Shards of Betrayal, page 8
Grace walked with me a bit after we left Seth’s office. She reached out and gently touched my arm, her eyes searching mine. “You will find out the truth about this, won’t you?”
It was a question I’d heard before. “No promises, but yes, I’m pretty sure I will.”
She was silent a moment. Then she looked back to Seth’s office, where we could see him once again bent over paperwork. Her chest rose and fell with a sudden, shallow breath. Then, as if pulling herself back from a thought she didn’t want to share, she looked at me again. “Have you ever had a dream that consumed you? A dream that you would do anything to see realized?”
Sure, I understood the desire to excel beyond everyone’s expectations. Lived with it every day. But to “do anything” to see it realized? No, I didn’t understand that. Not at all. It struck me that she chose that phrasing. And it struck me even more that she was looking at Seth when she said it.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I get it.”
A whisper of sadness floated across her face. “But sometimes, those dreams come at a cost. Sacrifices must be made. Choices that … one might come to regret.”
She touched the bare earlobe briefly, then let her hand fall. Her gaze drifted back to Seth before returning to me.
I waited for her to say more, but she just shook her head and walked away. I glanced back at Seth—still hunched over his desk. Was Grace trying to protect him—or warn me about him?
Or was it both?
CHAPTER 17
The summer heat trapped by the warehouse roof made the air thick and sluggish. Seth said he’d told his cast and crew they could talk to me. But permission didn’t guarantee candor. I couldn’t blame them. With all the ink being spilled about Carter and the accidents, every word they said to a reporter could come back to bite them.
I started with the actors. They sat in folding chairs at the far end of the set, scripts in hand. Most found their pages suddenly fascinating when I approached.
A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes cut me off before I could speak. “No comment.”
A young actor nearby shrugged, script dangling from his fingers. “I keep my head down. Whatever happened, it’s above my pay grade.”
The others kept their heads buried in their lines. I jotted down a few notes, though none of it was worth much.
The lighting crew was next. Two electricians coiled cables near a rig, their hands moving steadily while their eyes stayed on their work.
“What do you make of the incidents on set?”
One glanced up briefly. “Things break. It’s a set.”
The other shrugged. “Could be coincidence. Could be carelessness. I don’t know.”
“Would it take someone with specialized knowledge to cause those kinds of problems?”
The first man paused. “Depends. The rigging failures? You’d have to know what you were doing to mess with that without getting caught.”
“Or getting hurt,” the second added.
“Who knows the equipment best?”
The two exchanged a glance before the first one said, “Well, that’d be Westbrook. He’s been at this longer than any of us.”
The second nodded. “Yeah, he knows his stuff. Cameras, lights, the works.”
“Would he have reason to cause problems?”
“No way,” the first one said. “Westbrook’s a professional.”
“Not even if he was frustrated?”
“Westbrook gets frustrated every other day,” the second said with a faint smile. “But he doesn’t take it out on the job. He’s old-school.”
I jotted down their answers. “About Selena Troy. Did either of you talk to her—or any other reporter?”
The first man snorted. “Not a chance.”
“Got enough problems without that,” his partner said.
Their answers felt about as useful as a broken camera lens. But I thanked them and kept moving.
Everywhere I went, the answers were the same—short, vague and deliberately unhelpful. That old wall of silence, built from bricks of loyalty, fortified by fear.
A group of grips stood near a stack of crates. Their laughter was loud enough to turn heads over the whir of electric fans and the distant clatter of set construction. The youngest—the same kid who’d interrupted my interview with Seth—stood with his hands jammed into his overall pockets. He was trying to look tough, his expression somewhere between defiance and embarrassment as the others teased him.
“C’mon, kid, let’s see it again.” That was an older guy, wiry with grease-stained hands.
The kid hesitated, then pulled out a small square of pink cotton. It was delicate, with embroidered roses dotting neat little loops on scalloped edges. Very feminine.
“Damn,” the wiry man laughed. “How much you blow on that thing? Week’s wages?”
“Close enough.” The kid managed a sheepish grin. “But she’s worth it.”
The others roared. A broad-shouldered man clapped him on the back. “Hmm-hmph! That little sheba’s sure got you by the short hairs. But man, you gotta know she’s way outta your league.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe she’s not. You don’t know her.”
The wiry man snorted. “Don’t need to. You think shebas like her go for guys like you? Keep dreamin’.”
“You’re just jealous,” the kid shot back, chin up.
“Sure. Whatever you say. But she’s probably laughing at you right now.”
I cleared my throat, stepping closer. The laughter died quick and the men shifted as they noticed me. The kid shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket like it was contraband.
I introduced myself, said why I was there. “Got time for a few questions?”
“Sure,” the broad-shouldered man said, but he didn’t sound like it. The others hung back, suddenly finding interest in their boots or the rafters above—anywhere but me.
“What do you make of everything that’s been happening on set?”
