“Who is we?” Vanna asked.
“Robert Vance and the zoning board,” John said. “It is just business, Vanna. You do not need to worry about the details.”
The parking lot behind the stage was dark by nine that evening, the ocean breeze carrying the scent of salt and exhaust from the nearby freeway. Vanna unlocked her sedan, her fingers cold against the metal door handle.
Kari came out through the stage exit, walking quickly across the asphalt to catch her before she could back out of the space.
“A reporter from the Coast Inquirer called the publicity desk twenty minutes ago,” Kari said, holding her phone. “They are asking if you are co-signing John’s new commercial development loans.”
Vanna stopped with her hand on the steering wheel, her door still open. “I have never signed a business loan in my life.”
“The reporter claimed to have a document with your home address on it,” Kari said. “They wanted to know if you would be issuing a statement before their deadline tomorrow morning.”
Vanna sat in the quiet of her car, watching the red taillights of a delivery truck exit the studio gates. “Do not give them a statement, Kari. Not yet.”
By ten o’clock, the kitchen of her home was warm and quiet, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator. John stood at the stove, slowly stirring a pot of marinara sauce while the pasta water began to bubble.
On the white marble counter beside the stove sat a small brass key. It was old, its edges worn smooth by years of contact with other metal, and it did not fit any lock in their house.
Vanna set her purse on the stool, her eyes dropping to the brass key. “Where did this come from, John?”
