Shards of Betrayal, page 18
We wound through the clutter—coils of cable, a half-painted backdrop, two extras running lines—to reach the office he shared with Clay.
The contrast hit me like it always did. Same side of the room, two desks lined up like soldiers. But that’s where the symmetry ended. Clay’s old station still held the tidy logic of a man who thought in grids—folders stacked by color, pens aligned like troops in a tray. Seth’s side looked like a storm had passed through, then circled back just to be sure. Draft pages spread across every flat surface. Notebooks open to half-finished ideas. A coffee cup ring ghosting the corner of an invoice.
It reminded me of college—my first roommate. I wasn’t neat, not really. But across from her chaos, I carved out order. Our sides became reflections of who we were trying to be.
Seth dropped his clipboard and reached for a satchel on his desk. From it, he pulled a thick stack of pages, the binder clip bent from overuse.
“Here.”
The script looked like it had been built from two different minds. Some scenes were crisp—clean typeface, straight margins, not a typo in sight. Others looked rushed. Letters smudged, some uneven. Margins wobbled. Paragraphs drifted, like they were trying to find their place. And in those rougher scenes, the typos stood out—misspellings, dropped letters, the kind that came from writing faster than you could think.
I turned back to Seth, the script’s pages rustling softly under my fingers. “These typefaces … they’re different throughout. Why is that?”
Seth nodded. “Yes. Clay and I, we wrote it together. Different typewriters, you see.” He leaned in, pointing at a particular page.
As he bent closer, I caught the faint rasp in his breathing—barely noticeable over the racket of the set, but there.
“These scenes here? All mine. You can tell by the crooked ‘e’ and ... well, the spelling.” He gave a rueful smile. “I never could spell.”
I traced my finger along the lines, feeling the indentations left by the keys. “Interesting. I couldn’t imagine sharing a column, that kind of collaboration.”
“It’s not easy, but we make it work. I have to give credit where credit is due, though. Clay is the details man. I have the ‘grand vision,’”—he made air quotes—“but he’s the one who makes them work. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
As a child, I’d yearned for a sibling. Seth’s words reminded me of that never-fulfilled desire. Listening to him, I felt a whiff of the old sadness. I drew a deep breath and refocused on the moment. I needed samples of both typefaces, but how to obtain them without arousing suspicion?
Before I could come up with a plan, the office door opened and Grace stuck her head in. “Honey, a word, please?”
Seth’s brow furrowed. He glanced at me apologetically. “Excuse me, Lanie. I’ll be right back.”
The moment he closed the door behind him, I hurried to his desk and grabbed a sheet of typing paper. Working fast, I rolled the page into his typewriter and typed a line of the alphabet, then ripped the sheet out, scurried over to Clay’s desk and did the same with his typewriter. I now had examples of the typeface from both typewriters and knew which typeface came from which.
I pounded the keys, typing fast. The keys clunked loudly; it would be hard to explain what I was doing if someone heard the noise and walked in the door.
I straightened up, pulse pounding, slipped the sheet of paper into my purse and stepped away from Clay’s desk. Just as I did, he opened the door and walked in. He came to a halt at the sight of me.
“Miss Lanie. What’re you doing in here? Waiting for my brother?” His eyes narrowed. “And is that our script you have in your hand?”
I explained how Seth had kindly shared it with me. Clay was about to ask another question when Seth returned. His arrival provided a welcome distraction.
“Oh, Clay, glad you’re here.” Seth shut the door. “I wanted to talk to you about something. About Joe Dougherty being there last night … the gall of that man. Any idea how he could’ve found out about the party?”
Clay shrugged. “Probably somebody on the crew told him. They say he’s got spies everywhere.”
“Yeah, but I’d hate to think he’s gotten to one of us.”
I spoke up. “Dougherty’s offer, why’d you turn it down, Seth?” I could guess the answer to my question, but I wanted to hear it from Seth.
Clay’s eyes flashed. “We don’t want anything to do with him or his offers.”
“Well, I hope he got the message. Finally,” Seth sighed.
A wry smile played on Clay’s lips. “I think so. I went after him and told him flat-out that if he shows up again, we’ll have his legs broken.”
Seth’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t.”
“I sure did,” Clay laughed. “I was just joking. But I knew he’d believe that a colored man would do something like that, use violence.”
Both brothers laughed at that. It was a good moment, a break in the tension that otherwise ruled the set.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the office windows, spilling across the desks like a last chance.
I spoke to Seth. “Those threatening notes you mentioned, I’d like to take a look at them.”
Seth frowned. “Why?”
“I’d just like to check them. I promise to return them.”
“You’re not going to show them to the police, are you, or publish them in the paper?”
“No, of course not.”
His eyes darted to Clay, then back to me. I could almost see the gears turning in his mind.
“I won’t show them to anyone. I promise.”
He exhaled slowly, then nodded. “All right. Two. That’s all.”
