Blacklist

by Alyson Noel

  While the exact cause of the fire remains under investigation, fire officials said they are looking into the possibility of a double homicide and arson.

  The identities of the victims are being withheld pending notification of family.

  We’ll have more as this story develops.

  “It says two are injured.” Ryan frowned. “Madison was for sure one of them, but who was the other?”

  “Did she have a sister or brother?” Aster sipped from her water.

  “Not that she ever mentioned, though of course that doesn’t mean anything. She wasn’t big on sharing. And what’s this about a double homicide? Does that mean the fire was intentionally set in order to cover the crime?”

  “This is giving me the creeps.” Aster pulled a baby alpaca throw from the arm of the couch and wrapped it around herself.

  “Is there anything else? Any follow-up articles?” Tommy asked.

  Layla flipped quickly through the stack. “Not that I can see, though I’m not sure it matters. I mean, maybe it has nothing to do with Madison.”

  “Oh, it’s about Madison,” Ryan said. “It’s from a West Virginia paper, and we’ve already discovered that’s where she’s really from, thanks to those journal entries.”

  “So, what do we do—run a Google search on West Virginia trailer park fires dating back to what—2006?” Aster asked.

  “Doesn’t say anything about a trailer park,” Layla snapped. “In fact, you may not know this, but there’s a whole world that exists outside of swanky gated communities and luxury condos, and it’s not just relegated to trailer parks. In fact, it’s how most people live.”

  Aster stared at her, speechless, watching as Layla sprang angrily from the couch and went to stand before the window.

  “You okay?” Tommy called after her. Though despite his concern, Layla ignored him and focused on her phone.

  Were they a couple? Aster’s gaze darted between them. However they chose to define it, something was going on between them. As long as it didn’t interfere with the work they were all trying to accomplish, she figured it was none of her business.

  It’d been a long, crazy night and the sun would be coming up soon. Aster was feeling tired and cranky, and the last thing she needed was to get worked up over one of Layla’s signature snarky comments. Sure, she’d made an assumption, but it was based on Layla’s own theory regarding the photographs in Madison’s house. Though Layla was so incensed, Aster decided to let it go. No point in antagonizing her more.

  “What was the name of that office building you guys were at earlier?” Layla looked up from her cell to focus on Aster and Ryan.

  Aster squinted, unable to recall, as Ryan said, “Uh, I don’t know—something like Acacia Business Park, maybe?”

  Layla held up her phone to show a picture of what appeared to be a burning building.

  “Apparently, there was an explosion,” she said. “The whole thing is in flames.”

  Instinctively, Aster reached for the gold-and-diamond hamsa pendant, only it was no longer there.

  “Omigod! Oh no!” She jumped from the couch and checked where she’d been sitting. Then, upending the cushion, she checked under there too. Her hand clutching uselessly at her neck, her mind fiercely rewound to where she might’ve left it. “My necklace! I think I lost it—it’s gone!”

  “Is it sentimental?” Ryan asked, a confused look on his face.

  Layla said, “I know you’re fond of it, but as far as good luck charms go, it didn’t seem to be working.”

  Aster shook her head. Overcome with panic, she struggled to push the words past her lips. “I think it might be in that office! I think it fell off when Ryan pulled me to the ground when that security guard came to the window! We have to go back—we have to go get it!”

  “Aster, we can’t.” Ryan reached for her hand and clasped it firmly in his. He spoke slowly, calmly, like one does to a child. “The building’s on fire—it’s swarming with cops and firefighters. Besides, there’s no way to know if it fell off there. You could’ve lost it anywhere. When was the last time you noticed you had it?”

  Aster sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. A second later, Ryan was kneeling beside her, pulling her into his arms. She wanted so badly to be comforted, but the gnawing pit in her stomach told her she was doomed. With all the crimes she’d been falsely accused of—all the manipulated evidence pitted against her—she could hardly believe she’d just dealt herself a very real, possibly fatal blow. “I don’t know,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I can’t remember.”

  He ran a soothing hand over her hair. “It’s okay,” he promised. “Everything will be fine. There’s no need to panic. I’m sure it’ll show up eventually.”

  “I’ll check the backseat of my car when I leave,” Tommy offered.

  Aster untangled herself from Ryan’s arms and swiped a hand over her cheeks. “Okay,” she said, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to believe that Ryan was right, she was overreacting, and it would all be okay.

  Outside the window, a new day was dawning. Maybe, just maybe, this one would work in her favor.

  THIRTY-ONE

  WALKASHAME

  Trena Moretti propped a pile of pillows behind her head and watched as James walked from the bed to the bathroom. As far as men went, James was as fine a specimen as they came, his body so finely honed it was a thing of beauty to see. And Trena enjoyed looking as much as James enjoyed being looked at.

  She ran her hands over her skin and kicked her legs out before her, confident she looked as good as she felt. Between her interview with Ira, which had been picked up by news outlets across the globe, and the recent airing of her exclusive televised interview with Aster Amirpour, which had aired well before most of the world even realized Aster was out on bail, Trena found herself suddenly sought after by just about every news station that mattered, including those that’d once rejected her.

