Page 11 of Faking the Pass

By Land and By Sea

P resley

At first I wasn’t sure who “ they” were, but I figured it out pretty quickly.

Floating in the water just offshore was a battalion of boats.

Through the slitted blinds I could see people on their decks with raised cameras—still ones and video cameras.

I knew they weren’t here for me. They must have figured out Rosie was here.

But how?

She didn’t have her phone, so they couldn’t have used that to track her. Wilder was the only person who knew where she was headed last night, and he wouldn’t have told anyone, except for maybe Jessica.

I had no question my sister-in-law would take the information to the grave if necessary. She knew better than most people what it was like to have your privacy invaded—and even to have your life threatened.

It was a scary stalker incident that had brought her and Wilder together, in fact.

“Did you tell any friends where you were going?” I asked Rosie.

She shook her head. “I didn’t even know where I was going. And I didn’t see anyone when I left the mansion—or on the way here in the dinghy. Oh this is bad. So so bad.”

Both hands went up to cover her face like she was trying to hide from the whole world. She was shaking.

I resisted the urge to wrap her in my arms, clasping her shoulder lightly instead.

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not.”

Her head swung back and forth as if on a swivel. “This looks so bad. I ran away from my wedding and immediately spent the night in the home of a famous quarterback. Do you know what they’re going to say about me?”

“No one knows this is my house except for my family and a couple of the local fishermen around here,” I assured her. “I’ve gone to great lengths to protect my privacy. They may have gotten some shots of you on the deck of a cottage, but they don’t know who owns it.”

Rosie lifted her head.

“How can you be sure?” she asked. “These people are relentless.”

But there was a tiny spark of hope in her eyes.

“Come away from the windows.” I led her to the same chair where she’d made herself comfortable last night.

She went with me willingly, and I encouraged her to sit then draped the throw blanket over her.

Drawing her legs beneath her, Rosie pulled the throw up to her neck, cuddling it like Theo did with his security blanket. She looked tiny in the big chair, curled up like a ball.

Once again, the urge to protect her surged through me.

After a few minutes, her breathing had slowed a bit, but it was still not normal, and she looked almost catatonic.

“I’m going to get my laptop and see what the situation is,” I said. “Just sit here. Do you like tea? Or coffee?”

“Tea,” she answered in a whisper.

“Okay, be right back.”

A few minutes later, I placed a mug of hot tea in her hands. Her fingers felt icy. She was staring at the floor again.

Sitting on the sofa opposite her, I opened my laptop, intending to do a search for her name and find out what information was out there regarding her near-miss wedding and subsequent escape.

It wasn’t necessary. My home page had the story of her canceled wedding right at the top.

As I scrolled down, I found more articles and several photos. One was a grainy image of Rosie standing just outside the front doors of Bellevue Manor, wearing a stricken expression and what looked like mascara smudges.

And then I saw it—a headline screaming about the accompanying video which had apparently been captured by a drone.

Clicking the thumbnail, I watched it, and my stomach sank.

Mystery solved.

The drone must have been circling the wedding venue yesterday and had gotten “lucky,” capturing the moment she’d escaped her nightmare wedding.

The video was remarkably clear, showing an aerial view of a blonde in a poufy white dress and a lifejacket, taking a dinghy from the mansion to my house.

There were several still shots bearing unflattering captions with phrases like “Floataway Bride,” and “Dingbat in a Dinghy.”

When I refreshed my home page, several brand new images appeared—of Rosie standing on my deck, wearing my t-shirt.

The photographers must have been using high speed shutters because she’d only been outside for a few seconds, yet there were so many photos.

You could see in the succession of them when it hit her what was happening.

The look of horror dawning on her face made me feel queasy.

I glanced away from the screen to the real-life woman curled up in a near fetal position in my chair. She still hadn’t sipped her tea.

“It’s gonna get cold,” I warned softly.

She took a robotic sip then went back to cradling the mug against her chest.

“How bad is it?” she asked in a monotone, finally slipping a glance over to me.

“Not so bad,” I said to be nice. “They got a few shots of you on the deck.”

I didn’t mention the drone video or the shot of her in tears outside the mansion in her wedding dress.

“Doesn’t look like they know who owns the house.”

“Yet,” she said sourly.

For the first time maybe ever, I regretted the fact that I was famous. I’d always known it was part of the job and had never let it bother me.

But what Rosie went through was in a whole different league.

As I searched her name and scrolled down the page to older stories about her, I was shocked by the level of public scrutiny she endured on a daily basis.

Everything she wore was picked apart by the celebrity press.

If she frowned—ever—the image was splashed around along with rampant speculation about the cause of what had no doubt been a momentary facial expression.

What was probably just squinting against the bright sunlight got turned into some kind of made-up drama.

Rosie was right. When it did eventually get out that I owned this cottage and people studied closeups of those deck images—and realized she was wearing a man’s t-shirt—shit was going to get ugly.

We needed help.

Wilder’s company, Viridian Security, specialized in high profile clients. He had ways that he didn’t discuss—and that I didn’t ask about—of keeping information people didn’t want getting out from getting out.

Maybe he could help obscure the ownership of my house for at least a little longer.

For about the hundredth time, I went to pick up my phone then realized it was lifeless. Right.

Back to the laptop where I brought up the website of my cell service provider. I found the page marked devices and figured out how to switch service from the damaged phone to my backup.

