The anger. Feelings of unworthiness. No one had reached out to check on her. Not Janice, her publicist. Not Selma, her housekeeper, a woman who had worked for the couple for years. The most heartbreaking was Vic, her friend, her confidant, who was also her bodyguard. Not a word, a telephone call or even a simple text.

A hot tear trailed down Harlow’s cheek at her aunt’s insight and uncanny accuracy at the miserable turn her life had taken. The only person she’d heard from was Robert, and that was because he wanted to make sure she upheld her end of the movie contract.

Since she’d signed, she hadn’t heard a peep, other than him reminding Harlow about the deadline for her to show up at the set.

“No one has even called to check on me.” Harlow absentmindedly clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “No one but Robert.”

Birdie sprang from her chair and knelt next to her niece. She grasped her hand, gently prying her fingers apart. “Remember when we talked about the silver lining, how your accident brought us back together?”

Harlow nodded.

“Think of this as a part of that silver lining. You find out fast who your real friends are when something like this happens. Maybe you need new friends.”

“Apparently so.” Harlow sniffled, swiping at her damp cheeks. “I guess all I am is a paycheck. All they care about is money.”

“Unless…” Her aunt slowly stood. “Do you think it’s possible Robert is keeping the others from contacting you?”

“On purpose?” Harlow blinked rapidly. “You think he told them not to call or text me?”

“It’s possible.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“To isolate you. I’ve never met the man, but based on what I’m learning, he’s accustomed to running the show, controlling every aspect of your life.”

“He is,” Harlow agreed. “But it goes with the territory of him being my manager.”

“Reading between the lines, if he can isolate you, keep you from the people you care about and who care about you, he can control the current situation—your accident—to direct it in the way he sees fit.”

Her mind whirled. Was Aunt Birdie right? Was Robert telling everyone to leave her alone, using the excuse she needed to rest and heal?

“Perhaps you should be the one to reach out,” she suggested.

Harlow snatched her phone off the table and scrolled through her contact list. She clicked on Vic’s cell phone number and hit the call button. It went directly to voicemail. “Hey, Vic. It’s Harlow. I…uh…have settled in at my dad’s place. I’m not sure if you tried reaching me. Anyway, give me a call.”

Birdie waited until she finished. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Maybe her aunt was right and the line of communication had broken down. Harlow checked to make sure her cell phone’s volume was turned up before sliding it into her pocket. “Thanks, Aunt Birdie. I feel better already.”

“You’re welcome.” Birdie stepped off the porch and spun in a slow circle. “It’s a gorgeous day. I need to rent a PO box down at the post office. Why don’t you tag along with me?”

Harlow wrinkled her nose, warily eyeing her scooter. “I’m still a newbie at navigating this contraption.”

“Practice makes perfect. I’ll clear a path for you.” Birdie went inside to let David know they were running into town. She popped back out, her sling bag draped over her shoulder, and handed Harlow a bottle of water.

“Thanks. Are you sure you want to hoof it? We can always call for a horse and buggy taxi.”

“It isn’t far. Besides, the fresh air will do us both good.” Reaching the front of the property, her aunt held the gate while Harlow “scooter’d” through.