Chapter 48

Charlie's Pov

The morning sun cast long, eerie shadows through the grand entrance of the DuPont mansion.

Greta and I arrived at Rupert DuPont's mansion to follow up on a 911 call reporting a suicide. I parked the car and pretended this was my first time ever at the mansion, keeping my expression neutral.

A burly security guard, his face etched with a mixture of grief and indifference, led us to the staff quarters. The door creaked open, revealing a scene that chilled me to the bone. A lifeless body hung suspended from the ceiling, a noose tightening its grip around a pale, slack neck.

Greta's eyes widened in shock as she took in the gruesome scene.

She and I surveyed the scene, our professional detachment masking the grim reality. The dead man was Rupert DuPont's chauffeur, placing him directly at the scene of Rupert's murder.

I felt a cold sweat break out. This was it. The perfect end to a messy situation.

We discovered a suicide note, a chilling confession detailing why he had killed his boss. According to the note, Rupert had trafficked the chauffeur's girlfriend, and he hadn't seen her since, leaving him broken and desperate. Driven by rage and despair, he had decided to take Rupert's life and then his own.

As the weight of the evidence piled up, a sense of unease crept into my mind. It was too perfect, too convenient, will Greta buy it.

After collecting evidence, we left the scene for the forensics team to take over. As the ambulance, press, and other officials swarmed the crime scene, Greta and I made our way back to the patrol car.

"This doesn't feel right," Greta said as we reached the car. "It feels too convenient, like it was staged."

I knew she was right. After all, I had orchestrated the whole thing the previous night with some help from Tommy and Hank.

After the encounter with my dad yesterday I had no option, but to get creative. It involved killing someone, but who cares?

"Well, sometimes it feels that way," I told her, trying to sound convincing. "But what truly matters is that this case is closed, and we can move on to something else."

We got into the car, but Greta wasn't ready to let it go. "But what about the bellhop that shouldn't have been on the eleventh floor that afternoon? It just doesn't add up. I'm going to get to the root of this."

"We can keep investigating," I said, maintaining my calm exterior. "But I don't think it would do us any good. Let's move on to other things."

Greta shook her head. "I don't think I can do that, but I'll try."

I wasn't convinced that she was just going to "try." Her determination was clear, and I knew she wouldn't let this go easily. From that moment on, I resolved to keep a close eye on her to prevent her from uncovering the truth and ruining everything for me.

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Donna's Pov.

The rehearsal room was abuzz with nervous energy, the cast running lines and blocking scenes. Everyone was there except Taran Holden, our leading man. I was starting to get anxious. We were already behind schedule, and the play was opening in a week.

I ran through scenes with my co-stars, trying to stay focused despite the growing unease. They were all supportive and understanding, but the absence of the male lead was a glaring hole in the rehearsal process.

Just as I was about to suggest we take a break, the door burst open, revealing Taran Holden. He stumbled in, his hair a mess, his eyes glazed over. The unmistakable scent of alcohol hung in the air.

"Let's rehearse, everyone," he slurred, his voice booming through the room.

A collective groan erupted from the cast. One of my co-stars, a bald guy named Josh, who likes to brag about playing a cop on TV, finally snapped. "Dude, we've been here since seven!" He yelled, his voice carrying across the room.

Taran just smirked. "So what? This play doesn't work without me." His gaze landed on me. "Especially you, my leading lady. Let's crack on."

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. A few brave souls muttered insults under their breath – "washed-up has-been," "douchebag" – but no one dared confront him directly. I wanted to say something, but with our scenes together, I knew I'd have to work closely with him. So, I bit my tongue.

His arrogance was almost comical if it weren't so infuriating. My castmates exchanged annoyed glances before filing out of the room.

As the rest of the cast left, leaving just Taran and me on stage, I braced myself. The scene was a passionate love scene, and I had been looking forward to rehearsing it with him. But now, the anticipation was replaced by dread.

We started the scene, and despite his inebriated state, Taran was surprisingly good. His talent was undeniable, even when he was clearly under the influence. But as we reached the climax of the scene – a long, passionate kiss – things took a terrifying turn. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming, making it difficult to concentrate. Just as our lips were about to meet, he looked at me, a flicker of panic in his eyes, and then he vomited at my feet.

The sound was sickening, the smell even worse. I stumbled backward, my face a mask of disgust and disbelief. Taran slumped to the floor, mumbling apologies. “Sorry it's a mistake, it's a mistake.”

Then, the door burst open again. It was Matt Clarence, his face flushed with anger. "I told you to stay clean for this play, you idiot!" he roared. "You're fired! Get out!"

Taran scrambled to his feet, his face pleading. "Matty, please, I'm sorry," he begged. "I won't do it again."

But Matt was adamant. "Get out! I can't work with an unprofessional actor," he repeated, his voice shaking with rage. Taran ran towards him, still hoping to be forgiven.

I stood there, stunned. The scene had taken a turn for the absolutely worst. And now, I was left to pick up the pieces.