Read the book: «Blacklist»

For Charlie and Rachel, my A-list friends

No man is rich enough to buy back his past.

—OSCAR WILDE

Breaking News: Discovery of Blood-Soaked Dress Leads to Arrest of Night for Night Party Promoter!

By Trena Moretti

Just in—Mere hours after teen heartthrob Ryan Hawthorne was called in for questioning regarding the disappearance of his former girlfriend, Hollywood A-lister Madison Brooks, Los Angeles police received an anonymous tip leading to a blood-soaked dress thought to belong to Night for Night party promoter Aster Amirpour.

While the official statement released by the LAPD states that tests are under way to determine the source of the blood, an LAPD insider assures us they’ve received confirmation that the blood on the dress is a match for the missing celebrity.

According to our sources, the dress was turned over to police when a W Hotel employee became suspicious.

“I was only doing my job, which requires me to double-check the number and type of clothes found in the guest’s laundry bag with the number and type of clothes the guest logged onto the form,” said the employee, who wishes to remain anonymous. “This is the same standard procedure we always follow before we send the laundry out to our vendor. You would not believe how many people don’t know the difference between a chemise and a dress. Anyway, in the middle of checking I noticed that a black dress had been improperly marked as a blouse. When I looked closer, I saw that the dress was covered in large dark stains that struck me as suspicious. It was then that I alerted my boss and they took it from there. If it really is the blood of Madison Brooks, then all we can do is pray for that poor young girl, because it really was an awful lot of blood. The dress was completely covered in it.”

At the time of writing, Aster Amirpour was being booked into LA County Jail. We’ll have more as this story develops.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

ONE: GIRL AFRAID

TWO: HEART-SHAPED BOX

THREE: THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHERF * * * * R

FOUR: WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT

FIVE: I WOULD DIE 4 U

SIX: HOTLINE BLING

SEVEN: THE BITCH IS BACK

EIGHT: SHE SELLS SANCTUARY

NINE: ROCK AND ROLL, HOOCHIE KOO

TEN: BEEN CAUGHT STEALING

ELEVEN: RUDE BOY

TWELVE: LOVE DROUGHT

THIRTEEN: CAN’T FEEL MY FACE

FOURTEEN: WHISPER TO A SCREAM

FIFTEEN: ALL APOLOGIES

SIXTEEN: MUSIC TO WATCH BOYS TO

SEVENTEEN: ’TIS A PITY SHE WAS A WHORE

EIGHTEEN: PAINT IT BLACK

NINETEEN: BUILDING A MYSTERY

TWENTY: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER

TWENTY-ONE: GUILTY FILTHY SOUL

TWENTY-TWO: EX’S & OH’S

TWENTY-THREE: USED TO LOVE YOU SOBER

TWENTY-FOUR: DRINK YOU AWAY

TWENTY-FIVE: THE KILLING MOON

TWENTY-SIX: DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND

TWENTY-SEVEN: DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP

TWENTY-EIGHT: YOU SHOOK ME ALL NIGHT LONG

TWENTY-NINE: OUR LIPS ARE SEALED

THIRTY: BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE

THIRTY-ONE: WALKASHAME

THIRTY-TWO: VICTIM OF LOVE

THIRTY-THREE: ENTER SANDMAN

THIRTY-FOUR: CALLING ALL ANGELS

THIRTY-FIVE: WATCHING THE DETECTIVES

THIRTY-SIX: EVIL WAYS

THIRTY-SEVEN: INTERSTATE LOVE SONG

THIRTY-EIGHT: ALL THE YOUNG DUDES

THIRTY-NINE: JANIE’S GOT A GUN

FORTY: HIGHWAY TO HELL

FORTY-ONE: HOTEL CALIFORNIA

FORTY-TWO: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

FORTY-THREE: FIGHT SONG

FORTY-FOUR: GANGSTA’S PARADISE

FORTY-FIVE: DON’T FEAR THE REAPER

FORTY-SIX: SUGAR, WE’RE GOIN’ DOWN

FORTY-SEVEN: DIRTY LAUNDRY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

ONE
GIRL AFRAID

Madison Brooks grudgingly surrendered the fading remnants of her dream and blinked into the blackness before her. The room was soundless, still. The air hung weighty and stale. Despite the promise of sleep, her waking life remained a living hell.

While she had plenty of fears—fear of forgetting her lines during a live performance, fear of her secret past being revealed—a fear of the dark had never been among them. Even as a child she understood that the mythical monster dwelling under the bed could only pale in comparison to the all-too-real parental monsters getting high in the den.

And it was no different now.

She pushed away from the soiled mattress she’d slept on and crept toward the solid steel door, alerted to any hint of scent, sound—anything that might provide a clue as to who had taken her, where they had taken her, and why. Over thirty days spent in captivity, and Madison was no closer to answers than the night she’d been snatched. She’d gone over the incident countless times—the memory playing on a continuous loop as she searched frame by frame, hunting for revelations, some small but crucial detail she might’ve missed. Yet every viewing remained stubbornly the same.

She’d broken up with Ryan only to be rescued by Tommy, and after sharing a few beers (along with a few memorable kisses), she’d received a text from Paul instructing her to meet him at Night for Night, and she’d fled without question. Though she should’ve known the moment she arrived at the closed and empty club that something had gone terribly wrong. Paul was professional. Punctual. If he’d truly intended to meet her, he would’ve been there already. She’d walked straight into a trap, but that was all hindsight now. Yet another item to add to the long list of things she’d chosen to ignore until she found herself with nothing but time to second-guess and berate herself.