He retrieved them from his desk and handed them over. I carefully folded them and tucked them away, alongside the sheet of paper I’d typed earlier. The truth was waiting there, hidden in the typefaces and threatening scrawls.
The bustle of the Bronx streets enveloped me as I left the set. Car horns blared and the acrid smell of exhaust mixed with the enticing aroma of a nearby deli. But I barely noticed, my thoughts consumed by the evidence burning a hole in my purse.
Back in my office, I spread everything out on my desk: the script pages, the threatening notes. I studied them, comparing fonts, searching for spelling patterns. The ticking of my desk clock faded into the background as I lost myself in the analysis.
Minutes passed. The pieces started falling into place. The truth was there, staring me in the face, but it was one I wasn’t sure I wanted to see. I thought of Hamp, of the secret he’d kept from me. And I could hear Seth, describing the people he worked with as close as family. How well did we ever really know the people we trusted?
I leaned back in my chair. I knew what I had to do next. And I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
CHAPTER 42
Funny thing about people—how they can look right past what’s in front of them. Not out of malice, no. More like ... habit. They get caught up in their own rhythm, their own plans, believing that the people beside them will keep step. They forget that sometimes even the closest ones can start to drift away.
It’s not always the big betrayals that do the damage. No, it’s the small things. The words left unsaid. The looks that linger a second too long, or don’t linger long enough. Those moments when you assume that everything is fine, because it’s easier than facing the alternative that maybe—just maybe—it’s not.
Some people think they’ve got all the time in the world to mend those cracks. They think they can make things right, that they’ll get a chance to fix what’s gone wrong. But time has a way of slipping through your fingers. And when you finally see the truth staring back at you, it’s too late to change it. Too late to take back the things you never said. The things you never saw.
Maybe it’s a best friend, who never tells you how the silence eats away at her until she can’t hold it in any longer. Or the person who waits for you, year after year, hoping you’ll find a way to let him in. Either way, the story’s the same: a dream, a promise and the pieces that fall apart when nobody’s paying attention.
You can build something strong—something that feels like it’ll last forever—but even the strongest things have their breaking point. And when they break, you’re left wondering if you could’ve seen it coming, if there was a moment when you could’ve reached out a hand, could’ve pulled them back before they slipped away.
But the truth is, we’re all blind in our own way. To what we’re losing. To what’s slipping through the cracks. To the people who needed us most, standing right beside us, waiting to be seen.
And when you finally see it—when you realize what’s been lost—it hits you like a punch you never saw coming. You think about what could’ve been, if only you’d paid a little more attention. If only you’d listened. But all you can do is stand there, staring at the pieces, wondering if it’s too late to pick them up.
CHAPTER 43
The set was quiet, dim, the fake jazz club thick with gloom. Clay sank into the folding chair, a band of shadow sliding across his face.
He and I sat together, just the two of us on the stage, facing one another, like old friends having an intimate conversation. The musty scent of old fabric and sawdust mingled with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes.
“Thank you for meeting me,” I said. “I know how busy you are.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Of course. This movie is as important to me as it is to my brother.”
“I appreciate that. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve finally figured it out—not all of it, perhaps, but most of it.”
Clay’s eyes lit up. “So you’re finally satisfied that Westie was behind the sabotage? And that when he was found out, he ducked out?”
“Not so fast. Let me walk you through what I found.”
I described the pipe and what it told me. Clay’s brow furrowed in thought and he nodded, following my logic. But when I told him how Seth approached me on the catwalk, so aggressive that he frightened me, Clay drew back and frowned. A faint smile of disbelief bowed his lips, as if to say, Come on. You must be joking.
“Seth told me you thought you’d found something. But now you’re telling me you actually suspect him? Is that what this is all about? Is that why you wanted me to meet you here alone? ’Cause if it is, if that’s it—that you suspect Seth—then you’re out of your mind and I won’t sit here and listen you dirty his name.”
He stood to leave and I reached out a hand to calm him.
“No. Not him,” I said. “He’s not the one who did this, who killed Westbrook—and Westbrook wasn’t the one behind the sabotage.”
Clay inclined his head, his eyes wary. After a moment, he sat back down, but he was tense, back ramrod straight. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
“I also spoke with Grace.”
His head snapped up. “Grace? You couldn’t possibly think she’d have anything to do with this. That’s not her style.”
I raised a calming hand. “Actually, she did have a potential motive—a good one. But it turns out she has an even stronger reason to protect the film.”
“And what’s that?”
“The chance to gain her own theater.” I shared what Grace had told me. “She certainly seems to believe that Seth will keep his word. And she definitely wouldn’t try to destroy his means to keep it.”
He let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You didn’t know? I assumed Seth would’ve told you.”
He shook his head. “No, he didn’t. But, it makes sense, him giving her that money. It would certainly change things for her.”
I watched him process this information, saw how he understood the import.