“Stuff happens,” the wiry man shrugged. “Could be bad luck. Or someone not paying attention.”
“You think it’s deliberate?”
The kid stared at his shoes. “Uh, I dunno.”
“And Mr. Carter? How’s he handling it?”
“Yeah, he’s wound pretty tight,” the broad-shouldered man said. “But can’t blame him none. Man’s trying to keep this whole operation from falling apart.”
“Like any good boss,” the wiry man added, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Rather have someone riding us hard than picking up the pieces later.”
I thanked them for their time, then went looking for Westbrook. Behind me, their teasing started up again, voices lower but still rough with humor.
I spotted Westbrook near the main camera, talking with a woman. Pretty but plain, a sparrow among peacocks. Navy dress, scuffed shoes, gray hair pulled severe, a practical handbag slung over one arm. She had the weathered look of someone who counted pennies and long days. She wasn’t part of the cast or crew. I could tell that much.
Westbrook was showing her something on the rig, gesturing with one hand while she nodded. She didn’t seem impressed, exactly, but focused, matching his intensity.
“Take care, Sydney,” I heard her say. “Looks like you’re carrying quite a load.”
Westbrook grinned and for a moment he looked like whatever man he used to be. “Don’t I know it? I’ll see you later.” There was a quick hug—friendly enough, but something more intimate lived in the gesture. Then she walked away, giving him a small wave of goodbye. Her gaze lingered on him like she was afraid she wouldn’t see him again.
Westbrook turned, his grin fading when he spotted me. He folded his arms. “Mrs. Price. Here to ask more questions?”
“Selena Troy.”
“What about her?”
“She’s been busy. And she seems to know a lot about what’s happening here.”
He nodded, a spark of anger in his eyes. “And you think I’m feeding her.”
“Someone’s talking. Not just about the sabotage. They’re quoting Seth. Word for word.”
His gaze darkened. “It’s not me.”
“You sure about that?”
“You think I’d risk everything I’ve put into this film to run my mouth to Selena Troy?”
“Sometimes people say more than they mean to—especially to someone like her.”
He let out a sharp breath. “Some do but not me. I know how people like her operate. They don’t ask questions—they dig for ammunition. I wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
No hesitation in his words, no guilt in his eyes. But guilt was tricky—it didn’t always show its face when you went looking for it.
“What about the sabotage?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“You’re saying you’ve got nothing to do with that either.”
His thick arms tightened across his chest. “I told you before—I wouldn’t sabotage my own investment. Why’re you asking me the same damn questions again?”
“Because people dig a lot of dirt for a lot of reasons. Maybe out of spite. Or jealousy. Maybe just to prove a point.”
Westbrook didn’t answer right away. His muscles in his jaw worked, the veins in his temple pulsed. The world shrank to just the two of us. Everything else—voices, footsteps—faded away. “Spite? Jealousy? That’s what you think this is about?” His lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile. “You really don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on here, do you?”
“Then fill me in, why don’t you?”
His eyes drilled into mine, weighing me. Deciding if I was worth the trouble. The hum of the rig grew loud in my ears, filling the pause, louder than it had any right to be. The big man stepped closer, his broad frame blotting out the light.
“Let me be clear. I don’t have time for this nonsense and I don’t need to defend myself—not to you, not to anyone. I’ve worked too damn hard on this film to see it fall apart now. You want to chase ghosts? Be my guest. But don’t drag me into it.”
The silence that followed was as sharp as his words.
“If you’re innocent, I’ll leave your name out of it. But if you’re lying, I’ll find out.”
Westbrook held my gaze, eyes black as nitrate, then turned back to the camera as if our conversation had never happened.
I watched him work for another moment before turning to leave. If he was hiding something, he was good at it. But good wasn’t the same as perfect.
It went on like that, interview after interview. Wall after wall. Meanwhile, I had to keep up with the usual round of parties and club meetings that were the steak and potatoes of my column. The regular entertainment editor stayed out sick, so I did a review of Good Trouble, Bella Crain’s latest vaudeville hit. She was a jazz singer and making it big. Some said she’d be bigger than Florence Mills. I didn’t know about that, but I had to agree that she was dynamite.
Nothing more untoward happened on the movie set. Either the saboteur had decided to let Selena do the heavy lifting or possibly, but less likely, her articles and my questioning had scared him off. I wish I could say I believed the latter. But I didn’t. I had a feeling we were all waiting for the next shoe to drop.
And it did.
I just didn’t realize we’d be the ones to drop it.
CHAPTER 18
Sam called me into his office two days before the next issue was to go to press. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, catching the faint wisp of smoke rising from the cigarette balanced in his ashtray. A typed draft of Selena’s latest article was on his desk, marked up with blue pencil edits. Her headline was unmistakable:
A BETRAYAL OF BLOOD:
CARTER’S VISION OR DIVISION?
He handed me the copy. My hands shook as I read it.