How could she have been so trusting? So naive?

Why had she continued to wait on the terrace, reminiscing about a past she was desperate to keep buried while ignoring her gut instinct that urged her to flee?

Last thing she remembered was a curl of wind at her back, the wisp of a scent she still couldn’t place; then a hand was clasped firmly over her mouth and time folded in on itself.

And now, several weeks later, she remained locked in a windowless cell that offered little more than a sink, a toilet, a bare mattress tossed on the floor, and a succession of bland, lumpy meals served three times a day.

Not a single sign of her captor.

Not a clue as to why she’d been taken.

Her diamond-encrusted Piaget watch, the hoop earrings Ryan had given her, the Gucci stilettos she’d worn, and the cashmere wrap she now used as a blanket served as the only reminders of her former Hollywood It Girl status.

If it was money they were after, they would’ve stripped her of the luxuries long ago. Allowing her to keep them seemed almost cruel. Like they wanted her to remember who she’d once been, if only to show her how quickly they could strip it away.

She sprawled on the cold cement floor with her legs splayed before her, wondering, as she always did, what was happening outside the cinder-block walls. Surely the whole world knew of her disappearance. There was probably even a task force specifically assigned to her case. So why was it taking them so long to find her? And more importantly, why hadn’t Paul directed them to her when he was the one who’d insisted on embedding the microchip tracker into her arm, just under the burn scar, in anticipation of this very thing?

Right on schedule, the lights switched on—sending the fluorescent bulbs flickering, humming, and washing the room in a garish green glow. A moment later, when the slot snapped open, Madison crouched right beside it, stretched her mouth wide, and screamed from the very depths of her belly.

But just like every other day, the tray of lumpy food shot past, the slot slammed shut, and Madison’s cries for help languished hollow and unheard.

She kicked the food aside and glanced around the small room, searching for something she might’ve missed, something she could use to defend herself with. Paul had taught her how to see past the mundane. Nearly everything has a dual purpose, he’d told her. Even the most ordinary item can be used as a defense. But even if she could fashion her stiletto heel into a weapon, there was no opponent—no one to fight. She was trapped all alone in her cinder-block cell.

With a frustrated sigh, she turned her attention to the pictures of her eight-year-old self spread across the ceiling and walls. The repeating image was occasionally spliced by a random strip of mirror meant to reflect the sorry state she currently found herself in. In the photo, her hair was tangled, her feet dirty and bare, an old doll dangled from the tips of her fingers as she regarded the camera with a deep violet stare.

It was the same picture someone had sent Paul as an unspoken threat.

The one he’d assured her had burned long ago with everything else from her past.

In the ten years since the photo was taken she’d traveled such a great distance, rose to great heights, only to come full circle and find herself as powerless, desperate, and filthy as she’d been as a child.

Everything Paul had told her was a lie. Her past had never been erased. It had been there all along, patiently waiting for just the right moment to remind her of the sins she’d committed on her rise to the top.

Someone had connected the dots between the hopeless child she’d been to the triumphant star she’d become.

Someone had uncovered the darker truth of her journey—the lies she’d told, the people she’d betrayed—and now they were making her pay.

While she refused to believe Paul was behind it—he’d been protecting her for too long to turn on her now—she couldn’t rule out the idea that maybe someone had gotten to him. Either way, it was clear she could no longer count on him to find her.

Absently, she ran a finger over the web of fresh scars that covered her knuckles and hands—a reminder of an earlier bid to escape that had resulted in a broken pinkie, a badly strained wrist, and the loss of three nails. She’d acted impulsively, allowed herself to be driven by fear. It was a mistake she would not make again. Her next attempt had to succeed. Failure was no longer an option.

She remained like that, staring at the wall and formulating a plan, the images of her past and present selves merging into one, until the last meal was delivered and the cell went dark once again.

TWO
HEART-SHAPED BOX

BEAUTIFUL IDOLS

Innocent Until Proven Guilty, Yo!

By Layla Harrison

Warning: If you landed on this blog looking to revel in the usual sarcastic celebrity snark fest, then you might want to get out while you can and save your clicks and comments for Perez Hilton, Popsugar, or wherever you go to fuel up on your daily dose of Hollywood gossip when you’re done reading me.

Don’t even try to pretend we’re monogamous.

I know you’ve been clicking around.

While I’m usually all too happy to provide the sort of low-level, derisive, Hollywood dirt you’ve come to crave, today I’m afraid I’m unable unwilling to come out and play.

Unless you’ve been hiding under the proverbial rock, you’re probably aware that Aster Amirpour has been arrested for the murder of Madison Brooks. A good source confirms the Bravado Channel even cut a very special Real Housewives of Hades episode in order to report the breaking story, and I think we can all agree that the willingness to preempt the daily digressions of everyone’s favorite cloven-heeled, cleavage-enhanced, pitchfork-wielding blondes shows just how very serious this story is.

As it turns out, it is serious, and I was there when it happened. Which means I watched in horror as an innocent person was unfairly handcuffed and hauled away in a squad car in front of dozens of paparazzi.

Until you’ve watched someone being accused of a heinous crime you know they did not commit, then you probably won’t have any empathy for what I’m going through now. Thing is, I know beyond a shadow of doubt—well beyond any and all reasonable doubt—that Aster Amirpour is innocent. Which means I will not write about her arrest in my usual way.

