Page 50 of Wild Idol (Tyson Wild Thriller #82)

I felt bad for the kids. They got so excited to meet Sable—though a few of her lyrics weren’t necessarily kid-appropriate.

I couldn’t prove it yet, but the real Sable was dead. Burned up in that fiery incident. But, what I could prove, was that the impostor signing autographs in the children’s hospital was Emily Fowler. The prints had come back a match.

I didn’t want to arrest her at the hospital.

This was supposed to be an uplifting day.

Not a day to crush spirits. The last thing I wanted to do was arrest Emily on hospital grounds and upset the children.

Some of them would find out eventually that they hadn’t met the real Sable.

Others wouldn’t know the difference. Perhaps it wasn’t important.

The important thing was to give those kids hope.

We waited outside of Sable’s estate.

The black SUV pulled into the driveway, followed by the news van. Kade hopped out of the passenger seat of the SUV, then held the door for Emily, who climbed out of the back, followed by Paris Delaney and her cameraman.

Emily looked shocked to see us. “Deputies. What are you doing here?“

“Miss Fowler, you’re under arrest for fraud, criminal impersonation, and potential RICO violations.”

Emily‘s eyes rounded, and her skin went pale again. Her bodyguards exchanged looks, not knowing exactly how to handle this situation.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” I commanded.

“You’re making some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake, Emily,” I said as I slapped the cuffs around her delicate wrists.

Paris and her crew captured the whole thing on camera. “Emily, did you kill Sable?”

Her brow wrinkled with fear and annoyance. “What!? No!”

“Did you conspire to have her killed?”

“No. This is crazy. I’m Sable. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“Look, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake,” Everett said.

Emily looked at him. “Do something!”

Everett shrugged. “I’m going to get you out. Don’t worry. Don’t say anything without a lawyer. ”

I escorted Emily down the driveway, Mirandized her, and stuffed her into the back of Mendoza’s patrol car.

She was taken down to the station where she’d be processed and printed, which would again give us proof of her identity. All the plastic surgery in the world couldn’t change her fingerprints or DNA.

I walked back up the driveway and talked to Everett. “I think it’s about time you come clean?”

His face wrinkled with confusion. It was an act. He knew damn good and well what was going on. “That’s not Sable. I can prove it, and I think you knew about it the whole time.”

“What!?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“Sable became a problem, and you had her replaced.”

He scoffed. “That’s preposterous.”

“Let me ask you. Did you kill Sable yourself? Or did you hire someone else to do it?” My eyes darted to the two bodyguards.

Guilty looks tensed their faces.

“I’m not saying anything to you without an attorney.”

“I hope you have a good one.”

More officers arrived. We had a warrant to search the property.

I led the team inside, and we turned the place upside down, looking for incriminating evidence and anything we could pull the real Sable’s trace DNA from—a hairbrush, cosmetics, anything that would allow us to identify the victim in the Lamborghini .

At this point, we didn’t have anything on Everett or the security staff. But it was only a matter of time. I knew he was the mastermind behind it all.

Paris had a shit-eating grin on her face. She had captured the entire arrest and interaction. When we left the house after the search, she said, “Off the record… are you absolutely certain the real Sable is dead?”

“We have no conclusive proof yet, but it’s just a matter of time,” I replied with a confident smile.

We headed down to the station and filled out after-action reports. We let Emily stew in the interrogation room for a long time.

Her fantasy had collapsed.

Everything she had dreamed about was snatched away. She had fame just long enough to get a taste. It was probably worse than never, having tasted it at all. The woman was a complete basket case by the time we stepped into the interrogation room.

JD and I took a seat across the table from her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sobbed uncontrollably.

“The fraud and impersonation charges are the least of your concerns,” I said. “I’d be more concerned about the conspiracy to commit murder charge. That’s going to put you away for life.”

Emily looked up at me with terrified eyes.