Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For Jonathan, as always.

  For my dear readers.

  And for all of us—to honor and remember those we lost.

  PROLOGUE

  They say you can’t choose your family, but if you could, I would still have chosen Cassie.

  She was my big sister, and everything she did was perfect. Her perfect dark hair, which curled or didn’t depending on what Cassie wanted. She had perfect friends, and perfect dates, and whispered phone calls, and boys came to pick her up in their cars. She got to wear lipstick. Once when I sneaked hers and tried it, she caught me. She didn’t even laugh. Or yell. Or tell on me.

  When Cassie went away to college that year, something changed. She came home for winter break, but she stayed in her room. My mother and I couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Cassie would come out only to make cups of coffee, then stare out the window at our snow-dappled backyard, at the pond where she’d tried to teach me to ice-skate, and at the big sycamore tree where we once found a huge hornets’ nest that fell in a summer wind. I’d picked it up, and wanted to save it for show-and-tell, but Cassie screamed and told me it was full of bugs. She grabbed it from me, and one stung her. She didn’t even cry.

  We had a dog, too, a dear and dopey rescue named Pooch. Cassie never liked the name, but our dad did. And then Dad died, and Cassie never wanted to change Pooch’s name again.

  When she left for college, Mumma kept her room just the way it was, with all her stuffed animals and souvenirs and photographs, and didn’t let me move out of my little bedroom into her bigger one. Cassie was always the favorite, and I always thought of it as her right.

  That first college winter vacation, my mother found a notebook, one of those black ones with white dots on the cover. She opened it to the first page. I saw her face change. Without a word, Mumma turned the notebook to show me. Cassie had drawn a calendar, with carefully ruled pencil lines spaced equally apart. November. Then December. She’d crossed off the days, each one, with an X in black marker.

  “Poor Cassie,” Mumma said to me. I remember how soft her voice was, carrying an undercurrent of worry or sorrow. “I wonder what day she’s waiting for. This is not the work of a happy person.”

  “I know,” I’d agreed, nodding sagely, though at age seven, I didn’t really know. And it was almost as if Mumma wasn’t talking to me, but just to herself. I do remember how I felt then, even remember my eyes widening in fear of things, dark things or scary things, under the bed or in the closet—things that kids’ imaginations, if they’re lucky, conjure as murky vanishing faraway nothings. Things that come in the night. Visitors. My mother’s worry was contagious, too, a chronic disease I have yet to conquer. “Mumma? What do you think is wrong with Cassie?”

  And then Cassie was gone.

  The police said they looked and looked for her, even said they’d tried to make sense of the calendar she’d left behind. My mother got sicker and sicker waiting for her.

  Years later, I went off to college myself. By then, Pooch had died.

  Mumma eventually died, too, never knowing.

  And then there was only me.

  What happened to Cassie? I imagined her dead, of course. I’d imagined her kidnapped, imprisoned, hidden, brainwashed, indentured, enslaved, made into a princess, transported by aliens to their faraway planet. I saw her in grocery stores, on book covers, in the backgrounds of movies, a lifted shoulder or sunlight on a cheekbone, that little dance she did when she was happy. Once I saw the back of her head three rows in front of me on a plane from Boston to New Orleans and leaped out of my seat with the seat belt sign still on, but it wasn’t her dark hair and not her thin shoulders, not her quizzical smile after my lame Oh, I thought I knew you excuse.

  We were too far apart in age, I guess, to have that sister connection some people talk about, the sense of knowing where the other is, or when they’re upset. Sure, she was my only big sister. But she was already wrapped up in her own concerns, and I was a goofy little kid, and my sibling worship didn’t have the time to evolve into mystical bonding. Was she still alive?

  I still have a picture of her and Pooch, the one Dad took with his camera that wasn’t a phone. The almost-sepia rectangle of daughter and dog is faded now, and cracking, with old-fashioned wavy once-white edges. The original one is in my apartment, and the copy thumbtacked to the bulletin board over my desk at Channel 6.

  At some point you have to stop looking, I told myself. But still. If she did something truly bad, how much did I want to know? How would that knowledge change my life? My career? Maybe it’s better for me to pretend she never existed.

  But I know she did exist.

  Sometimes it feels like she still comes to me in my dreams, this time asking me to find her. So I couldn’t help but imagine that; approaching her, confronting her, gently, gingerly, or standing in her line of sight to see if there was a glimmer.

  Would I even recognize my big sister after all this time? I was seven when she vanished, and Cassie was eighteen, so … maybe.

  Maybe not.

  Or maybe she’ll recognize me. She’ll find me.

  CHAPTER 1

  LILY

  Standing center stage at the spotlighted podium, a newly won Emmy in hand and a glitteringly bejeweled audience applauding her, Lily knew she was being ridiculous. But she examined each face, quickly as she could, from the big shots in the front row to the smaller-market wannabes in the back of the Boston Convention Center auditorium to the randoms scurrying the periphery—the latecomers, the technicians, the bustling event staff and black-uniformed security. Was that one Cassie? Was that one?