While I’m more than happy to continue to report on all manner of Hollywood debauchery, I cannot and will not use this blog to bring down an innocent or perpetuate a story that simply isn’t true.

Also, as we so often seem to forget during times like these, allow me to remind you that our legal system works on a little thing called the presumption of innocence, which translates to mean: the burden of proof is on the one who declares, not on the one who denies.

Look it up:

http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/

presumption+of+innocence

546 Comments:

Anonymous

Your a fucking idiot.

MadisonFan101

Your friend is a murderer and you’re both going to hell.

RyMadLives

Aster Amirpour is a slut and a murderer and everyone knows it but you.

StarLovR

You’re blog is as ugly and boring and basic as you are.

CrzYLuVZomby38

If the dress don’t fit, you must acquit! But we all know it fits, so . . .

AsterMustDie

I hope you end up as dead as Madison.

Layla Harrison sat at her desk, mindlessly sipping her coffee and glaring at the comments section emblazoned across her computer screen. She was supposed to be working. Supposed to be making her mark by ensuring that the party to herald the launch of Ira Redman’s new Unrivaled tequila label was the most hyped, most talked-about party of the season. Instead, she was using company time (along with the company computer) to read the comments a bunch of media-manipulated morons had left on her blog.

“Innocent or guilty?”

Layla looked up to find Emerson, the guy from a few cubicles over, standing too close for comfort and peering over her shoulder.

With a click, Layla minimized the tab along with the other pic on her screen—the one of a frightened and pale Aster being ushered into a police car, the headline above it screaming, Party Promoter Aster Amirpour Arrested for the Murder of Madison Brooks!

It wasn’t like she needed to study it. She’d stood right beside Tommy Phillips and watched the whole sordid scene play out just one week before.

“Definitely, one hundred percent not guilty,” Layla snapped. To Emerson the case was little more than a hot piece of gossip about a fellow Unrivaled employee. It wasn’t personal for him like it was for her. She resented him using it as an icebreaker, and had no problem letting him know it.

“Not like it matters.” Emerson regarded her through wide topaz-colored eyes that his thick lashes and perfectly groomed brows only seemed to enhance. It was Layla’s first day on the job, and it was already the second time she’d been on the receiving end of his go-to condescending expression. Thankfully she’d started midweek, so there were only two more days left until the weekend.

The first was when she got lost in the maze of identical cubicles on her way back from the break room, and Emerson escorted her to her desk with an eye roll and an audible sigh. Layla had spent the next half hour silently fuming. How was she supposed to recognize hers when they all looked the same? When it came to designing his clubs, Ira Redman spared no expense. So why wouldn’t she expect a cool millennial campus, brimming with espresso bars, basketball courts, spa rooms, and maybe even a yoga studio or meditation den? But the Unrivaled Nightlife corporate offices, which basically amounted to a study in greige with their matching wall-to-wall carpet and workstations, were so opposite of what she’d envisioned—so disappointingly bland—that when she’d first walked in, she was sure she’d arrived at an accounting firm.

The rest of the day was spent online, researching Madison Brooks’s disappearance a little over one month before and the evidence the LAPD had managed to stack against Aster in the ensuing weeks, only to get caught slacking off by Emerson of all people.

“Cases like that are all about perception.” Emerson was still standing too close, still peering over her shoulder even though there was nothing to see—her screen had gone blank. “And perception always drives results.”

Layla allowed her gaze to roam the fine planes of his face—the high cheekbones, square jaw, finely sculpted chin, smooth dark skin—and found herself frozen, unable to breathe. Extreme beauty often had that effect—as did the paralyzing fear of getting fired on her first day of work. She could only hope Emerson wouldn’t inform Ira of her less than stellar performance.

“Figured you would’ve known that,” he said. “After all, isn’t that what our department’s all about? Manipulating public perception into believing Ira’s clubs are the only worthy place to see and be seen, and that his tequila is the only brand worth drinking?”

Layla fidgeted, fingers picking at the strands of her platinum bob while swiveling back and forth in her seat. While she was beginning to resent Emerson’s presence, even she had to admit there was truth in his words.

“Anyway,” he continued, in a light, breezy tone she didn’t quite trust. He had it out for her, of that she was sure. “I’m guessing this was meant for you, seeing as it has your name on it.” He dropped a rectangular package onto her desk.

Layla squinted at the parcel. On the surface, it seemed innocuous enough, but something about it set her on edge. For one thing, there was no return address. For another, it was her first day on the job—she wasn’t expecting any mail.

“Found it on my chair when I came back from lunch. A simple mail room mix-up, I’m sure.”

Layla’s fingers fumbled awkwardly at its edges, but she had no intention of opening it till Emerson was safely returned to his cubicle. “Okay, thanks,” she said, her voice as dismissive as she could possibly make it. She waited until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

The package was substantial, but not terribly weighty. And when she shook it ever so slightly, she could sense something bulky shifting inside. All of which brought her no closer to guessing its contents.

Hoping the mail room had some sort of defined protocol for screening potential mail bombs, she retrieved a pair of scissors from her drawer, sliced through the tape, and stared perplexed at the red satin heart-shaped box she found tucked inside with a small envelope attached to its front.

It was the kind of box usually seen on Valentine’s Day. The kind of box that looked very out of place sitting on her desk in the middle of a scorching-hot August afternoon. And with no love life to speak of since Mateo had dumped her, she couldn’t even venture a guess as to who might’ve sent it.