  Her phone buzzed from the nightstand where she’d placed it, but Trena opted to ignore it. A journalist was rarely off duty, but for the moment anyway, her only plan was to revel in the glow of her recent bout of success. Last night, for the first time since she’d arrived in LA, she’d stood among the glittering masses and felt at home.

  Normally, a glitzy product launch was exactly the kind of invitation she’d snub. Her party-going days were well behind her, not to mention how she found that sort of commercial hype especially annoying. But Ira Redman’s party was not to be missed. While it wasn’t exactly the Met Ball, there was no doubt it would be widely photographed and endlessly talked about. She also had Ira to thank for the sudden uptick in her star meter. And then there was the matter of the guest list—comprising the hottest celebrities, many of them members of Madison’s circle. And the very fact that James would be there as well had given Trena something to look forward to.

  While seducing him hadn’t been nearly as easy as she’d assumed, it didn’t take long to determine that the key to getting with James was to let him think it was entirely his idea, and not hers. Clearly he was a guy who enjoyed the chase, and after an initial reluctance, Trena gladly gave up the reins and let him believe he was in charge.

  By the time the lights had gone out, the deal was well on its way to being sealed. The heat between them was incendiary—the only thing left to determine was how soon and where. While there were plenty of bedrooms to choose from, Trena was too discreet for a semipublic hookup. So when the lights came back on about fifteen minutes later, she simply looked him in the eye and said she should probably head home. Next thing she knew, he’d invited her back to his place, and the rest was . . . Trena grinned to herself . . . the rest was worthy of remembering next time she found herself feeling lonely and unloved.

  “I’m gonna shower.” James peeked his gorgeous shaved head around the corner. “Care to join me?”

  Trena grinned and rubbed one long leg against the other. “Sure, let me know when you’ve got the water good and hot.”
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  James laughed and disappeared back inside, and the next thing Trena heard was the sound of water hitting the marble tiles and the whoosh of a shower door opening and closing. Then she sprang into action, wasting no time fishing his cell out of the back pocket of the jeans he’d dropped on the floor the night before.

  Of course the screen was locked, which meant she wouldn’t get very far. Still, there was a string of partial text messages that were visible, one of them mentioning something about a building that had exploded in the middle of the night.

  Trena frowned. Why would James be getting a text about a burning building? What connection could there possibly be? Was he somehow involved?

  She glanced around the well-appointed room, taking in the king-size bed with its black leather tufted panels and gray sateen sheets, the ornate silver table lamps resting on top of matching charcoal-stained sand-blasted night tables, the cream-colored flokati rug at her feet. The room was sexy, sophisticated, decorated with an eye to high-end design, and the building he lived in was far nicer than hers. Also, if she remembered correctly, he drove a customized Cadillac CTS-V coupe. All of which left her to wonder, how did he afford it?

  What sort of odd jobs did he do on the side?

  “You coming, babe?” he called, his voice competing with what sounded like a powerful set of showerheads.

  She swallowed hard, her hand shaking ever so slightly, and said, “Actually, I . . . think I’ll take a rain check. . . .”

  Quickly, before he could get suspicious and catch her in the act, she snapped a pic of James’s cell phone screen with her own, and was just replacing his phone when she found him standing dripping in the doorway. His muscled physique was slick, wet, and coiled for action.

  “What’s going on?” He kept his voice light, but his gaze was dark and unkind.

  She pretended she was merely folding his pants, and carefully placed them at the foot of the bed. “You should be careful where you leave these.” She laughed, a high, false note she was sure he would see right through. “I just tripped over them. Nearly knocked myself out.”

  He remained dripping onto the rug, his gaze so studied, so intense, she cringed under its glare.

  “I don’t like snoops.” His voice was quiet, calm, and loaded with menace.

  Trena fought to keep from shaking as she wiggled her dress over her hips and said, “Who does?” She moved in an exaggerated way, hoping to distract him, all too aware of the reality of the situation she found herself in—half-naked, vulnerable, and at his absolute mercy. “So how about I promise not to stalk you on Facebook or Twitter and you do the same?” She forced herself to approach him, turning her back as she looked over her shoulder and murmured, “Zip me?”

  It was probably the most dangerous, foolish move she could make. Never turn your back on the ocean, bears, and shifty men who are onto you. And yet she needed him to think she had nothing to fear, that she hadn’t crossed the very line he suspected her of crossing.

  She sucked in a breath as she felt the zipper slowly climb its way to her neck. He paused at the top, his breath hot on her flesh, his hands kneading the skin at her nape, until his fingers gently circled to the front and he pressed the tips tightly together.

  “Be careful out there.” His lips nipped at her ear, as his body pressed hard against hers. His fingers tightened for an agonizing moment, before he finally released and nudged her away.

  “You too,” she croaked. Hurriedly fishing around for her shoes, her purse, she waved a shaky good-bye and found her way out of the apartment.

  Barefoot, she raced down the hall and had just rung for the elevator when her phone buzzed in her purse. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was from her source at the LAPD.

  Madison B’s car found outside office building that burned.