  It was absurd. Foolish. Delusional. There was no way Cassie would be in this audience, but that would not stop Lily from looking, scanning, wondering. Not just tonight, but everywhere she went. Her brain had developed its own facial recognition software, grown adept at comparing and analyzing. And always rejecting. So far.

  But tonight it wasn’t only Cassie she was looking for. And that made Lily’s scrutiny all the more intense.

  The applause quieted, most upturned faces now expectant. Lily saw a few glance at their watches. Ten fifteen on a Saturday night. Losers yearned to go home.

  “I’m so thrilled to accept this on behalf of all the Lily Atwood team…” She knew that sounded glib, but rules allowed only one recipient at the podium, necessary to prevent rambling wine-fueled acceptance speeches. “We all work so hard, and let me especially thank my darling producer, Greer Whitfield, without whom—stand up, Greer!”

  She pointed to a front table, and saw her gesture magnified, becoming gigantic in the huge TV monitors flanking her, the white sequins of her body
-hugging gown shimmering. Greer stood for a fraction of a second, and Lily could see her colleague’s discomfort at being the center of attention even for that long. Lily blew her a sincere kiss, then went on.

  “And thank you to all who have contributed to our success—including my confidential sources.” She winked and got a murmur of laughter in return. “This is a shared honor.” She heard the wrap-it-up music, spoke more quickly. “It’s an inspiration, and a promise to continue to protect the public from…”

  She finished her speech, did one last crowd check as her colleagues applauded again, then accepted the arm of the tuxedoed host who escorted her backstage to the professional makeup person they’d hired to make sure the winners looked even more perfect in their triumphant photos.

  The makeup artist in her white apron—Too young, not Cassie—and hairstylist in a black smock—Too old, not Cassie—and the officious pompadoured photographer with his too-tight black shirt and too-tight black jeans. Not Cassie.

  “Congratulations,” the photographer said. He eyed her up and down. “I’m Trent. I’ll make you look more gorgeous than you already do. Big, big fan.”

  Lily smiled, accustomed—and inured—to the scrutiny. Leering men, brash and brazenly familiar, were part of her life. She’d dealt with it too long to be unnerved by it, most of it at least, and the ones who pushed too hard got pushed right back.

  As long as none of the ugliness touched Rowen.

  Rowen was safe, Lily knew, safe with nanny Petra, probably deep into one of Rowe’s beloved spy-kid novels. Since Rowe had started on chapter books, she’d insisted she wanted to be a spy, “Just like you, Mumma.” No matter how often Lily explained investigative journalism, Rowe, with the stubborn wisdom of a seven-year-old, would have none of it. Lily’s cell phone was set to vibrate at a call from Petra, and Petra had learned to be just as vigilant as Lily. Not on the lookout for Cassie, of course, but for the unknown.

  Fame, Lily knew, had two conflicting sides. The glory. And the danger. The power. And the spotlight. The raging relentless spotlight.

  “Smile, Lily.” The photographer—Trent—had used her first name as if they were the best of pals. Familiarity was permanently attached to fame. The smiles of recognition. Selfies-on-demand with people in grocery stores and on the T, people at airports and the dry cleaners. Lily’s face was in their living rooms and bedrooms and on their cell phones via streaming video. They saw her, close up and constantly. No wonder they felt like they knew her. But Lily, on the opposite side of the TV camera, could never see whose eyes were on her. What strangers heard her every word.

  “Lily? Hon? Turn your body this way now.” Trent demonstrated, angling his own shoulders, tilting his chin, eyes looking up from under his lashes as if Lily didn’t know exactly how to arrange her face for its best angle. A black-shirted assistant adjusted a battery of lights on metal stands, fumbling with clanking flaps that softened the high-wattage bulbs.

  “Give us that famous Lily smile,” Trent ordered. “Love the camera.”

  As his flashbulbs popped and bloomed, Lily heard more applause from inside the auditorium, other winners and more losers. Was her source here? Somewhere? Tonight, Cassie wasn’t the only person she was looking for. Lily was also searching for him. Her new and unerringly knowledgeable source. The one who had, in just the past few weeks, given her a couple of amazing stories. Lily couldn’t help but wonder if he—or she?—would be here tonight. To share Lily’s success? Or maybe, although disturbing to consider, with some other agenda. A motive.

  Lily had to laugh at herself. That worry—her chronic assessing worry—helped make her a good reporter. If whatever she feared didn’t happen, all the better. If it did, she’d be prepared.

  Trent fussed with his lights, instructed his assistant, demonstrated yet another pose. One particular security guard wearing a black cap and starched black shirt seemed to eye her with more than ordinary curiosity. Was he the source? A vested waiter, carrying a tray of empty wineglasses. Why had he stopped to adjust the linen-covered high-top table directly across from her? Everything isn’t about me, she reminded herself. But it was difficult to ignore the spotlight when it followed you everywhere.

  “Two more, Lily,” Trent announced. He’d tilted his head the other direction now, motioning her to copy him. She remembered the first time she’d heard her source’s voice. To this day, she and Greer debated whether the caller was really a man.

  But he’d told them to call him Mr. Smith. And the caller’s tips had turned out to be true.