Her dad simply wasn’t the grand gesture type. And Ira—well, Ira was her boss, which made it grossly inappropriate and completely out of the question. As for Tommy . . . well, she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it.

On the front of the envelope, her name was written in an elaborate curlicue script. Still no closer to determining who’d sent it, she flipped it over, ran her finger under the flap, and removed the small rectangular card placed inside, which bore a picture of a grinning cartoon cat with a noose tied snugly around its neck.

Layla stared at the card—it was hideous, creepy, and the sight of it gave her the chills. While she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, one thing was sure—it definitely hadn’t been plucked from the Hallmark shelf.

With trembling fingers, she popped the card open to find a message written in the same fancy curlicue script.

Hey, Valentine!

In your effort to help your friend get out of jail

Your blog has become a total fail

And while I consider that a real shame

I think we both know, you alone are to blame

If it’s clues that you want

Then trust me, this is no taunt

Inside the box awaits a surprise

I truly believe it will open your eyes

All I ask from you

Is to post it for public view

I hope you take the bait

And don’t make me wait

If this all gives you pause

Then remember this clause:

Curiosity killed the cat—but satisfaction brought

her right back!

Xoxo

Your Secret Admirer

Layla set the card aside and pried open the box, only to groan in dismay as a pile of pink confetti and glitter spilled out all around her. Her heart racing, she slipped a nail under the flap of the slim manila envelope hidden beneath and retrieved a single piece of paper folded neatly in thirds.

The paper was yellowing and worn, its edges curled, the writing dramatic and loopy, with small chubby hearts dotting the i’s and carefully drawn stars and twisting vines of flowers trailing the length of the margins.

Layla began to read, and by the time she reached the end she went right back to the beginning and started again. By the third reading, she was left with more questions than answers, mainly: Who on earth did it belong to and why had someone seen fit to send it to her?

She was just refolding the pages, about to slip them back into the envelope, when a picture she hadn’t noticed tumbled out and landed faceup on her desk.

The girl in the photo was young, probably somewhere around seven or eight, but definitely no older than ten. Her hair was long, tangled, and dark. She had skinny legs and dirty bare feet. The dress she wore was wrinkled, stained, and at least one size too small, while the doll she dangled by her side was missing an eye and a limb and wore a strange, somewhat malevolent, lopsided grin.

But it was the girl’s eyes that held Layla transfixed. They were so intense, so arresting, so startlingly familiar it was nearly impossible to look away.

Hurriedly, she shoved the package into her bag, pushed away from her desk, and darted toward the exit. Aware of Emerson’s gaze burning into the back of her head, she anchored her cell between her shoulder and ear and in a lowered voice said, “We need to meet. I think I’ve just found our first clue.”

THREE
THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHER F****R

Aster Amirpour shuffled into the room and took the only chair available to her—the one bolted into the floor. Despite hating every moment of being locked in her cell, she’d come to dread leaving it as well, and for that she had her parents to thank. They meant well, she knew. But every visit from them and her attorneys left her feeling progressively worse, depleted of hope and resenting the freak show her life had become.

It was strange to think how just a few months earlier she’d graduated high school fully convinced she was standing on the precipice of a bright and shiny future, only to end up arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder.

All her life she’d dreamed of being famous—the face on every magazine cover, the name on everyone’s lips. Never once had she imagined she’d achieve all those things in the absolute worst, most inconceivable way.

She’d been in lockup less than a week and she already missed absolutely everything having to do with her former life. She missed her little brother Javen so much it was like a physical ache. She missed the feel of the hot California sun on her skin and spontaneous trips to the beach with her friends. She missed shopping sprees at Barneys, her large collection of designer handbags and shoes, as well as her weekly salon appointments for manis, pedis, and blowouts. And after the revolting, carb-heavy, jail-issued meals she was forced to gag down, she could honestly say she even missed green juice. Basically every aspect of her daily existence she’d once taken for granted she found herself missing with the kind of intensity most people reserved for loved ones or pets. If she was lucky enough to get out, she swore to express a lot more gratitude for the luxurious life she’d been given.

But for the moment, locked behind bars and clothed in an orange jail-issued jumpsuit, there was little to be grateful for. Her parents refused to let Javen visit, claiming they didn’t want Aster to traumatize him any more than she already had. Just when she was sure she’d reached rock bottom, their comment made her realize there were still several more layers of hell left to explore.

Then there were the shackles her jailers insisted she wear on her ankles and wrists, which were not only humiliating but completely unnecessary. Aster wasn’t violent, and she certainly didn’t pose a threat to anyone, but she’d failed to convince them of that.

It was hardly her fault that within minutes of being locked into the overcrowded holding cell she’d been dragged into a brawl. One moment she was eyeballing the filthy exposed toilet set smack in the center of the cell, wondering how long she could hold out before she’d have no choice but to use it, and the next, some crazy chick was whaling on her with both fists, leaving Aster no choice but to use the moves she’d learned in kickboxing class. Even though she’d acted in self-defense, there was no explaining that to the powers that be.

In the end, the incident had gained her a black eye, a split lip, the distrust of her jailers, and her very own cell, which was meant as a punishment but felt more like a win.

She slumped toward the edge of her seat and waited for her attorneys to enter, hoping they’d finally agreed to post bail. Her parents could’ve handled it days ago, but they wanted to teach Aster a lesson. As though the first-degree murder charge she was facing wasn’t lesson enough.