Then I shut the laptop and went to my room to dig the phone out of a drawer along with its charger.

As I was coming back out, I ran into Rosie in the hall.

“I’m going to take a bath,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, absolutely. There’s shampoo and stuff in there. Have at it. I’m gonna get this phone powered up and call my brother. He’ll have some ideas for us.”

Us . Well, there wasn’t exactly an ‘us,’ but we were pretty effectively trapped here together, so yeah, we had a common problem.

Rosie nodded weakly and slipped past me to the bathroom where she closed the door behind her.

I was worried about her. She hadn’t even seen all the headlines and invasive photos. I hated to think how much worse she was going to feel once she did.

When my phone had enough juice, I powered it up and discovered I’d missed a call from my mom and a whole bunch of text messages.

The oldest was from Wilder.

He’d sent it yesterday afternoon, informing me that someone would be using my “empty” house for the next few days.

Yeah, thanks for the heads up, bro.

The next one was him apologizing for the unexpected houseguest. He must have sent it after Jessica told him I was planning to come home earlier than expected.

By then he’d realized I must have already discovered the surprise waiting in my bed.

The most recent messages were from Wilder warning me not to try to leave my house—or to let Rosie leave.

They were accompanied by photos of the road out front. As far back as my cottage was tucked and as curvy as my driveway was, Atlantic Avenue wasn’t directly visible from my front door.

The pictures showed a snarl of traffic stretching for at least a half mile in each direction and vehicles parked up and down both sides of the road.

There were even a couple of live trucks from the local TV stations.

Fantastic. We were literally surrounded by land and by sea. There were probably multiple drones overhead as well.

Of all the times to have a fucking dead phone.

If I’d gotten any of these messages earlier, Rosie could have avoided being photographed here.

Then it would still have been a matter of speculation where she might have gone after docking the dinghy at my cottage. Now there was no doubt she was holed up in here.

Wilder answered my call before the first ring finished.

“Hey. You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, if you consider living in a shallow fishbowl surrounded by hungry cats ‘okay.’ What’s the situation?”

“Well it’s not good. You saw the pictures I sent?”

“Yeah. It’s just as bad behind my house. I didn’t know the cove could even hold that many boats.”

“Yeah, I saw the photos of Rosie on your deck,” he said. “Sorry about that by the way—I’m guessing you didn’t get my messages because my son is a terror to all small electronics.”

“Right. Just got them now.”

“How’s Rosie doing?” Wilder asked.

“Not great, as you can imagine. She’s freaked out that they got some shots of her. And well, you know what happened with her wedding?”

“Yeah, I know enough. Asshat.”

“You said it,” I agreed. “I’ve never even heard of balls that big. Do people know about the pregnant girlfriend yet?”

“Not that I’ve seen. I’ve got a couple people monitoring all the online information,” Wilder said.

“Speaking of that… do you think you can do anything to block the media from finding out I own the house?”

“Already on it, little brother,” Wilder said. “I’ve got my best cybertech person scrubbing the records as fast as he can. Your car’s in the garage, I hope? Don’t want any drones snapping a pic of your license plate.”

“Yeah, it’s in there. So what now?”

“The next move is to plant some false stories that she’s left the house already and has been sighted somewhere else,” he said.

“You think they’ll buy it?”

“Hope so. One of my female employees is wearing a blonde wig and parading around the private airfield at this moment. We’ll see if they go for it. At least maybe some of them will leave your place to go check it out.”

“That would leave only a few dozen or so to deal with,” I said in a surly tone.

“Hang in there, brother. Oh, and it goes without saying that you don’t leave the house right? Or let Rosie set one pinky toe outside again.”

“Right,” I said.

The implications of this thing were just beginning to hit me. I sat down as I listened to Wilder’s additional warnings.

“Don’t get too close to any open windows,” he said. “We don’t want them getting any more shots of her—or you. You can imagine the shift in the headlines if they were to figure out she’s not staying there alone.”

I literally shuddered at the thought of what it would do to both our lives if we were to be linked in this way.

“Got it. We’ll hunker down. How long do you think it’ll take for the paparazzi to get tired of waiting and give up?”

“Hard to say. Depends on whether we can get them to believe she’s gotten on a plane and left the area,” Wilder said. “Maybe a couple days? Oh—you should put a hold on mail delivery for the next week. I’ll do my best on this end. In the meantime, is there anything you need there?”

“We’ll be running low on groceries by the end of the day,” I told him.

“But I’m not sure how to get them here without giving away my name.

I usually order online and have them delivered, but if those vultures out there see a delivery truck from Food Planet they’ll be all over it and have my order info in minutes. ”

“I’ll figure out something,” Wilder said. “Can’t have you starving—or deviating from your meticulous recovery diet.”

There was a teasing note in his voice. My family thought I was too rigid about my nutrition, but I knew the ribbing was good natured.

“Thanks, man. I literally don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” Wilder said. “I’ll be back in touch soon.”

Ending the call with him, I sat back and looked around. Through the wall, I could hear the faint noise of the tub water running.

And that was when it really struck me.

I was trapped in my house alone with Rosie James. For possibly several days.

Rosie James, who I used to fantasize about pretty much nightly in high school.

Rosie James, who I then avoided like the plague during daytime hours because she’d been too much of a distraction.

In a house this size, it would be literally impossible to avoid each other.

I was so fucked.