Free Poisonous: A Novel by Allison Brennan Page A

a close-up with her eyebrow arched in a mightier-than-thou pose. Below the pic were her last known words: If you think I don’t know what you did, think again, dipshit.
    According to Grace, no one claimed to know who the dipshit was or what Ivy was talking about in that post.
    Max’s producer and general pain-in-her-ass friend Ben Lawson called at eight in the morning. “I expected to hear from you earlier,” she said.
    “Three-hour time difference. Thought you’d need your beauty sleep. Or maybe your current bedmate was entertaining you.”
    “Don’t be crude, Benji.”
    “Even you calling me that horrific name isn’t going to ruin my spirits. I have good news. Paula Wallace has agreed to be interviewed. She’s expecting your call this morning to set up a time. I’m sending Charlie Morelli out late tonight so he’ll be ready for you first thing in the morning.”
    “Good—I need him at the crime scene when Graham and his people arrive. It’ll make good B-roll. And I have a list of places he can film in the meantime.”
    “What about the cop?”
    “I didn’t ask her yet if she’d go on camera. I wanted to go slow. After she agreed to Graham—pending approval—she started to put the walls up. I didn’t push. So what should I know about Paula Wallace?”
    “You won’t like her.”
    “That was quick.”
    “I call them like I see them, Maxie.”
    “Don’t. Call. Me. That.”
    “Quid pro quo, babe,” he said. “Remember Betsy Abbott?”
    Her hand tightened around her cell phone. Betsy had been her friend Karen’s roommate the year before Max arrived at Columbia. She came from the same wealthy, old-money family as Ben and Max, but class wasn’t something that came with privilege. Betsy was selfish, demanding, and made everything about her.
    When Karen disappeared on spring break and Max stayed in Miami to hound the police and FBI into doing their jobs, Betsy had contacted the media and made an embarrassing public plea. She set up candlelight vigils and created a scholarship in Karen’s name, and each and every time she did anything , she sought out the press and made damn sure she got her face on camera. Nothing she’d done had helped, nothing she’d done had impacted the case in a positive way; she’d only served to humiliate her family and promote one person: Betsy Abbott.
    “You’re quiet,” said Ben.
    “You’re saying Paula wants the attention. Then why didn’t she do anything to get it last year?”
    “She did—Jess is e-mailing you clips from a televised appeal she gave a few days after Ivy was killed. It was all over the news for a weekend, then gone.”
    “Sometimes that’s the only way to get someone to step forward,” Max said with sympathy. “Many parents go on-camera to spark interest in their child’s murder. What makes Paula Wallace a self-promoter like dear old Betsy?”
    “Her tone. Her questions. My instincts.”
    Max appreciated Ben’s insight, but he hadn’t had as much experience with grieving families as she had. After a year, Paula Wallace may have given up hope that anyone would be interested in her daughter’s murder. Hearing from Ben could have excited her—at last, someone, finally, would listen. Maybe Ben was right … but Max decided to reserve judgment.
    Paula Wallace already has an opinion—she thinks her stepson killed Ivy. Or is that just an easy way to cast blame?
    “You’re only going to have forty-eight hours to put this together, Max. I’ve restructured the show for this, and Charlie is going to bust his hump to edit and give us seven good minutes in time.”
    “Have I ever let you down, sweetheart? ”
    “You always cut it too close. Keep me in the loop, I don’t want any surprises.”
    “I’ll try my best,” she said drolly and hung up.
    Max took another look at the timeline. She needed to get ready to meet with Lance Lorenzo. She was taking him to breakfast—one thing she’d learned early on when dealing with local reporters