And yet, as desperate as she was to get out—as much as she hated the food, the filthy mattress, the lack of privacy, the disgusting smells, the hideous orange jumpsuit she was forced to wear, and pretty much everything else—the idea of returning home to live with her parents was its own kind of prison. Sure, the environment was incomparably luxurious, but the house rules were just as stringent. Though at the moment, it was the only option she had.

The door swooshed open behind her and Aster closed her eyes, wanting to savor a few moments to herself before she took in her mother’s impeccably coiffed hair and expertly made-up face, which only seemed to emphasize the judgmental look in her eyes. Though as tough as it was facing her mother, seeing her father was worse. He could barely bring himself to look at her, and when he did, it left Aster wishing he hadn’t bothered. His grief was so profound Aster swore she could see it emanating from him like exhaust from a car. She’d been a daddy’s girl for as long as she could remember, but now that she’d done the unthinkable, now that she’d disappointed him and brought shame on the family, she was sure there was nothing she could ever do to regain his favor.

It was a childish game, refusing to look. She’d done the same thing as a kid whenever she was faced with something she didn’t want to deal with. Of course it never worked, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Still, maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she’d wake from the nightmare and rewind her life to the day her agent called with news of Ira Redman’s contest. Only this time, armed with the foresight she lacked then, she’d refuse the offer and spend the rest of the summer like any other normal eighteen-year-old—shopping, sunning, flirting with cute boys, and waiting for her first semester of college classes to begin.

“Aster. Aster—you okay?”

The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t the one she’d expected. She blinked her eyes open to find Ira Redman sitting before her, wearing a crisp cotton shirt folded at the cuffs, the better to showcase his sporty Breguet watch. Beside him sat the attorney she’d met with before, back when she was first called in for questioning and had no idea just how much trouble she’d soon be facing.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I still represent you.” The lawyer centered his gaze on hers.

Aster nodded and picked at her jail-issued jumpsuit, which drained her complexion and made her look as close to death as she currently felt. It was strange to see the two powerful men sitting before her. It was so opposite of what she’d expected it took a few moments to process.

“I would’ve come sooner, but you forgot to put us on the list.” Ira shot her a pointed look that told her they both knew it wasn’t exactly an oversight.

She squinted between the attorney and Ira. The two men were probably around the same age, but Ira was clearly the one wielding the power. In a place like LA, a bespoke suit and designer silk tie was the uniform of those who answered to a higher authority. Whereas Ira’s dark designer jeans and untucked shirt indicated he answered to no one.

“We want to help you. If you’ll let us, that is.”

Aster stared at the dull green wall just past his shoulder, the shade forever imprinted on her mind as the color of misery, despair, and lost hope. She clenched her hands in her lap, unsure which of the two evils was worse, being in her parents’ debt or Ira Redman’s. God knew she needed help. Her parents’ idea of support was to swap one jail for another by putting her under house arrest. Not that she actually had anywhere to go outside of the family manse. She was the most reviled person in LA. The safest place for her would be tucked away in her family’s massive gated Beverly Hills estate, where no one could reach her.

Yet Aster refused to play it safe. Refused to admit she’d messed up her life so badly she needed her parents’ strictest guidance to get back on track. She was just stubborn enough that she could not, absolutely would not, surrender to their will. But mostly, she’d do whatever was necessary to shield them from the mess and keep their involvement to a minimum. Accepting Ira’s help was a sure way to do that.

She’d made so many stupid mistakes—falling for Ryan Hawthorne was at the top of the list. She’d let her ego take over and fooled herself into believing Ryan when he said he cared about her, that he’d always be there for her. It was all lies, of course.

What had Ira said? Never trust an actor, Aster. They’re always acting; they have no off switch. It was only now that she could see the truth of those words.

All she knew for sure was that she didn’t harm Madison Brooks. She was 100 percent innocent of any wrongdoing—despite the abundance of evidence the state of California was holding against her.

“We’re prepared to post your bail.”

Aster glanced at them between wet, clumpy lashes, unaware she’d been crying. She did that a lot lately.

“And what do you want in return?”

Ira and the attorney exchanged a loaded glance, before Ira switched his focus to her. “Nothing.”

“You know I can never repay you.” She frowned at her chipped nails and ragged cuticles. Her hair was matted and dirty, her skin broken out, and she was probably rocking a major case of unibrow, but she was too depressed to care about any of that. It wasn’t like she was posting selfies from her jail cell.

“You going to flee the country?”

She frowned. “Where would I go?”

Ira shrugged. “Then it looks like neither of us has anything to worry about.”

“And so you bail me out . . . and then what?”

“You return to your normally scheduled life. Your suite at the W is waiting.”

She inched lower still on the hard plastic chair. It was embarrassing to keep taking from him. It needed to stop. She needed to stand on her own two feet. Though at the moment, she was so far gone, so in need of a savior, she had no idea where to start.

“And how am I supposed to live?” Aster mumbled the words. “How am I supposed to support myself? Who would be crazy enough to hire me?”

Ira laughed. Actually threw his head back and laughed as though she’d said something funny. When he finally quieted down, he looked at her and said, “Call me crazy, but I distinctly remember offering you a job, and I seem to remember you accepting.”

“Yeah, and then five seconds later I was cuffed as someone read me my Miranda rights.” She shook her head and refused to look at him. “I’m no good to you now.”

