The White Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

was the number one show on Thursday nights.
Never happened. My star wasn’t bright enough. Ford could’ve gone, if he had
wanted to, but he wasn’t a fan of the show.
    Sacrilege, I say.
    Dakota Bailey
retired from Yes, Chef! about five years ago, and I lost my chance. Last
I’d heard she had taken her winnings and started some ridiculously upscale
restaurant in New York City, and the reservation list was—literally—two years
out.
    I adored her when she was on the show. It wasn’t the same without her, so I stopped
watching a couple years back, and she sort of fell out of my memory. Out of
sight, out of mind.
    Yet, here she is,
now, on the other end of the phone.
    Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.
    Now I know what
people feel like when they see Ford walking down the street.
    Total fanboy
moment right here.
    I take a breath,
or, you know, six deep ones to calm myself down. This takes so long that I hear
Dakota say, “Mr. Long? Are you there?”
    “I—yeah—I am.
Sorry about that. It’s just that you’re Dakota Bailey.”
    “And you’re Mike
Long.”
    “I am indeed. Just
Mike.”
    “You were my
favorite part of Graveyard . I’m sure Ford’s a great guy off camera, but,
you know, you always had the cool gadgets.”
    That’s nice to
hear, even if it’s a little white lie. I’ll take it. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
This feels a bit like we’re both stroking each other’s egos at some schmaltzy
cocktail party until I remember that she sorta called me in a panic at half
past six in the morning. “So… You needed some help with things, or whatever?”
I’m aware of how fumbling and awkward I sound but the words are tripping out of
my mouth because I’m talking to Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.
    “Are you still
investigating?” Her tone is full of hope.
    “Off and on, yeah.
I do some local things around Kitty Hawk for charity organizations. Events like
that once in a while. And, believe it or not, last month, I actually helped
Ford with a pretty insane investigation up in Virginia Beach. I’m trying to get
him to do—” I have to interrupt myself right there.
    Unofficially, I’m
rambling like a fool.
    Officially, I’m
bound by a non-disclosure agreement and don’t have the privileges to talk about
the documentary until Carla and her team send out the press release. I’m told
that’s any day now. And by ‘any day,’ it means whenever one of us is able to
coerce my former partner into signing the contract. Ford and I haven’t spoken
in a couple of days, not since I told him to chill the hell out and go take a
break, but as of yesterday Carla insisted that he had his fingers wrapped
around the pen and was hovering over the dotted line.
    “I’m trying to get
him to come help me down here once in a while, but you know Ford, always the
busy man in the room.”
    “That’s nice,”
Dakota says. Her end of the line goes silent, and I patiently wait on her to
continue. Otherwise, I might begin blabbing about how amazing she was in her
third season and how she managed to pull off that incredible win over the guy
with the dreadlocks.
    I can’t remember
his name. Nobody remembers second place.
    Dakota’s raspberry
steak parfait must have been out of this world on that final episode. Her voice
is hushed when she speaks again. “Sorry. Thought I heard something.” The words
quiver across her lips.
    “Are you okay?”
    “No. God, no. Not
at all.” Her breathing intensifies; it sounds like she’s speedwalking. “Give me
a sec. Moving to another room.”
    “Hey, everything
all right? Do I need to call the cops?”
    “Please don’t. I
can’t—this can’t get out to the media. No reporters, no Twitter, nothing, okay?
Please?”
    “Absolutely. Of
course.”
    Anything for
you, Dakota Bailey. Wow.
    “Not a word?”
    “On my honor.”
    “I’m just down the
beach from you, about half a mile.”
    “Really?” This is
a mind-blowing fact, which sends me instantly daydreaming about walking down