by Alyson Noel
Attention-getting? Definitely.
But then, wasn’t that the point?
It’d been days since anyone last saw Madison, and the usual rumors tossed around by the press had failed to satisfy her reporter’s quest for the truth.
Madison’s on the set of a top secret project, they’d said. Highly unlikely given that Madison herself had declared a hiatus, and from what Trena had gathered, Madison had done nothing to make her think otherwise.
Madison’s holed up at the Golden Door, overcoming “exhaustion.” The usual overused euphemism (along with dehydration) churned out by the Hollywood PR machine, which usually meant the star in question was suffering some sort of addiction, depressive episode, or maybe even an overdose—none of which applied to Madison. Not only had Trena contacted the Golden Door, but also Miraval, Mii amo, even the Ashram—a decidedly luxury-lacking starvation retreat inexplicably adored by A-list celebrities. Only the truly rich and spoiled would think nothing of spending thousands of dollars for a week of rigorous exercise, minuscule food portions, and austere rooms with shared bathrooms. And though Madison was undisputedly one of the most spoiled of all, according to Trena’s sources, she hadn’t checked into any of those places.
Madison and Ryan are reconciling on a remote island paradise. Another unlikely scenario, considering Ryan had become more visible than ever—there wasn’t an interview he wasn’t willing to grant. He basically repeated the same unbelievable refrain, claiming he’d felt Madison pulling away and so he’d hooked up with Aster Amirpour in an attempt to make Madison jealous. It was undoubtedly immature—an act he deeply regretted. According to People, US Weekly, and OK! magazines, not a day went by when he didn’t wish he’d handled it differently. More than anything, he wanted Madison to return so he could offer the apology she deserved. Though he entertained no illusions about her taking him back, he was sure she was off somewhere licking her wounds, wounds he’d undoubtedly caused, but she’d show up eventually. In the meantime, after all she’d gone through, she deserved a little space and privacy. He even went so far as to plead with the press to back off the story and show some respect.
Trena had dutifully slogged through the interviews, and as far as she was concerned, Ryan Hawthorne was giving the performance of a lifetime.
There was something far darker at stake.
Madison wasn’t quite the girl she pretended to be. She worked hard to maintain her party image—yet she clearly preferred her sobriety. She seemed to spend a lot of time shopping—yet she spent very little of her own money, since most of the clothes she wore were given to her by the designers themselves. A single photograph of the right celebrity wearing the right dress was enough to boost a designer’s profile, not to mention their profits, as it usually amounted to thousands of fans spending their hard-earned money to own the same thing. The result was an enormous return for a meager investment, and Madison was a willing participant in the game.
From what Trena could determine, Madison’s house was her one major extravagance. Though the number of gates and security measures she’d taken made it seem more like a fortress.
Who was Madison so desperate to keep out?
Who was she afraid of?
For someone as famous as Madison, it was like hiding in plain sight.
Until now.
Trena tipped her stool forward, reached for the chai tea that’d grown cold, and read the headline again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten so immersed in a story she’d lost track of time.
She was onto something good—she felt that deep stir of knowing that had never betrayed her. The story was so much bigger than it seemed on the surface, and she was sure that with a little more digging, she’d discover it went even deeper than anyone had yet to presume.
Was It Murder?
Someone, somewhere, knew the answer. Though Trena sincerely hoped that it wasn’t. As someone who’d grown up impoverished, forced to work for everything she’d ever achieved, she had little tolerance for privileged princesses like Madison. Yet the more Trena dug, the more Madison continued to surprise her. And though Trena was nowhere close to calling herself a fan, there was something strangely vulnerable about the girl that made Trena long to protect her. And yet, that wasn’t her job. Her only responsibility was to report the facts. It was up to the police to safeguard the citizens. Though so far they’d hardly done much at all.
Was It Murder?
If that didn’t get the police moving, nothing would.
She pushed Publish, carried her mug to the sink, and tossed the contents.
Outside, the sun was starting to set, and when the sun disappeared, her most interesting subjects came out.
Trena had no plans to miss them.
FORTY-SIX
GLORY AND GORE
Was It Murder?