“On the contrary.” He was quick to counter. “This is Hollywood, Aster, not the Republican primary. In the nightclub biz, scandal is currency. Even so, if you decide you’re not interested in my offer, there’s still the matter of the prize money you won.”

Aster wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. Her last memory of the prize money was the moment Ira plucked the check from her fingers and slid it into his pocket. For safekeeping, he’d said, though the expression he wore had convinced her she’d never see it again. Seconds later, she was shoved into the back of a squad car and hauled away, and she’d pretty much forgotten about it until now. Had she really been so wrong about him?

“You earned it fair and square. It’s yours for the taking. I deposited it in a trust account under your name.”

“Keep it.” She dismissed the offer with a quick wave of her hand. She might be desperate and broke, but it was the right thing to do. “Put it toward the attorney’s fees and bail.” She glanced briefly at the lawyer sitting opposite her and ran a series of quick calculations in her head. Though the prizewinning check bore an impressive number of zeros, it was merely a start. A good defense team would plow through it in no time. It would be spent well before they even made it to trial.

She dropped her chin to her chest and scrubbed her hands through her hair. She’d moved one step forward, only to find herself right back where she’d started. She had nowhere to live and no good way of supporting herself. As a high school grad with no real skills and a mug shot that had gone viral, she was untouchable, unemployable. The independence she’d longed for came at a price she could not afford.

“I’m serious about the job offer as well,” Ira said, as though reading her mind.

“The job was as a promoter. How am I supposed to bring people in? I’m a social pariah!”

Ira remained undeterred. “If you want to change public opinion, you need to put yourself out there and prove you have nothing to hide. I wouldn’t make the offer if I didn’t think you were capable. Remember the promise I made at the start of the contest?”

She looked at him, her head spinning with all that he’d said, all that remained unsaid.

“I promised that working for me would amount to the sort of real-life experience you can’t get at school, and I’m pretty sure I delivered, no?”

This time, when a rush of tears coursed down her cheeks, Aster did nothing to stop them. It marked the second time Ira had stepped in to help her in a way her parents refused to do. But more importantly, unlike her parents, Ira didn’t judge her. Didn’t try to keep her feeling diminished and small. His belief in her potential was relentless, and he encouraged her to believe in herself relentlessly too.

She wondered why he did it—why he even bothered. He’d never asked for anything in return other than for her to succeed at her job. For someone who always seemed to be working an angle, she’d yet to figure out what angle he was working with her.

While she loved her family, the thought of returning home to the watchful glare of Nanny Mitra and her parents was too much to bear. She hated the fact that she needed rescuing, but was grateful to have someone other than her parents to save her from drowning.

“Thank you,” she said, her throat so constricted she nearly choked on the words.

Ira smiled and stood. A second later the lawyer stood too, saying, “It may take a few hours to process your bail, but you’ll be out of here soon.”

Aster watched as the guard opened the door and the two men filed out of the room.

“And Aster,” Ira called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. It’s all going to fall into place. I promise you that.”

As the guard led her back to her cell, Aster clung to Ira’s words like the life preserver they were.

FOUR
WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT

Tommy Phillips arrived five minutes later than planned, but still early enough to claim the darkest, most secluded booth in the nearly empty bar. In a city fueled by ambitious overachievers who equated success with an inflated level of busyness, the only other patrons were tourists looking to boost their Instagram accounts with a grim piece of Hollywood lore, and the daytime regulars who bore the soft, defeated look of those who’d not only forfeited the race, but had chosen never to run.

In another three hours they’d all be gone, edged out by after-work warriors willing to look past the faint smell of burnt popcorn and the antiquated jukebox playing a steady stream of deep tracks in their search for cheap drinks, willing women, and any other vice with the promise to numb them.

While Tommy wasn’t exactly living the dream, at least he’d managed to avoid that particular brand of nine-to-five hell.

He settled onto the red vinyl cushion and ordered a beer from the waitress who’d flashed him a flirty look he didn’t return. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flaunt the heartbreaker grin that had made him a legend back at his Oklahoma high school. But ever since Madison Brooks disappeared and the tabloids turned their focus to him for the small walk-on part that he’d played, Tommy’s go-to response to a pretty girl flirting was to avert his gaze and wait for her to move away.

It wreaked hell on his love life. Never mind his nonexistent sex life.

Like the rest of LA, he was eager for the dry spell to end.

He centered his gaze on the entrance, not wanting to miss the moment Layla arrived. Though they texted often, it’d been a week since he’d seen her. A week since LA was in flames and they watched their friend get hauled away for first-degree murder.

A few moments later, when the door swung open and Layla appeared as a small, black-clad figure in a circle of light, Tommy took one look at her platinum-blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and pale lovely face, and realized he wasn’t even close to being over her.

Though she was definitely over him.

Not that there was anything to be over exactly. The kiss they’d shared had been a one-time thing; not to mention, last he’d checked, Layla had a boyfriend. Still, the memory had managed to stick no matter how hard he tried to forget.

She paused in the entry, scanning the room. She’d find him eventually, though no thanks to him. It wasn’t often Tommy got a chance to observe her unaware—looking just the slightest bit lost and unsure as opposed to her usual sarcasm and swagger—and he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.

“Way to pick a venue, Tommy.” Layla flung her bag into the booth and slid in beside it, as Tommy tried not to notice the way her dress hitched up her thighs. If she caught him staring, she’d eat him alive. “Isn’t this where they found that actress’s body parts chopped into bits and stored in plastic containers in the fridge?”