  Was it the same office building she’d read about on James’s phone? Impatiently, she punched the call button again, desperate to flee, all the while reminding herself that it was hot, they were in the middle of a drought, the Santa Ana winds were at gale force, and fire season had been officially declared one month before. Which meant it wasn’t at all out of the question to think there had been more than one office park that had burned over the course of the night, and yet . . . She checked the pic she’d taken of James’s text. There was no name attached—just an odd series of numbers that provided no clue to his source, probably sent from a burner phone.

  Had the rest of the text, the part she couldn’t view, made mention of Madison’s car being found?

  And if so, why was James receiving a message like that?

  He wasn’t press, wasn’t an investigator. He had nothing to do with any of it—or did he?

  From somewhere down the hall Trena heard the click of a knob being turned, a lock disengaging, followed by the prolonged creak of a door slowly opening.

  Deciding not to stick around long enough to see whether or not it was James, Trena raced for the stairs and fled from the building as though it was on fire.

  THIRTY-TWO

  VICTIM OF LOVE

  Mateo slumped over his breakfast and stared blearily at his phone as he contemplated what to do about Layla.

  Technically, he wasn’t required to do anything. Though they’d pretended they were “taking a break,” they’d both known at the time there was no going back.

  And yet, the memory of the hurt and angry look on her face after seeing him with Heather left him feeling awful, like he needed to explain.

  Back when they’d first met, he’d thought Layla was the most authentic girl he’d ever known, and her brutal honesty was one of the things he’d loved most about her. Turned out she’d lied about more than just kissing Tommy. She’d also lied about interviewing for the job at Unrivaled, and her plan to go to journalism school in New York without him.

  In the end, she wasn’t really all that different from anyone else. She lied when it suited her, in order to spare another’s feelings, or when the lie made her seem like a better person than she actually was.

  And yet, the sting in Layla’s eyes was not an image he could easily shake. It wasn’t until much later that he saw the text that she’d sent, and by then, the damage was done and it was too late to reply.

  He ran a hand through his hair, took another halfhearted bite of his eggs, then got up from the table and dumped the rest down the drain. His appetite was gone, he had a list of things to do, and yet he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any of it until he somehow made amends with the girl who’d once meant the entire world to him.

  Can we talk?

  He pushed Send before he could overthink it, then busied himself with washing the dishes to distract himself from the gnawing fear that she wouldn’t respond.

  When the reply did finally come, it read:

  Not necessary.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, at the same time his mother walked in.

  “Watch your language.” She patted his shoulder and ruffled his hair before retrieving a clean dish towel from the drawer and drying the stack of plates he’d left to drain on the rack.

  “Leave it. I’ll get it,” he told her, debating whether he should text Layla back and try to convince her.

  “I thought you had to work today.” His mother glanced at him from over her shoulder. She looked tired, worn. Her gray roots were beginning to show, and there was a fresh set of lines etched across her brow, along with a sad tilt to her brown eyes. She’d faced more grief than any mother rightfully should, and it made Mateo’s heart ache, wishing he could somehow erase all her pain and set the world right once again.

  “Mom, please.” He swiped the dish towel out of her hands and gently pushed her aside. “Go on, say hello to Father Gregorio. I’m going to swing by the hospital to visit Valentina.”

  “He always asks about you. Wonders when you’ll come back to church.”

  “I know, I know,” Mateo mumbled, watching as his mother grabbed her purse and keys and wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. Life without an air condi
tioner was taking a toll, and the unrelenting summer heat showed absolutely no signs of abating.

  She’d reached the door when she turned back to say, “It was just on the news that they found that poor girl’s car.”

  Mateo squinted. He had no idea what she was getting at.

  “The actress,” she said, reading his face.

  “Where?” Mateo dutifully asked. His mother never showed any interest in Hollywood, but then again, the Madison story had transcended the tabloids and taken on a life of its own. He waited, not entirely interested in the answer. His mind was still caught on Layla, trying to decipher whether she’d responded in anger or if she really had meant what she’d said.

  “Some office park burned down and they found her car parked outside. They’re investigating for arson. Apparently, a male and female were seen running from the scene.”

  Suddenly she had Mateo’s full attention. “Were they able to identify them?”

  His mother shook her head, made the sign of the cross, and kissed her son on the forehead. “You’re eighteen now, so I can’t tell you what to do, not that I ever could.” The smile she flashed him was fleeting. “That’s a crazy world you’re getting involved in. Please be careful,” she said. “I’ve already lost one son. I won’t lose another.”

  Her words took Mateo by surprise, though in retrospect he realized they shouldn’t have. Despite his continued assurances that everything he was doing, he was doing to help the family, she couldn’t keep from worrying about him.

  “Mamá, please.” He cupped a hand to each cheek, startled by just how small and fragile she seemed. “I’m here and I’ll continue to be here. I have no interest in playing a bigger part in that world than I already am. I can be in it, but not of it, you know.”

  His words seemed to appease her, and once she was gone, he finished putting away the dishes, then grabbed his own set of keys. It was Sunday morning, which meant there were a myriad of places Layla might be, but he decided to start at the top of the list, and he headed for her favorite coffee haunt on Abbot Kinney Boulevard.