Secrets Collide (Bluegrass Brothers)

switched her camera to video and kept as still as her quivering leg muscles allowed her to. 
    “Thank you, Tatum. I had a wonderful evening. Edward just doesn’t do anything for me anymore,” Ginger pouted. Her overly injected lower lip was sticking out in a cute pout as she threw her much, much older director-husband under the bus.
    “That should be illegal. Meet me at my place in two hours and I’ll show you what a man should be doing for a woman with your body.” Gemma tried not to gag as she recorded the illicit affair. Ginger giggled and Tatum slapped her ass as she climbed into her chauffeured car.
    Finally the alley was empty and Gemma stood up and stretched her cramped body. Fred poked his little black nose out of the bag and then quickly disappeared again. “Don’t worry, we’re getting out of here right now.” Gemma picked up the bag and hiked it over her shoulder. She needed to get to the office and start researching Tatum and Ginger’s love lives.
    “One last time, one last time . . .” Gemma repeated as she headed for her parked car. Most of her stories had been celebrity sightings, or inside scoops about which actors were getting parts, getting fired, or heading to rehab. And she hated every word of it. She once submitted a feel-good piece about a Hollywood hottie spending his weekend visiting sick children and watched as her editor tossed the piece into the trash. She had a pile of those stories on her computer but had been told not to bother emailing them to the editor.
    Gemma reached her car and placed Fred into his tiny seat belt on the passenger seat of her silver Mazda Miata convertible. She placed her camera gear on the floor by Fred and was about to start the car when a pain like no other gripped her heart. Fear raced through her and Gemma gasped as she fought wave after wave of panic.
    She blindly reached for her phone and hit speed dial. Something was wrong with Gia. She didn’t know what, but she knew with certainty Gia was in trouble. She had only felt something like this once before when Gia had broken her leg while investigating a story in Iraq almost eight years ago. But the feeling Gemma had then was nothing like what she was experiencing now.
    Tears rolled down her cheeks as she listened to the phone ring. “Pick up, Gia. Please pick up,” Gemma begged her sister. Gia was here in town—there was no reason for her not to pick up the phone. Gemma hung up and dialed again as she gasped for breath. The feeling of dread smothered her. It enveloped her so much that the outside world disappeared and all she heard was Gia’s voicemail picking up. Something was terribly wrong. She didn’t know how to explain it; it was just a feeling she knew with certainty.
    Gemma pulled into traffic without even looking as she headed for Gia’s apartment. Traffic at ten at night was light for L.A. so she was able to speed down highway 101. She didn’t hear horns blowing or see middle fingers being raised as she wove in and out of the lanes. Instead, she felt a numbness that scared her more than the pain did.
    She hit the exit ramp at ninety miles per hour as she flew toward Gia’s apartment. Eight minutes later, she skidded into the underground parking complex and headed straight for Gia’s parking space. Her eyes took in all the cars as she slowed to a stop and stared at the empty space. Her heart started beating faster and harder as the panic almost overtook her.
    “Hi. This is Gia. I’m not here right now, but I’d love to talk to you. Leave a message,” her sister’s happy voice rang out as her voicemail picked up again.
    “Gia. Call me, please call me. Are you okay? I just need to know you’re okay,” Gemma cried into the phone. Despair replaced panic as she raced out of the parking garage and back down the 101 to get to Gia’s downtown office.
    Thirty-five minutes later, Gemma’s tennis shoes hit the ground running as she sprinted toward the large glass building. She pushed open the front door and rushed toward the guard sitting behind the information desk in the large lobby. Marble stairs went to one side of the lobby and a shiny bank of silver elevators stood looming behind the information desk.
    “Sorry, the offices are closed for the night, ma’am,” the guard announced as he stood up. Gemma was sure he was taking in her brunette hair roughly pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and her black peasant top that smelled like garbage with slight confusion since she