“That was back in the sixties. They’ve remodeled the kitchen since then,” Tommy said, not the least bit disturbed by the bar’s grisly past.

Layla took a dubious look all around. “Looks like that’s the only thing that’s been remodeled.”

The waitress arrived with his beer and Layla ordered a coffee, black. As the server walked away, Layla turned to Tommy and said, “Did she just roll her eyes at me?”

“They depend on their tips.” Tommy shrugged. “Besides, haven’t you reached your caffeine quota by now?”

Layla checked her phone and placed it on the table before her. “I didn’t call you to discuss my need for coffee rehab.”

Tommy bit back a grin and took a slow sip of beer. Layla had no patience for small talk. He’d learned that the first day they’d met, when he’d made the mistake of trying to engage the cute blonde who’d rolled up to the Unrivaled Nightlife interview on an electric-blue Kawasaki. That first meeting hadn’t gone well, but back then Layla had hated Aster too. And yet, here she was, determined to find some way to save her.

Tommy pressed his forearms to the table and leaned toward her. It was time he stopped fantasizing about a relationship that would never be and focused on the real point of the meeting.

“Still can’t get in to see Aster.” Layla sighed. “Who knew county jail was tougher to breach than the VIP list at Ira’s clubs?” She frowned. “Not to mention how I’m pretty sure Trena knows more than she’s letting on. But every time I bring it up, she insists on talking around it. It’s like she’s determined to block me and I can’t figure out why. After all, I’m the one who fed her the clue about Ryan Hawthorne. Maybe she needs a reminder.”

“She’s protecting her intel. Doesn’t want you to scoop her, or whatever you journalists call it.” Tommy watched as Layla absentmindedly drew invisible circles on the tabletop using the tip of a blue-painted nail. Trena wasn’t the only one talking around it; Layla was holding back too. On the phone, she’d been urgent, insisting he drop everything and meet right away. But now that they were face-to-face, she was acting like she regretted her choice, or worse—debating whether or not she could trust him.

Layla started to speak, then paused as the waitress dropped off her coffee. The moment the server moved out of earshot, she looked at Tommy and said, “I told her I’m no longer writing about it. I’m taking a break from the subject, and believe me when I say my numbers have plummeted because of it. My advertisers are bailing, and I’m taking a major money hit. Still, I can’t in good conscience continue to write about it. Not when I’m sure Aster’s innocent.” She regarded her coffee with a regretful stare. “I never should’ve posted those pics of her and Ryan kissing. I put the cops right on her trail, and once there, they were too lazy to look anywhere else.”

Tommy could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “And what about the pics you posted of me?”

If he was expecting an apology, clearly it wasn’t forthcoming. He watched as Layla shot back against the vinyl upholstery, folded her arms at her chest, and centered a steely gaze right on his. “Way I remember it, you didn’t hesitate to claim your fifteen minutes of fame.”

Tommy felt flush with anger. No one ever triggered him quite like she could. After a few moments of edgy silence, he’d calmed enough to concede that what she’d said was in many ways true. Though he’d be damned if he’d admit it to her.

“So why not write in her defense?” he said, hoping to move on before Layla stormed out, or worse. The solution seemed obvious enough to him. If he had a blog, that was what he’d do. It’s certainly the stance he’d taken whenever he granted an interview, which was less often these days.

Having moved to LA with dreams of breaking into the music industry, Tommy had soon discovered it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as he’d hoped. The good looks and talent that had made him a standout in his small Oklahoma town barely registered in a place where virtually everyone was ridiculously beautiful and well on their way to fortune and fame. So when news of Madison’s disappearance first broke, Tommy didn’t hesitate to claim a piece of the spotlight. At the time, he was sure Madison was merely lying low and would surface soon enough. What he hadn’t counted on was the discovery of her blood on the Night for Night terrace, much less Aster’s stained dress linking her to the crime.

Layla unfolded her arms and sipped from her coffee. After crinkling her nose in distaste, she went back for more. “Clearly you don’t read my blog.” She returned the cup to its saucer. “Otherwise you’d know that the one time I dared write a piece in Aster’s defense, it resulted in death threats.” She shook her head at the memory.

“Everyone loves an easy target.” Tommy studied her, watching an array of emotions play across her delicate features as she reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“Unfortunately for Aster, she’s easy to hate. She’s young, rich, gorgeous, a little on the prissy side. . . .”

“A little?” Tommy felt ashamed the moment he said it. With everything Aster was facing, it didn’t seem right to poke fun, no matter how true the accusation. “Though actually, the same goes for you. Anytime you dare to put yourself out there, or worse, put yourself out there in a way that honors your convictions, you can expect to be dog piled.”

“Speaking from experience?” Layla quirked a brow as her gaze moved over him.

Tommy shrugged and sipped his beer, remembering the backlash he’d faced—the slew of hate tweets, his car tires getting slashed—all because he’d been the last known person to be seen with Madison. The internet was the most terrifying court of all. It was mob mentality at its worst—rife with torch-wielding armchair judges ready to convict on mere hearsay alone. Luckily for Tommy, the furor had eventually died down, but only because the haters had found a new target in Aster.

“Look,” Layla said. “As the former president of the I Hate Aster Amirpour Club, I get it. But now I just want to help her. For one thing, Aster’s innocent. For another, it’s the right thing to do.”

