Page 103 of Chasing Stardust

The urge to call him is overwhelming. Fear of accidentally dialing his number has me answering Jeanie’s latest call instead. I quickly fill her in on my recent exploits and G-Lo’s explosive revelation.

“Do you think maybe . . .” She lets her thought trail off, but I know exactly what she’s thinking.

I’ve been asking myself the same damn thing.

Was David Bowie actually Mom’s father?

I gaze into the horizon as I collect my thoughts. “If you’d asked me two weeks ago, I would’ve said not a chance, but today? You didn’t hear G-Lo talking about that night. I don’t know anymore. Her story was pretty convincing.”

“She’s old.” Jeanie snorts. “And after more than fifty years of smoking pot, she probably can’t remember everyone she slept with.”

“I wish I could say the same,” I mutter under my breath.

Jeanie lets out a knowing sigh. “Oh, Zoey . . .”

“I shouldn’t have come, Jeanie.” My voice cracks. “I should’ve waited for you.”

“Tell me you didn’t actually fall for the serial killer.”

When I don’t answer, a bark of nervous laughter echoes through the car.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.” I choke back a hollow laugh of my own. “He wasn’t a serial killer. Just a serial liar.”

Jeanie’s laughter dries up, and she uses her “Mom” voice on me. “What happened?”

Despite my better judgment, I tell her everything.

After an unexpected show of sympathy for my wounded pride, Jeanie cuts to the chase.

“I haven’t seen a single picture of you online, Zo. And not a single rumor about Mom or G-Lo on the internet or in any of the grocery store tabloids. Trust me, with you gallivanting all over the country, I’ve searched your name multiple times a day to make sure you weren’t lying in a morgue in the middle of bum-frigging Egypt. I would’ve known if there was even a whisper of a story about you out there.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Doesn’t mean the pictures aren’t floating around out there . . . just waiting for the worst possible moment to show up on my social media feed.”

“Did you ever stop to think maybe he was telling the truth?”

“What happened to ‘he could totally be a serial killer, ditch him before you end up as a statistic’?” I do my best Jeanie impression.

“I know.” She groans. “I did say that. But hear me out. If he was going to kill you, he would’ve done it in the middle of the forest and blamed it on the bear.”

“No. He slept with me instead so he could sell me out to the tabloids.”

The silence stretches between us, and I keep waiting for a snarky response that never comes.

“How can you be sure he was the one who sent the reporters?” My sister poses the question as if challenging me to a freaking duel.

Since when did Jeanie climb on the Dash Hammond bandwagon? And why am I so damned desperate to join her there?

I heave out a breath, but it does nothing to release the tension holding my muscles hostage. “The fact that anyone knew we’d be there at all means someone told them.”

“But he denied it, right?”

“So?”

“So maybe he was actually telling the truth!” she insists.

For several long seconds, I stare at her name on my phone display, almost convincing myself I answered a wrong number. No such luck. My sister has simply lost her ever-loving mind.