by Jessica King
Aline was taking somewhere backstage, and Joyce had consulted with the security crew about it. Inga was going back there with here, and Marcus would be taking a seat in the audience once she was back in Joyce and Kenshin’s sight.
She was thankful that the crew was used to raving fans and security checks as the excited crowds streamed in, but she still kept a close eye on the crowd that composed the live audience, who also kept pointing to things they hadn’t expected—the look of the teleprompters and the unused props and machinery pushed off to the side of the room. She scanned the audience for a face that might be stoic, even angry, but didn’t see anything deeper than the occasional indifferent audience member absorbed in their phone. Still, she kept her hand perched on the crook of her hip—a casual pose that left her fingers incredibly close to her gun, just in case.
There was a ruckus of shouts as cameras pulled into place, lights changed, and assistants scurried across the room like mice to their posts. The director strode into the space between the audience and the stage, where the host lounged behind his desk, seeming almost bored by the hundreds of people in front of him. People started turning in their seats, looking for Aline.
“Okay, everyone!” he yelled, and a hush fell over the crowd. His head looked like it should be bobbling beneath the weight of the think headset, his wiry arms and legs almost comical in relation to the number of wires and screens he held. “So, we need your emotions to be big for this, okay?” he said. “If something is funny, we want a big belly laugh. If something is surprising, I want to see shock!” He dropped his jaw and opened his eyes saucer-wide to show the audience his expectations. “Got it?”
The crowd murmured among themselves, delighted looks and smiles passing from person to person.
The director called action, and the teleprompter glowed to life. The host introduced himself, made a cutesy joke, and then introduced Aline, who skipped down the aisle despite her towering heels, running her fingertips along the crowd. Shouts in both English and French rang out, and the actress blew kisses to the crowd.
“Merci!” she mouthed. “Merci!”
The host stood and enveloped Aline in a bear hug. “Good to see you again, Miss Rousseau!” he said.
“Ah, in France,” Aline said, tapping her cheek with a forefinger.
“Of course!” the host said, and the two made smacking kiss sounds as they touched cheek to cheek. “So dignified, the French!” he said, and the crowd laughed for them.
“It is just the accent,” Aline said, waving a hand. “Makes us sound fancy.” A bigger laugh from the audience and Aline grinned out to them.
“Well, just in case anyone doesn’t know who you are by now,” the host said, rolling his eyes as if it should be perfectly obvious to everyone on the planet who Aline was, “why don’t you let the audience know who you are and what you’re working on?”
Aline waved to the audience. “Well, I am Aline Rousseau. I’m from France, but I moved to L.A. last year for the lead role in Paris, Arkansas—” She paused while the audience applauded. “Thank you, awe, so sweet,” she said, looking at the host.
“And you’re up for Best Actress in a Lead Role, for Truly Twenties, aren’t you?” the host asked, winking.
Aline ducked her head in a fake show of shyness.
“Busy girl!”
“I am!” Aline said. “But I love being busy, and yes, I’m incredibly excited for the Oscars—it’s such an honor to even be in consideration with the other women. I’ve met a few of them, and they’re delightful.
“So gracious!” the host yelled out to the audience. “And what else have you been working on?”
Aline smiled. “Ah, well, the press released last week the cast list for How to Live the Crazy Happy Life,” she said. “And I’ll be playing the lead who falls in love with a character named Jesse, played by Oliver Corbyn.” An absolute roar from the audience.
“And shall we talk about Oliver Corbyn?” the host asked suggestively.
“Oh, must we?” Aline asked, giggling.
“Well, he’s quite sexy, isn’t he?” the host asked, a conspiratorial look to the audience, who burst into applause again.
The crew flashed a picture on the overhead screen behind the host. A shirtless photo of the handsome star—who was holding not one, but two puppies—caused gasps and cheers across the audience.
Aline laughed. “He certainly thinks he is!” She pressed a mouth over her hand as if she was shocked she’d just said it, receiving a huge laugh from the audience.
Joyce had to admit, this girl knew how to work the crowd. They simply loved her.
“And what about you, Miss Rousseau?” The screen changed to a picture of Aline and Oliver, a picturesque couple on a red carpet for the Truly Twenties premier.
Aline shook her head, but she was beaming. “Well, he’s quite handsome, right?”
The crowd exploded, and a short chant of “Aline and Oliver” broke out, until the host finally calmed them after a nod from the director.
The two went on for a bit, and Joyce kept her eyes running over the audience, sending occasional nods to Kenshin, who had posted up on the other side of the auditorium.
“And what has changed the most about your life in the past year, since it seems like you know, you were known in France pretty well, but now you’ve come to Hollywood, and it seems like your face is plastered all over the world!” The screen behind the host lit up with pictures from Instagram posts all over the world, showing Aline posters and Aline pillows and Aline mugs.
Aline laughed. “Yes, the visibility of all,” she said, as though she were unsure of her word choice. “That has definitely changed some things for me. And I’m so, so grateful for all the exposure. The fans who have shown their support are truly one of a kind.” A kind gesture to the audience had them sighing.
