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“See?”

But John wasn’t about to apologize for telling the truth. “I don’t like being made to feel maneuvered. I will see where this goes. I’m not asking, Hannah.”

For a moment, she said nothing. And then she shrugged. “Fine. Let’s see where this goes. But for the record, my husband told

me that at the end of our first date. See where this goes . Let me tell you now, hardly anything good comes when someone says that .”

5

Persephone sat at the edge of her bed, body bronzed to near perfection, Giorgio Armani dress splayed on the covers beside

her, lying in wait for the private charity auction in Bel Air, her earrings hanging from her ears, her cellphone clutched

in one hand. Half-dressed in her new life while reaching back for her old one.

As the phone rang she debated hanging up. Again.

The other end picked up and there was some clacking and jumbled music.

“Funny?” Parker sounded out of breath and the music grew faint. “Hold on, hold on.”

After a few moments the background noise was gone, and there was only the sound of night-cruising crickets outside her own

window.

“Funny, thanks for calling back.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just wait a minute, OK? I haven’t heard your voice in like two years. Why haven’t you been answerin’ my calls?”

“I’ve been...”

“Busy.”

“Well, yes. It isn’t easy, OK?”

“Hell yeah, I bet it ain’t. And I’m sure you’re plenty busy. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“Oh, come on, Parker.”

“What?”

“You said you’re in big trouble. What is it?”

“I’d rather talk about it in person.”

“You want me to come all the way to Corpus Christi just so you can tell me about it?”

A heavy sigh. “I’ve never asked you—ever—to come back home.”

“It’s not home for me anymore.”

“Stop focusin’ on the wrong thing. I haven’t. So I must have good cause. I... I really need you, Funny.”

6

Persephone’s mother once told her that the events in one’s life were a lot like dominoes, spaced apart and soldiered along

a line. If one were lucky as shit , the dominoes would be lined up perfectly and properly spaced; if one were one unlucky sombitch , far too many dominoes would be misaligned and/or spaced just wrong enough so that the chain would be cut, everything would

halt. What Persephone always wondered—but never asked—was if there was anything one could do about the dominoes that were

already misaligned far down the line; if you saw them and knew what was coming, was there any way to fix them before it was

too late?

When Persephone heard the deep voice ordering her to please come with me , she knew as well as she could imagine a disconnect of dominoes that something terrible was going to happen, somewhere down

the line... today, this afternoon, tonight.

Please come with me.

She’d heard the stern voice just after Parker stuffed that stupid camera beneath his Linkin Park t-shirt, which was just after he snatched the camera out from under her own shirt, which was just after she’d stuffed it there in the first place, right there at the counter full of models and sticker prices.

All this was just after she’d sent the Hi-I’m-Ashton tag-wearing sales guy into the depths of the megastore backroom for a better SD card.

She thought she’d been quick about swiping the camera, and she had been—just not quick enough.

In minutes a security guard was dragging Parker away with one hand and gripping Persephone’s arm with another and then they were watching themselves on closed-circuit TV, only from the looks of it, you couldn’t really tell that it was Persephone who had first stuffed the camera into her shirt because she and Parker were standing so close together and there were a bunch of camera displays obscuring the view.

But it didn’t matter, because when the guard came out, the camera was under Parker’s shirt and Parker didn’t deny he’d masterminded the whole thing, which was easy to believe because he was older and a boy on top of that.

Needless to say, there were consequences: spankings (both Parker and Persephone); yelling (both Parker and Persephone); juvie

(only Parker). Only Parker.

Please come with me.

Somewhere, in some alternate universe, there was a standing row of dominoes, perfectly arranged. And it was to this line,

the line of Everything That Could Have Been, that Parker Cross, full of mischief and smarts and, unfortunately for him, loyalty

to a kid sister who’d let him take a fall, was no longer connected.

7

“You there?”

“I’m here, Parker. Just tell me what it is.”

“Funny, have I ever asked you for help?”

How could she refuse him now? She’d been a terrible enough sister, news to no one, for years. “No,” she whispered.

She was tired of running. Every time Parker called, she felt like some cowering thing, and it was made worse with his frequent

calls and texts. If she didn’t stop and turn around, if she didn’t face Parker and Mama and everything that went wrong in

Corpus Christi now, then when?

“OK,” she said.

“OK?”

“Yes. I’ll come.”

