Page 13 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

He wasn’t me; I knew that. He was a twentysomething kid who’d gotten his big break playing Daniel Dank in a Pippi Parker Production, and if that doesn’t make you feel a tiny bit sorry for him, then you’ve got a heart of stone.

And I couldn’t help, in some small way, identifying with him.

Because he’d been young, and he’d had dreams. And I remembered what that had been like, back when I’d had my own dreams.

Here’s the thing about growing up with my parents and talking about nefarious activities at the dinner table and doing bizarre research like how to get a window open from the outside—for example—when you were writing a novel about your intrepid detective, Will Gower: you learn a lot of shady stuff.

On the other hand, it does occasionally come in handy.

Take this window, for example: two sliding sashes with a cam lock on the inside.

I pulled a credit card from my wallet, worked it between the sashes, and jimmied it back and forth.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, and my fingers started to ache.

Then I started to sweat. (Look, I wasn’t happy about it either.) I was starting to think about the finger exercises I’d invented a few months before (tiny dumbbells—I own that idea), and I was also thinking about how Bobby—and Keme—had freakishly strong fingers, and it probably had something to do with surfing, and maybe I should take up surfing when—

Ta da!

The cam lock slid open.

(Thank God—if I tried to surf, I’d probably manage to get myself killed while still on dry land.)

I slid the sash to one side. A breeze picked up, cooling the sweat at my hairline and making the blinds rustle. I reached through the window.

Awards—the Mount Hood Stage Guild, the Lake Oswego Circle Award, the Oregon High School Musical Theater Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role (2015).

And mail—credit card statements showed that Kyson, like a much younger Dash, had believed that some future, more successful version of himself would be happy to foot the bills.

There was a letter, too, which I found interesting. How many people still wrote letters?

The return address was the Swetz Household in Lake Oswego, which I figured was either Kyson’s parents or grandparents.

When I opened the letter, it was—well, it was from the dragon mom.

It was full of phrases like you deserve more than this , and I know you can be whatever you set your mind to , and I expect you to reach your full potential .

(Egad, that is a terrifying phrase.) The overall impression was: you’d better start making money quickly, or you’re dead to me.

No, mommy dearest didn’t actually spell it out in those words, but the message came through loud and clear.

The final line was, Remember where you come from .

From somebody else, that might have been a reassurance. Here, it sounded more like a threat.

(And I thought my parents were messed up.)

Enclosed with the letter was a photo of a younger Kyson holding an award.

It was a crystal obelisk on top of a black wooden base.

A quick glance at the desk confirmed the award wasn’t there, but after another look at the photo, I thought I’d seen the base in Kyson’s dressing room. So, where was the crystal obelisk?

The mystery writer in me had an idea about that.

My gaze moved to take in Kyson. He stood against a backdrop of blue curtains, and he was smiling. He must have been seventeen or eighteen, his features still not fully developed, painfully thin. It was weird to see, even at that age, the resemblance between us.

That was when the mystery writer in me wondered if maybe someone had been trying to kill me and gotten Kyson by mistake.

It only lasted about two seconds. Then, unbidden, the vision came to me of sharing my theory with Fox and Keme, and the two of them providing feedback like You wish you looked like him and You’re almost thirty .

Okay, so, probably not a case of murder-by-mistaken-identity.

I was sifting through the mail when another photo slipped out. It flipped over, slid toward the edge of the desk, and would have tumbled to the floor (and out of reach), but I snagged it at the last moment.

The woman had rust-colored curls and, in what I considered a rather bold choice, a bralette and lacy underwear in the exact same shade. There was a lot of creamy skin exposed. And a lot of, uh, assets. The old-fashioned term that a sexist, jaded PI might have used was pneumatic .

It was unmistakably Jonni. And it had to be photoshopped, right?

On the back, in curly script, were the words: I’ll wait for you, lover .

Double egad. If there’s anything more upsetting than live up to your potential, it’s the word lover.

Time had to be running out, so I grabbed the iPad next.

I tried a couple of the most common passwords, but they didn’t work.

I dug out my phone to inspect Kyson’s Instagram—great way to find somebody’s birthday, by the way.

I found his account and started scrolling, looking for a picture that would suggest a birthday celebration.

But when I found his birthday and tried the date in various orders—month, day, year; month, day; only year; year, month, day; etc.

Nothing.

Maybe there was something else. The day he won one of the awards. I went back to scrolling—he took a lot of headshots—when words floated up to me from my subconscious.

Remember where you come from .

It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

I checked the return address on the letter from Dragon Mommy.

Six digits.

I put them in.

The lock screen disappeared, and I found myself staring at Kyson’s tablet.

I checked his email first, but a quick search didn’t show me anything unusual—he was on the mailing lists for so many underwear companies that it bordered on homosexual—and then his messages—he and mommy chatted a lot .

Nothing, though, that would explain why someone would have wanted to kill Kyson.

I opened his photos.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked.

I looked up, but I didn’t hear the question.

“Dash, come on,” he said. “You know how important chain-of-custody is—”

“Look at this.”

Bobby was about to reply, but he stopped when I turned the iPad to face him.

The screen was full of pictures of a man—head down, something tucked under his arm, as he crossed a darkened parking lot.

The way he held himself across the series of pictures suggested unadulterated sneakery and someone who was, without a doubt, up to no good.

A bulky fur coat. An enormous black bag that was probably called a satchel but looked like a purse. Boots that definitely had heels.

And the man was, without a doubt, Terrence.