Dark Debts by Karen Hall Read Free Book Online Page A

she’d be in soon, then hung up before he could argue with her about it.
    Half an hour later, Randa parked her five-year-old Volvo behind the ratty two-story building that housed the Chronicle ’s offices and printing presses. The building was on the east end of Sunset, in a neighborhood where Randa definitely had to get in her car and drive if she wanted anything other than a greasy burrito for lunch. But she had always liked the old building. It wouldn’t have made sense for the paper to be in some spanking-clean, architecturally barren building on Ventura Boulevard. Creativity thrived in an underdog environment, and this old firetrap certainly provided that.
    They were an odd bunch, the people who wrote for the Chronicle. Like most members of the alternative press, they thought of themselves as “real” writers. They tolerated rival journalists (barely), but looked down on their peers who sold out for the big bucks and bigger compromises of Hollywood. (The Chronicle writers thought of the screenwriters as whores, the screenwriters thought of the Chronicle writers as permanent adolescents, and neither group was entirely wrong.) For Randa’s part, the job provided her with two things she craved: freedom and respect. She knew she wasn’t likely to find either anywhere else.
    There was an eerie feeling in the air as she made her way through the newsroom. There was no music blaring, no laughter coming from the offices, none of the raucous atmosphere that usually prevailed. Randa could see people looking at her out of the corners of their eyes. She stared straight ahead and walked quickly to the relative security of her tiny, cluttered office.
    The call to Roger hadn’t ended up buying her much. The minute she sat down at her desk, her office was filled with people who wanted all the gory details. She’d given them a few perfunctory answers, but made it clear she didn’t enjoy talking about it. Finally the vultures cleared out, and she was left with a couple of Cam’s actual friends. Barely an improvement, all things considered.
    Keith Heller, the paper’s film critic, sat in a corner and stared at the wall. Ever since Randa and Cam had parted, Keith had been actively avoiding her, wasting little energy on subtlety. He had adopted Nora’s version of the story like it was the latest software upgrade. (According to Nora, Randa’s only reason for being attracted to Cam was some bizarre fetish for the criminal history of his family. Randa supposed that made her a first cousin to those crazy women who married their death row inmate pen pals. A wimpy cousin, though, who didn’t have the guts to go for the real thing.) In truth, Keith had never liked her anyway, and now he had something concrete to pin it on. She was sure he was currently unhappy about the fact that the pseudo-wake had ended up in her office. It made her grateful for Roger, who was sitting on the corner of her desk, picking the eraser off a pencil and shaking his head over and over.
    â€œI just can’t believe it,” he said for the dozenth time. He looked ill; but then, Roger was a man who, under the best of circumstances, looked like he was on his way to a CAT scan. “This must be awful for you,” he said to Randa.
    She nodded, a bit embarrassed. Since Keith considered her grief to be psychotic, it wasn’t a topic she wanted brought up for discussion.
    Keith looked at Roger as if Randa weren’t in the room. “I must have left him ten messages this week. I should have gone over there. I just never would have thought . . .”
    â€œNo one would have,” Roger assured him.
    â€œI don’t get it.” Keith shook his head. “Why now? His career was taking off, he had finally gotten into a decent relationship—”
    â€œExcuse me?” Randa interjected.
    Keith shrugged. “His words, not mine.”
    Randa winced. You vindictive ass.
    Roger jumped