She couldn’t fathom going alone, but she couldn’t ask Christine, who’d be working in Canada.

John?

No, she couldn’t ask him. Why would he do it? There was nothing in it for him, nothing in their arrangement that mentioned

a dead celebrity boyfriend accompanying a fake girlfriend to her former home to help the troubled brother she’d tossed aside

in her single-minded pursuit of fame.

8

The Bel Air mansion was a character study of marble—as in, how many places can we put it and how much is too much or is there

even such a thing? Persephone thought that unless you were in a museum, maybe there was. Even among the rich and famous, upon

meeting John, someone actually cried. Meanwhile, Persephone clung to her smile while receiving polite one-liners that acknowledged

that, yes, they knew John wasn’t standing next to a houseplant.

A white man, extremely underdressed in his jeans, t-shirt, and ripped baseball cap, had just approached. The porcelain-skinned

redhead on his arm was more festive in her ultra-mini minidress, which amounted to not much more than six gold sequins stitched

together.

“Just want to say, man,” the guy said conspiratorially, just after introducing himself to John as Ben Marvey, TV producer, extreme sports, that kinda shit , “you have totally changed my way of thinking. I came to this town from Nebraska ten years ago, and let me tell you, I got into some shit. Every kind of shit, right? Coke, X, meth, pussy—I was hangin’ from the fuckin’ chandeliers.

And then I caught this vision, right? Like, I was gonna end up buck naked next to a piss-covered urinal with a needle in my arm, OD’d.

It was like someone from the other side tellin’ me to get my shit together, right?

And that image—that vision—it was so real, I stopped cold turkey.

Next day. OK, almost cold turkey, almost next day.

The X and pussy—hey, I still partake but waaay more tame, you know what I mean?

” He laughed and the girl pressed closer and John smiled and Persephone wondered just how many times a guy could say the p-word before realizing it wasn’t a word you wanted to throw around with people you didn’t know.

But that was just it. He felt like he knew John. They all did.

“Ben Marvey has been through hell and back—google me, you’ll see—and if there’s ever another motherfucker who will make it

back from the Other Side, it’s gonna be me. So I just wanted to say congratulations, you made it, you’re doin’ your shit and

I’m lovin’ it and you are my fucking inspiration.”

Ben Marvey and his girlfriend strolled away, leaving both Persephone and John staring after him.

“He wasn’t even drunk,” said John.

“Hey, Persephone Cross. Don Romero.” A handsome twenty-something with a Spanish accent extended his hand. She shook it, but

he must've registered her lack of recognition because he added, “AMC’s new fantasy series? I’m one of the producers.”

“Oh my goodness—sorry.”

“It’s OK. There’s like twenty of us.”

She hoped she hadn’t done anything at this party that might make him think she wasn’t right for the part. Did she look pleasant?

She hoped she looked pleasant. Pleasantly Hot.

“You’re impressive.”

“You saw my audition?”

“No. But I heard the camera loves you.”

Persephone deflated. It was only the most overused line in town.

“Donnie!” Lee Kingston ambled toward them, his arms wide to the young producer. That he even knew the guy was enough to make

Persephone uneasy.

Don Romero said, “I was just telling Persephone she might be landing an AMC role.”

Lee grinned but didn’t let on that he and Persephone had met before. Or maybe he didn’t remember? Lee punched his friend in the arm. “Those are some of my favorite books. Don’t go in there fuckin’ shit up.”

The producer laughed and put up his hands before walking away.

Lee turned to John. “You are just livin’ the life. Found some family, just chillin’. And you”—he turned to Persephone—“are

just blowin’ up overnight.”

She didn’t really know what to say to that because something in his tone made her think that, yes, he absolutely remembered

her, even though it’d been a few years. “Um, yeah, OK,” Persephone said, not knowing what else to say.

“O-fucking-K.” Lee grinned. “All right, you two enjoy. Going back to my girl before she buys a necklace worth more than the

house.”

Just after Lee disappeared into the crowd, a force swept in. The force was a collection of diamond-and-sapphire-draped wives

and girlfriends (well, that one might be an escort) coming at her like an exultation of larks, singing out her name as they

approached with open arms and smiles, and the next thing Persephone knew, she’d been floated over to a long table laden with

a cornucopia’s worth of raw seafood, holding a glass of bubbly, beaming and terrified. Persephone recognized one of the older