A new wariness entered his dark eyes. “So, if you don’t think it was Westie and it’s not Seth or Grace ... then who do you suspect? One of the actors? Someone else on the crew?”
I met his gaze, feeling oddly calm, even dispassionate. “That, I’m afraid, is exactly what this meeting is all about.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms. A flicker of fear crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. His dark eyes narrowed, full of cunning.
The answer was obvious. I said nothing.
That slow smile of disbelief touched his lips again. “C’mon. You can’t believe—you can’t be saying you think it’s me?” He touched his chest in innocent surprise.
“You’ve been doubling as Westbrook’s camera assistant, correct?”
“Yes, I—” His eyes widened. “Wait a minute. What are you getting at?”
“I’m not ‘getting at’ anything. Merely presenting facts. And the facts are these: that you had the access and the skills to commit the sabotage.”
He shot to his feet, his chair scraping against the concrete floor. “You’re accusing me?! That’s rich! Why, I would never—”
“Of course you would.” I held up a hand. “You would—and you did. There is evidence and it all points to you.” My tone changed. “Now, sit down.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he dropped down in his chair like a stone held by gravity. He had to listen. He didn’t want to, but he had to. Pride and panic kept him nailed in place.
I explained about the typefaces, watching his face contort with disbelief and anger. “The typeface used in the notes matches the one used in the pages that came from your typewriter.”
“This is absurd.” He jumped up and began pacing back and forth. “I’ve dedicated my life to this film, to my brother’s vision. How can you sit there and say I’d sabotage it?!”
He should’ve been an actor. Then again, aren’t all writers actors at heart? At least, in their minds, when they’re putting together characters, coming up with plots? Imagining crimes they have their characters commit? As for Clay, he was more than an armchair actor. He was, in many ways, the real thing. After all, he had to have been, to have worn the mask and carried out the charade he’d put up for all these years. To have hid how he truly felt …
His protests echoed off the bare walls. I let him rail on for a few minutes. Then I took a deep breath, the musty scent of the old set filling my lungs, and continued.
“The typeface used in the notes ties them to your typewriter. But it’s their content that ties them to you.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m creative, yes, but not like you. The notes, you see, were flawless. Not a single typo or misspelling anywhere. But the pages from Seth’s typewriter? They’re a different story: littered with errors and corrections.”
Clay came to a halt. His dark eyes were wide with resentment and something else—fear, perhaps? “So what?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“So … Seth’s pages are the product of a busy mind, a visionary so caught up in the forest that he doesn’t see the trees. Your pages reflect the opposite. They’re the product of a very focused mind, a mind like yours, one so intent on the details, the trees, that it loses sight of the big picture, the forest.”
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He grimaced, searching for something to say, then finally squeezed out four words. “I didn’t do it.”
He had so much to lose. He’d gambled it all, risked it all. What else was he going to say?
“There’s more, Clay.” I watched him closely. “I saw you with Joe Dougherty.”
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Dougherty? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Everything,” I said. “I spoke to him. He was reluctant at first—of course, he would be about talking to a reporter—but when I told him what was what, that the effort to ruin this movie production was risking lives, he sounded shocked.”
Clay rubbed his face. “You’re bluffing—or he’s lying. We didn’t—”
“He confirmed your deal, but said he didn’t know anything about how you were going about it—and now that he did know, he wanted nothing to do with you or your ‘damn’ script. His words, not mine. Apparently, he’s greedy—but not that greedy, not enough to kill or risk killing another human being.”
Clay looked as if he were running out of air. He tugged at his shirt collar. Again, he managed to squeeze out just four words.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. Call him. Or try to. I doubt he’ll take your calls anymore.”
Clay’s remaining composure cracked. He stumbled back a couple of steps and caught himself on the edge of a prop table. The clatter of falling objects punctuated the heavy silence. His shoulders slumped. In that moment, I saw not the saboteur, but a man trapped by his own choices, choices as suffocating as the humid air around us.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “Dear God, why does no one else understand? See what I see? You accuse me of not seeing the forest for the trees. Lady, it’s the other way around. It’s Seth’s who’s lost sight of the big picture, not me. He’s so damned naive. This dream of his? It’s a fool’s errand. And my brother—I love him—but he’s a fool for chasing after it.”
“His dream. Not yours. So you decided to destroy it?”
His laugh was bitter. “You still don’t understand, do you? I wasn’t trying to destroy his dream? I was trying to save it—save us. So we could survive and fight another day.”
“And the only way to do that was through a deal with the devil?”
“Damn straight it was.”
For a moment there, I wondered if he actually believed in what he was saying, wondered who he was trying to convince—me or himself—to justify what he must’ve known deep down was wrong.
“One last question,” I said. I’d never believed that Wilkie could’ve provided all that information Selena had—or that she had the imagination to fabricate all of the quotes she mentioned. “The stories—the newspaper stories. You were the other unnamed source, weren’t you?”
He said nothing, but his lips curved into a small grim smile.