Joyce even found herself smiling. Maybe she should hire the actress for the “good cop” part of her and Kenshin’s routine. They both tended to prefer the more abrasive approach to questioning, but this girl could likely get a hardened criminal to open up like a flower.
“But, have there been bad pieces?” the host asked, his voice turning serious as the audience quieted.
Aline’s eyes softened. “Of course, as with all good things,” she said.
“The online environment?” the host said, reading from the teleprompter.
Aline nodded. “Yes, there is that. Social media is so good, much of the time. But, you know, the internet can be unforgiving at times. People can target you for a number of reasons. She looked down at herself. “Some people don’t like my hair or the way I act or the way I dress. You can’t please everyone, no?”
“No, you can’t,” the host said.
“But,” Aline said, looking thoughtful before staring right at the camera, her smile fading to something serious and dark. “I am not so easy to take down.”
A hush fell over the room at her tone. A pause before the host broke the tension, over-acting a shiver. Joyce wondered if she and Kenshin were the only ones in the room who knew where that message was directed.
“Whoo! I would not mess with her, folks!” The crowd burst into laughter, and Aline’s face softened once again.
“I’m quite the tough cake,” she said, brushing off her outfit.
The host put a hand on her shoulder, barely managing to speak through his laughter. “It’s a tough cookie! Americans say tough cookie!”
Another roar of laughter echoed around the room as Aline broke into a fit of giggles and the drummer from the awaiting band hit the drums in the classic end-of-joke beat.
Joyce waited until the starlet was ushered from the stage, Kenshin quickly crossing the room to close ranks around her. She felt silly, the two of them, plus Aline’s two personal bodyguards, in such close vicinity around such a small person. Aline bounced around like a butterfly in the wind when Joyce had pictured guarding an actress to be like following a calm, tall woman who spoke with a bedroom voice and was constan
tly looking over her shoulder in an elegant, alluring way.
Instead, Aline was video chatting her mother, speaking in rapid, excitable French as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Aline all but tripped over her shoes into the waiting car, a calculated move. She wanted her mother to think she was over-the-moon excited, and not tearing through with adrenaline after threatening her would-be murderer on camera. If someone was going to be coming after her at the Academy Awards, it was likely they were watching this.
And she was going to be prepared to be fabulous, not dead. She’d called Julio, who had exclaimed he didn’t have time for any more alterations…until she fanned his bank account with a bit more money for additional changes to her dress. Emily had been her regular, suppressed amount of livid.
Aline sometimes wished the woman would blow up at her for her whims that threw off their schedule. It’d be good for her health, and Aline didn’t mind the slightly shrill voice of her personal keeper. Perhaps she’d call someone to set up one of those ax-throwing or dish-breaking booths in her home. Emily could certainly use the outlet, and Aline would find it unbearably funny.
Her mother told her that she could hear the slight American accent she’d picked up in her French, which Aline pretended to find as a huge insult to her heritage, making her mother laugh that soft laugh that reminded Aline of her childhood. It soothed something in her that had been jangling around since the detectives came to visit her. She wished her mother goodnight, which always felt odd to say in the bright sunlight of an L.A. afternoon.
“She doesn’t know,” Inga said in French, his deep, gruff tone not quite a match to the language.
“No,” Aline replied, “I’m not going to have her worry about me like that. No point.” Aline sighed and looked out the darkened window, where roaming fans peeked and squinted, trying to determine who was inside. She hoped for the interview that her eyes hadn’t looked puffy from the nightmares, hoped she didn’t look too rigid sitting on that stage, afraid every moment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, February 18, 2017, 10:12 a.m.
By the time they had touched down in Florida, Ivy was starving again. She’d gone through all her snacks, and Vince’s, who had fallen asleep before the plane had taken off, his breaths even and noisy enough that she felt the need to jostle him regularly in order to protect the nearby passengers from the possibility of him slipping into all-out snores.
After general waking up noises, the first thing Vince said was, “Food?” It was something she and her partner always agreed on. “I have a coupon for In-N-Out.”
“Most states don’t have In-N-Out,” Ivy said, and at Vince’s hopeful look, she said, “Florida does not have one.”
Vince looked personally offended.
“We’ll find something on the way,” she said.
When they arrived at Jennings Ford’s modest Florida home, they were full of Burger King, which Vince had complained about after every bite, despite the speed with which he destroyed not one, but two burgers.
Jennings looked much more timid in person than she sounded on the phone. Ivy had pictured defiance and strength from the voice that had so clearly explained her situation without emotion. But now, standing before her was a woman who seemed to wring her hands endlessly, her eyes crackling with worry.
“The kids are at their father’s this week,” she said as a way of greeting. “Not their usual schedule.” It was a bleak greeting, to be so clearly reminded that children should not be around Jennings, as the Kingsman had placed a clock on her life that would be expiring sometime that day.
“I’m not sure where is best to be,” she said, motioning around her one-story house. “There are a lot of windows and no basement, so—”
“We’ve got a car on the street watching,” Ivy said, motioning to the direction where two officers were parked outside. Jennings’s shoulders drooped in relief. “They’re gonna let us know if anyone is heading down the street. And if someone is, they’re going to grab them before they get out of their car, okay?”