Tommy studied her closely. She was acting odd, cagey, purposely avoiding whatever she’d come to discuss. And while part of him wished the whole thing had been an excuse just to see him, he knew better. Layla was simply not the flirty, coy type. She was the most straightforward girl he’d ever met, or at least, usually. At the moment, she clearly needed a nudge, even though she was the one who’d called for the meeting.

“So what’s this evidence you found?” He pressed back against the cushion and waited for her to fess up.

With a resigned sigh, she sank a hand into her bag, retrieved a package, and pushed it across the table toward him.

Tommy glanced between Layla and the heart-shaped box, then settled in to read.

March 14, 2012

Today at school I almost gave myself away. Or, actually, I did give myself away, but since it was only in front of Dalton, it’s not exactly the emergency it could’ve been, since everyone knows that Dalton doesn’t really count as a person who matters enough for other people to actually listen to.

Still, I can hardly believe that after all the hard work I’ve done to successfully erase any and all traces of my former hillbilly accent, watching countless old movies so I’d sound sorta British, or, at the very least, like I could be from just about anywhere but WV, I was stupid careless enough to totally out myself for the hick that I am.

Anyway, it all started when I spilled a can of paint all over my smock during art class and let out a stream of curses that normally wouldn’t be any big thing unless a teacher overheard (which luckily didn’t happen, since Mr. Castillo was too busy updating his Tinder profile to pay attention to me), but quickly became a VERY BIG DEAL when Dalton overheard and I realized I’d ACCIDENTALLY USED MY OLD ACCENT!!!!!

Ugh.

I can’t even. ☹

The second I realized what I’d done, well, I just stood there like an idiot. I swear, I could hardly even breathe!! And when Dalton’s eyes met mine, I sincerely thought I would die right then and there. It felt like my whole life was rewinding—flashing right before my eyes. It was like I was literally watching all my dreams—everything I’ve been working toward—vanish in one horrible moment.

Or at least that’s how it seemed at first.

But after a few seconds ticked past, I pulled it together enough to realize that if I wanted to undo the damage, then I needed to own what I did.

So, while Dalton was busy standing there gawking as though he was trying to process how best to handle this juicy bit of intel, I looked right at him and forced myself to smile as I said, “Tell me the truth—did that sound authentic?”

Dalton just stood there, mouth gaping like a fish at feedin’ time.

So I smiled wider and said, “I’m auditioning for a TV commercial this weekend, and I’m working on my accent.”

He stared at me for so long I actually started to sweat. It was like I could see his mind processing the quickest way to use my mistake to leapfrog his way to instant popularity.

“There’s a kissing part too,” I added, before I could fully think it through. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that. . . .

I inched closer, so close we were nearly touching, and said, “And I should probably work on that too. Maybe you can help me rehearse after school?”

Whatever he’d been thinking of doing to me before, well, he was now thinking of doing something entirely different. And even though I was reluctant to go through with it, now that I’d put it out there, I had no choice but to commit.

He waited for me after school, and I let him walk me home. Luckily, the parents were at work, so we had the whole house to ourselves. And even though I only planned to let him kiss me for no more than ten minutes max, surprisingly, kissing Dalton wasn’t so bad, so I decided to bring him up to my room and go a little longer (and a little further!) than planned.

By this time tomorrow, Dalton will be popular (I’ll make sure of it) and my secret will be safe. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to be his girlfriend or anything, because while he may be a decent kisser, I can’t risk getting close to him.

Can’t risk getting close to anyone, ever.

I was just lucky it was Dalton and not Emma or Jessa or someone who wouldn’t be quite so easy to manipulate distract.

In the end, I guess it wasn’t too bad. If nothing else, it served as an important reminder of how I can’t afford to let my guard down.

How I can never stop acting like the shiny new version of myself.

How I can never stop acting, period.

The diary entry was so full of contradictions it was hard to process. The proliferation of hearts, flowers, and stars was definitely the mark of a romantic, dreamy-eyed teen. But the actual content displayed the kind of ambition, maturity, and determination rarely found in someone that age. Tommy studied the xeroxed copy, having no doubt Madison had written it. And judging by the date at the top, she’d been around fourteen at the time.

He studied the picture again. Only one person had eyes like that, and the eyes never lied.

While Tommy had no idea what it might mean, one thing was sure: Madison Brooks was not at all the person she pretended to be.

The posh East Coast accent was a fake. And while the childhood she recounted in interviews might have been true for the latter part of her life, if the pic and diary entry were anything to go by, Madison’s earlier years were markedly different from the story she told. Her life as she’d described it was no more than an ingenious work of fiction.

Clearly Madison had worked hard to bury her secrets, leaving Tommy to wonder if those same secrets were somehow responsible for what happened to her.

Had the truth of her past come back to haunt her?

“So . . . what do you think?” Layla leaned toward him. “It’s Madison, right?”

Tommy swallowed. Not trusting his voice, he cleared his throat before he attempted to speak. “It’s definitely her.” He shook his head. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely, and yet, it made perfect sense. Their time together had been brief, but it left a lasting impression. And one thing was sure, the way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, and the way she’d let her accent slip left no doubt in his mind that there was more to Madison Brooks than there seemed. “Kind of creepy, though.” He glanced at Layla, who nodded in a way that encouraged him to go on. “I mean, she’s so cold and calculating the way she manipulated that Dalton kid into keeping her secret.” He shook his head and swiped a hand through his hair. “I mean, she was only fourteen and she was already trading sex for favors—or implied sex anyway.”