Chapter 16

When I walked in through my own front door, the television was blaring, and the whole house reeked of burnt popcorn. I found Paisley and Professor Lumberjack on the living room sofa, watching Paisley's favorite celebrity gossip channel.

The professor was big and burly, with thinning hair and a red beard that almost perfectly matched his red flannel shirt.

In the nearby armchair sat Charlotte, with her arms crossed and an expression I was all too familiar with. It was her "I'm-not-going-anywhere-and-you-can't-make-me" expression.

Funny, she'd been wearing the exact same look earlier when I'd left the house to confront Zane. Over my objections, she'd insisted on waiting for me to return. The only real surprise was that she wasn't waiting alone.

I looked to Paisley, cuddled up next to the professor. She was making an obvious point to ignore me, which I thought took a lot of nerve, all things considered.

I gave her an annoyed look. "I thought you were going out of town."

Paisley's eyes remained glued to the screen. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"That depends," I said. "Does this mean you have the rent money?"

Next to her, the professor muttered, "Rent."

My gaze narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Rent," he repeated to one in particular, "it's only a tool for exploitation."

I felt my jaw clench. Speaking of tools.

"No," I said, as if speaking to my least-favorite half-wit. "Rent is the thing that keeps us in this house."

"Exactly," he said.

Oh, for God's sake.

I looked to Charlotte, who was glowering in their direction. I gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I'm late. That took longer than I thought."

"That's all right," she said. "It's not your fault."

Actually, it was my fault, but the way it looked, Charlotte was focusing all of her hostility on the dynamic couch-duo.

With more than a little trepidation, I asked, "So, what's been going on here?"

It was Paisley who answered. "Your sister's being a major pill, that's what."

Charlotte turned to me and said, "And your roommate ate all the cake."

I asked, "What cake?" And then, it hit me. "Oh, my God. Not the cake you brought?"

From the sofa, Paisley gave a dramatic sigh. "Look, if you wanted to save it, you should've put your name on it or something."

Through gritted teeth, I said, "My name was on it."

"It was not," Paisley said.

Now, I was glowering, too. "Well, it said 'congratulations.' My name was implied."

The professor muttered, "Implications don't pay the rent."

What the hell did that even mean?

I snapped, "And neither does your side-squeeze."

With a little gasp, Paisley whirled around on the sofa. Glaring daggers at me, she demanded, "What did you just call me?"

It was too late to back down now. So instead, I repeated it. "His side-squeeze."

Paisley jumped up from the couch and looked to the professor. "Did you hear that? Aren't you gonna say something?"

We all looked. For once, I was actually sort of interested in what the guy might say.

Finally, he said, "I refuse to dignify that with a response."

Paisley's mouth fell open. "So you're not gonna stick up for me?"

The guy settled deeper into the couch. "You're a strong, independent woman. You shouldn't need me to defend your honor."

From the armchair, Charlotte said, "That's because she doesn't have any."

Paisley turned to Charlotte and yelled, "You take that back!"

Charlotte stood. "Make me."

I yelled, "Shut up! All of you!"

Surprisingly, they did.

I pointed to the TV screen, where the flash of a familiar face had just claimed all of my attention. I said, "I wanna see this."

Paisley frowned toward the screen. "But you hate this show."

She was right. I did. And I hated the guy whose face had just appeared on the show. But I was also dying of curiosity.

They were introducing a new segment. It was about who else, but Zane "the Prick" Bennington. Of course, the gossip reporter didn't call him that. No, she preferred to use nicer words, like "sudden sensation" and "reclusive mystery man."

I muttered, "How about arrogant ass?"

Paisley, who'd already plopped back down onto the couch, said, "Shut up. I'm trying to watch."

I gave her an annoyed look. That was supposed to be my line.

Still, I watched in silence as the segment began by explaining that just last month, Zane Bennington had arrived seemingly out of nowhere to claim the massive Bennington fortune and assume control of the family's vast hotel empire.

This all happened, she explained, on the heels of Zane's grandfather, Lloyd Bennington, dying of a sudden stroke.

The story itself might've been pretty standard, except for the fact that Zane had been completely out of the family picture – unlike the other Benningtons, who'd been household names forever.

I watched in grim fascination as the show detailed how Zane's two uncles – both notorious, aging playboys – had died earlier this year in two separate incidents within hours of each other.

One had died in a freak boating accident on the French Riviera, while the other had died when his private helicopter crashed in the Mojave Desert.

The reporter went on to say, "Sources close to the family tell us that Lloyd Bennington was heartbroken at the loss of his two favorite sons. According to these sources, this double tragedy, along with ongoing upheavals in his business empire, almost surely contributed to his death."

The reporter briefly mentioned a third son, the youngest, who happened to be Zane's father. Without elaborating, she quickly moved on to Zane himself.

This only piqued my curiosity. Was Zane's father still alive? And if so, why didn't he inherit?

I leaned forward, dying to hear what she'd say next. But already, the program was going to a commercial. Damn it. This was part of the reason I hated this show. It always left me hanging just as things were getting interesting.

As the commercial droned on, Charlotte said, "Maybe Zane did it."

"Did what?" I asked.

"You know. Offed his uncles."

From the sofa, Paisley said, "Offed?"

"Yeah," Charlotte said. "Like, he killed them so he could inherit." She looked to me and asked, "What do you think?"

Paisley said, "How would she know?" She gave Charlotte a smug smile. "You should've asked me. I know way more about celebrities than she does."

Charlotte said, "Oh yeah? Have you met him?"

"No," Paisley grudgingly admitted. "But she hasn't either."

"Hah!" Charlotte said. "That's what you think."

"Oh, get real." Paisley turned to me and said, "You have not met him." When I made no response, she frowned. "Have you?"

The way I saw it, it wasn't anything to brag about. Still, I said, "Actually, I worked at one of his houses last night." Under my breath, I added, "…back when I had a catering job."

Paisley brightened. "Oh, is that all? Gee, I could've done that."

I gave her a dubious look. Catering jobs were hard work. Paisley was on some sort of work-study program as part of a financial-aid package. From what I'd seen over the last few months, it involved very little work or study.

I couldn’t resist telling her, "I think they're hiring. Maybe, you should apply."

She drew back. "What? You mean work in…" She made a face. "…food service?"

I gave an enthusiastic nod. "Yeah, and think of the glamor." My tone grew sarcastic. "You could meet rich, famous guys."

Next to her, the professor announced, "I just had a paper published."

We all turned to look. When no one said anything, he mumbled, "I'm just saying, I'm kinda well-known myself."

It suddenly struck me that I had no idea what subject the guy even taught. Cripes, I didn't even know his name – mostly because Paisley always referred to him simply as the professor.

I briefly considered asking for more details, but quickly thought better of it. When it came to Paisley and the professor, I knew far too much already.

Charlotte pointed to the TV. "Shhh! It's back on."

I looked to the screen, and there he was, Zane Bennington. It was a live-action shot of him entering the Bennington's flagship hotel, located in downtown Indianapolis, where the company was also headquartered.

In the news footage, Zane looked obnoxiously rich and successful, just like any other hotshot business mogul, well, except for the fact he was a few decades younger and a whole lot sexier.

The bastard.

And yet, as the segment continued, I couldn’t help but lean forward, more curious than ever.

Who was this guy, anyway?