Jennings nodded. “Sorry,” she said, “would you like something to eat or drink?”
Vince and Ivy declined, and Jennings’s head bobbled. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep at all these past two nights,” she said, sitting in an armchair.
Vince and Ivy dropped into the couch. The cushions were soft with give, the type of couch people preferred to take naps on over their own beds.
“At first I thought it was crazy, and then I found the website and all,” she motioned to her computer, where the website listing her as a “WIP” was pulled up. “Never heard of any of those women,” she said, tucking a blanket around her legs despite the heat of the room. “I’ve heard that there are seven people who look just like you—is that true?”
“I have a cousin who could be my double,” Vince offered, and Jennings’s tight line of a mouth cracked a smile. “Don’t know about the seven people thing, though. I’ve heard that, but I don’t do the facial recognition stuff.”
Jennings quieted quickly. “I feel like bait,” she whispered. She pushed her hair behind her ears, which were studded through three times each, glistening with sparkling studs.
Ivy was never a good liar. “To be fair, you kind of are right now,” she said. “But we think the killer is on his way, and we’re going to get him. You’re saving a lot of people right now,” Ivy said, which made Jennings sit up straighter.
“I just don’t understand why someone would think I’m a witch,” she said, some of that expected strength returning to her words. “That was like a thing in the 1600s, right? The Salem Witch Trials?” She shook her head. “Some people are crazy.”
There was silence for a bit as the three of them watched the video of Aline’s interview and the sun went down. She was everything Ivy expected: flowery, funny, and kind.
“Whoa,” Vince said when Aline looked right into the camera and said she wouldn’t be taken down.
“She’s listed as a WIP, too,” Ivy said. Vince was right—there was an intensity in her gaze that Ivy hadn’t seen before. Her icy stare was chilling despite her heart-shaped face and fair features.
Jennings smiled a bit. “She’s brave.”
“She is,” Ivy said, sending a text about the interview to Joyce. Ivy thought that Aline was many things, but brave hadn’t been one of the attributes that had originally made her list. But looking at the actress now, noticing the straight back she kept despite having no barrier between herself and a live audience, she realized it was true.
Jennings looked at her own phone. “Gonna grab some water,” Jennings said, standing. She walked into the kitchen, her back bent as Ivy looked at Vince.
She hadn’t moved the blanket from her legs, and Ivy pointed to the blanket that sat in a clump on the floor. Vince stood to follow her into the kitchen when they heard a pound on the floor.
She was on Vince’s heels as they passed through the small corridor to the kitchen. Jennings’s body was on the floor, a knife inches away from her hand, a deep, red gash across her neck as the woman’s breaths gargled and stuttered. Ivy landed harshly on her knees next to the woman, pressing her hands over the gash, trying to keep the blood in.
“Jennings? Jennings, can you hear me?” Frantic eyes searched hers, skittering back and forth, unfocused. “Stay with me, Jennings. Look at me, look at me!” Ivy looked up at Vince, desperate.
He was staring at Jennings, a phone already pressed to his ear.
Vince was behind her, listing off Jennings’s address. “We have a suicide attempt, a deep wound to the neck…”
Blood dribbled from between the woman’s lips, and Ivy felt for the barely there pulse. “C’mon, Jennings. Think about your kids and stay with me.” The woman’s eyes locked on Ivy’s at the mention of her children, a deep sense of meaning in her last moment of focus.
And then she closed her eyes.
“Jennings, open your eyes,” Ivy instructed, her voice steady and loud.
“Open your eyes.” Her eyelids, devoid of all lashes, fluttered and then stilled.
The front door burst open, the other two cops in front of the street acting as first responders to the 9-1-1 call.
Vince cursed beneath his breath as Ivy lowered the woman to the ground, her hands covered in blood. Ivy’s stomach turned as she pulled the woman’s phone from where it was tucked into her bra strap over her heart. Glinting up from the screen was an image of the business card, the symbol in the middle animated to look like it had been cut from the paper, and beneath it was some sort of flowing liquid, like the blood that now dripped down Jennings’s neck to the polished floor.
She asked the Florida partners to contact the ambulance that it was too late to save Jennings and to get their evidence team to come to the house for pictures of the scene. As soon as they’d exited the room, Ivy sat on the ground.
Vince held a towel to Ivy, who wiped her hands and the phone. “Suicide?” was all he said.
Ivy shook her head, searching through the phone until she found the most recent text message she had received. An unknown number.
“As it appears, Ms. Eaton, your eighth reincarnation is much better guarded than your last. Perhaps this is your last life. I hope so.”
Then there was a video message showing an image of the living room of the house they were in. Ivy recognized the angle of the camera that belonged to the system of security cameras Jennings had pointed out. The video showed Jennings tucking a blanket around her legs as Vince showed Ivy the screen of his phone.
Then another video followed, showing a new camera feed. Ivy pressed play and watched as a timestamp from five minutes earlier played. Two young children played on a rug, talking back and forth to each other in the half-language, half-gibberish of children. From behind the window that let out to a forested background, a figure in all black waved, a gun in hand, then disappeared.
The text that followed chilled Ivy to the bone. “End your own darkness, or I will take their light.”