Seth Carter’s films have always been celebrated for their raw, unflinching portrayal of Negro life in America. But behind the camera, Carter’s own words reveal a more troubling picture—one of division, blame and bitterness.
“This is us. Our reality,” Carter said in a recent conversation. “We turn on each other. Not always for greed. But the damage is the same. We stab each other in the back, do at least as much damage as Mr. Charlie. In fact, we often do Mr. Charlie’s work for him.”
These words, spoken by a director whose work depends on the trust and collaboration of his community, cut deeper than any script. They lay bare a perspective that not only criticizes but condemns his people, turning the mirror inward and shattering it in the process and blaming them for their own oppression.
The words blurred into smudges of black ink. Seth’s quote—how had she gotten it? She’d quoted it word-for-word. And stripped it of context, twisted it into an accusation, a dagger and then stabbed deep.
The article framed Seth as an opportunist, not a filmmaker reflecting hard truths, but a cynic profiting off his people’s pain while privately deriding them.
“It’s trash,” I said. “She’s actually managed to produce something worse than the last two articles combined.”
“That quote,” Sam said, tapping the paper with his blue pencil. “Does it sound like him?”
“Yes. It’s actually from my interview with him.”
“You mean he actually said that? And you knew it but didn’t use it?”
“Yes. And for the same reason I held back on the sabotage. I knew how it would sound.”
“Once again, Lanie. He’s a grown-ass man. Our job—your job—is not to protect him.”
“Maybe you’re right, Sam, and maybe I was wrong, but the point is: that quote? I didn’t give it to her.”
“Then how did she get it?” He paused, his gaze sharp. “Or is he out there, saying the same thing to other people? If so, then your attempt to protect him was noble but foolish.”
“I don’t believe he’s doing that.”
“Well, you’d better make sure. ’Cause the article’s running.”
“Can’t you stop it?”
He laughed, short and dry. “I can’t stop this any more than I can stop a freight train. Look, Lanie, you think I like this? We’re in the business of selling papers, not making friends. Management loves it. They’re calling it bold journalism. Says it’s already doubled our sales.”
“That still doesn’t make it right.”
He held up a hand. “I know, but—”
“If you can’t kill it, at least frame it honestly.”
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you really think Selena’s twisting it?”
“You know damn well he didn’t mean it the way she’s making it sound.”
“Never met the man. I know no such thing.”
“Well, I have and I do. And what you do know is that Selena doesn’t care about nuance or context. Just headlines.”
Sam rubbed his jaw. “She says she called Seth to get his reaction. Gave him a chance to clarify.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you believe her?”
He looked up, hesitated, then dropped his gaze back to the desk. His fingers twitched near the cigarette in the ashtray, but he didn’t pick it up.
For me, that was answer enough.
I looked at the copy in my hand and felt an urge to slap him with it. Instead, I settled for tossing it back on his desk.
This article would hurt Seth, but it wasn’t just him. It was all of us. Every time a colored voice was twisted into something ugly, it gave Mr. Man one more excuse to ignore the truth.
I walked out, my footsteps sounding hollow. My pulse didn’t slow. I had a call to make.
I had our switchboard put the call through as soon as I reached my desk. My pulse quickened with each ring. When Seth came on the line, I explained what was what. After his initial shock, his response was as expected.
“You want to tell me why she has my words, Lanie?”
“Seth, I didn’t give them to her. I—”
“Then how does she have them? I said those words to you, here in my office. We were alone. No one else was here. So how, Lanie? How?”
“I don’t know.” My grip tightened on the phone. “But I swear, it wasn’t me. You have to believe me.”
“Do I? You’re the only person I said those words to. The only one. I trusted you. Do you know what this could do to me? Those words—twisted like that—they’re a weapon now.”
“She didn’t get them from me.”
“Then how does she have them?”
Good question. No one else had been in the room. No one. Just he and I.
“I don’t know,” I said again. “All I can say is, now’s your chance to comment.”
A tense pause stretched long enough to make my chest feel tight.
“Why should I? So, your paper can twist those words, too?”
“No, Seth. It’s not like that. It’s—”
“Then how is it?”
The line went dead. The silence felt louder than his voice had.
Selena was at her desk, typing away like she didn’t have a care in the world. When I slammed her article down in front of her, she barely glanced up.
“Ah, you’ve read it.” Her lips curled with a smirk. “What did you think? Gripping, isn’t it?”
“You’re out of control. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done … is my job.” She sat back in her chair, picked up the pink silk handkerchief lying next to her Underwood. “Something you might want to try sometime. This story needed to be told.”
“This isn’t a story,” I shot back. “It’s gossip. Speculation. And it’s hurting people—real people.”
Her smirk didn’t falter. “If Seth Carter’s so fragile that he can’t handle a little bad press, maybe he’s not cut out for the big leagues.” She threaded the handkerchief through her fingertips like an executioner playing with a noose.
“You don’t care who you hurt, do you?”