  The stories were nothing Lily and Greer couldn’t have found on their own if they’d thought to look. But they were dead-on accurate. Lily and Greer had begun to trust him. To look forward to his calls.

  Last week, he’d blown the whistle on the local health inspector’s school cafeteria reports. Dozens of them, he’d revealed, were signed and dated the same day.

  “It’s impossible,” Mr. Smith had whispered. “How can they properly do all those inspections in one day? I fear they are faking them. And it is putting kids at risk.”

  Lily, imagining her own first-grader Rowen with food poisoning or salmonella or some hideous virus, had tracked down the documents. Mr. Smith was correct. The health inspector—facing Lily and her photographer’s video camera and barricaded behind his institutional wooden desk—had denied, made excuses, stalled, misdirected, and then outright lied.

  “We have no evidence of foodborne illness,” the man said.

  That’s when Lily knew she had the goods. “Have you ever looked for evidence?” she asked.

  “That’s absurd. Of course we’ve looked.”

  “I see. Let me put it another way.” Lily had pulled the stack of questionable reports from the manila files she held on her lap. “How do you explain this, then? You did all these inspections the same day?”

  She’d placed the incriminating paperwork on the desk in front of the inspector, at which point he stood, yanked off his lapel microphone, and ordered her out of the room. They’d caught it all on camera.

  The inspector’s wife—enraged—had called Lily after the damning story aired. And her husband fired. “How could you do this to him?” the woman demanded.

  “I didn’t do it to him,” Lily had gently reminded her. “He did it to himself.”

  Now she looked again at her newest Emmy. People had gone to prison as a result of the story the shiny statue honored. Lily’s victories, in the strange calculus of television news, were someone else’s disasters.

  “Got it, Lily,” Trent said as a final flash came from his camera. “You’re—”

  A burst of applause came from the auditorium as the double doors clanked open. Three tuxedoed men, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, barreled out, hooting self-congratulations and brandishing their trophies.

  “Take our photo!” one demanded. “Move it, Lil! Our turn!”

  “Thanks, Ms. Atwood,” Trent’s pink-haired assistant whispered as Lily stepped away from the backdrop. Too young, not Cassie, Lily’s brain registered as the young woman went on. “You’re so awesome. I wish I could be just like you.”

  Lily’s cell phone, tucked into the black satin evening bag hanging on a thin chain over her shoulder, vibrated against her thigh.

  She grabbed it, clicked it. “Thank you so much,” she said to the assistant, but her mind was racing. Petra was only supposed to text if something—

  It wasn’t Petra. Sender unknown.

  Congratulations, the text read. The white sequins are perfect.

  Lily gasped. Her eyes darted to the left, to the right, to closing doors, and winding corridors, to the marble-floored lobby filled with celebrants milling about clinking glasses and laughing and posing for selfies. He—or she?—was here. Had to be. No other way for him to know about her dress.

  Who is this? she typed back. Where are you?

  You know who it is. The words appeared, dramatic in their time delay. She could almost hear his—her?—voice saying them.
>
  Lily began to type, but the next words came up before she could send.

  I’ll call you Monday. The words seemed to glow, and the hubbub around Lily faded into the background as another message appeared. And I’ll give you the best story ever.

  CHAPTER 2

  GREER

  Did I want to be Lily Atwood? Well, sure, I suppose. But a whole lot would have to change for that to happen. Like everything. Right now I was too mismatched, too awkward-faced, too curly-haired, too exactly not what a TV star looked like. So I learned to be the smart one. Greer Whitfield, the smart one.

  I’d watched Lily, same as everyone else, as she accepted her Emmy—ours, really—in front of the worshipping crowd in the convention center. She’d thanked me, extravagantly and elegantly, with a toss of her Lily hair and a sincere smile on her Armani lips and those white sequins glittering her personal starlight. I’d stood, briefly, as she’d ordered me to, the audience murmuring their approval. They weren’t approving me, though, but Lily’s effortless generosity, her understanding of team spirit, their longing to be just like her. Approval is such a sister to envy.

  Lily’s now-empty chair was next to me at the banquet table Channel 6 purchased, the white damask tablecloth littered with shards of baguette crusts and the purple blotch of someone’s spilled cabernet, but Lily’s napkin was folded artfully by her dessert plate, not even a lipstick smudge on her white china coffee cup. I worry that I sound envious when I describe this, but I’m not. It’s not me who creates the food chain, it’s the rest of the world. I am smart enough to know how that works. And where my place is.

  But being the smart one can take you a long way in television. The smart one is not your rival, the smart one is not your adversary or challenger. The smart one, if they’re smart enough, is the team player who’ll make you more famous, be the brains and the messenger and the organizer. And have the confidence—or pragmatism—to let you take the compliments and applause. Or, on the days things don’t go your way, the blame. It was fine for me to take the blame; blame rolled off me like whatever cliché you choose. And I honestly didn’t care, that’s another critical element. I was the one you’re not supposed to like. The tough one, the rule-enforcer, the keeper of deadlines. The protector of Lily’s flame. Her fame.