Finding Forever (47 page)

“Had I never been arrested, had I never been ordered by a court to get help, I might even be dead. But tonight I stand before you more alive than ever. Over the coming months, I will be sharing more about my journey back from the brink, and revealing more about the Program that is responsible for it.

“But tonight is not for that. Rather, tonight is about you—the people in the media, in the courts, and in the world of law and justice. So it is with a grateful heart that I accept your award. It is because of you that I can stand before you a rejuvenated person with a light that will shine forever.”

Peter wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Inspiring. Isn't it?”

Smile and nod.

“Oh, wow!” Brooklyn stared at her phone, mouth agape. “Unbelievable.”

“What?” Minutes away from the Beverly Hilton, Holden steered his BMW down the carpool lane back to Twin Oaks. “Tell me!”

“Uncle Don.” She finger-scrolled down through the report. “He traced that SUV's license plate. He found the owner. Wow.”

“The car is registered to a non-profit called Kensington Solutions, based out in the desert,” Brooklyn said. “That charity is run by a Peter Kensington, who has an alias of Oliver Franks. Weird. Beckett and Evan . . . it's all totally making sense now. They must have been talking about this Peter Kensington guy.”

“What did Evan tell you exactly?”

Brooklyn relayed their hushed conversation on the hotel balcony.

“He looked like he hadn't slept in days and he just seemed to be so out of it.”

“Like on drugs?” Holden asked.

“Not really. More like woozy, dazed. Maybe a little brain-damaged or something. He didn't seem right in the head.” She smacked the dashboard with her fist. “That's it! Evan started talking about how these people could ‘fry' Taylor's brain or something. Maybe that's what happened to him.”

“Why didn't you ask him for details?”

“I was about to, but then the bodyguard came storming in. That's when Evan handed me this.” Brooklyn held up the crumpled scrap of Beverly Hilton stationery and read aloud, “Coachella Valley Vista Point—Friday night @ sunset.”

“Coachella?” Holden asked. “Like, the music festival?”

“Holdie, my dear. He's cute, but I highly doubt he was inviting me to Coachella. Plus, that's in the spring.”

“Either way, I think we should call the cops now.”

“Hell no!” Brooklyn looked up “Coachella Valley Vista” on her phone as she spoke. “I don't know enough about this rehab place, this Kensington guy, and what he may or may not be doing with Taylor. It's all hearsay. For all I know, it could be a legitimate rehab, or it could be something more deranged like Evan and Beckett have said. On top of that, Evan claims the police are in on it, like it's some huge conspiracy.”

“Even more reason to alert the police,” Holden insisted. “We can call Chief Price right now. I highly doubt this Peter Kensington guy has any influence over the Twin Oaks police force. They will help us.”

“Don't get me wrong. I love Chief Price, but after we tell him, then what would he do? He'd just call down to L.A. because it's not his jurisdiction. It's too risky. Plus, I need to break this story first.”

“You're way overthinking this case, Brooklyn.”

“When it comes to investigative journalism,” she said without looking up from her phone, “there's no such thing as overthinking. And by the way, Holden, it is a
story
—not a case. Detectives handle cases; journalists pursue stories.”

“You think Taylor could be at this Coachella spot?”

“That would make the most sense.” Brooklyn punched in a number and pressed her phone to her ear.