The headline alone was enough to give Aster chills, but that didn’t stop her from reading the corresponding article. Whoever this Trena Moretti person was—well, she seemed convinced that it was indeed murder. Or, if not murder, then something far darker than the Madison is in rehab rumor that had recently circulated.
But what was even worse than the thought of Madison being murdered—well, maybe not worse in a big picture sort of way, and certainly not worse for Madison, but definitely worse for Aster—was the implication that Ryan and Aster’s now well-publicized tryst had somehow played a part in an A-list celebrity’s disappearance.
An implication that was never brought to any real conclusion, but then that was never the intent. The seed had been planted. The worst-case scenario declared in bold headlines. The idea of an unthinkable tragedy released into the ether for anyone and everyone to speculate on and come to their own sordid conclusions.
Aster’s phone buzzed with an incoming text, and she didn’t so much as flinch, wasn’t even tempted to glance at the screen. Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since the day Layla Harrison’s blog broke the story. The video, the stills from the video—they’d all been forwarded to her by “friends” who somehow thought she needed not only to know about all the horrible things being said about her, but also to read them firsthand.
Why they thought she needed access to the thousands of anonymous commenters calling her a whore, a bitch, and a slut—a few of them even threatening to kill her—was beyond her. What exactly did they expect her to do in return?
Aster had responded the only way she knew how—she’d obeyed her parents’ orders and stayed sequestered in her room, musing on the slim divide between fame and infamy.
She’d wanted one—she’d gotten the other—and as luck would have it, they were inextricably linked.
Then again, from the moment she’d woken up alone at Ryan’s apartment, nothing in her life had gone as planned. The press had portrayed her as a slutty, conniving boyfriend stealer, only to fall for the lie Ryan had told them about trying to make Madison jealous. And yet, despite the numerous interviews he’d given, not once had he mentioned that Madison wasn’t the only one who’d gone missing that night.
Her phone stopped chiming, allowing for a brief moment of peace, before it started again. Aster sighed, rolled her eyes, and thought about shutting it off. The calls and texts were relentless. A quick glance at the screen showed a caller ID reading Blocked.
She knew better than to answer it—willed it to go into voice mail. But after catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, something irreversible shifted inside her.
It’d been days since she’d last looked at herself. She was too ashamed, too afraid of what she might see. But after getting a glimpse, she found it nearly impossible to look away.
She moved toward the mirror and studied her face. Her hair hung loose and limp by her cheeks, her complexion was ashy and pale, and her eyes bore deep shadows, making her appear as bruised, hunted, and haunted as she felt.
What was it Ryan had said? Something like, You just took your first step toward making a name for yourself.
He’d also promised
to remain right by her side.
You have no idea how good it’s about to get, he’d told her. Will you trust me?
She had, only to never hear from him again.
The phone continued to ring.
She might look haunted, hunted, and bruised, but she was tired of hiding.
She dove for her cell. Clutching it with a shaky hand, she whispered a tentative greeting.
“Aster Amirpour?” The voice on the other end was deep, throaty, and rang with authority. “This is Detective Larsen with the Los Angeles Police Department. I was wondering if you might come down to the station to speak with us at your convenience. We have a few questions regarding the disappearance of Madison Brooks. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
She shifted her gaze to her laptop. Score one for Trena Moretti.
She shouldn’t have answered, but now that she had, there was no turning back.
“Give me an hour,” she said. “Two at the most.” Tossing her phone on the bed, she made for her large walk-in closet. It was time to pack a bag.
She’d seen enough detective shows on TV to know better than to talk to a cop without a lawyer in tow. But all the lawyers she knew were either relatives or friends of her parents, and since she couldn’t ask them, and since she had no money of her own, she really had no choice but to go it alone. Besides, it wasn’t like she actually knew anything about what happened to Madison. The only thing she was guilty of was letting her ambition get in the way of her common sense by choosing to believe Ryan Hawthorne when he told her he cared about her. It might be embarrassing, but it wasn’t illegal, and it was her truth to keep.
While everyone knew she’d played a part in the death of RyMad, she had nothing to do with the disappearance of Madison. Outside of Ryan, no one knew what had really happened between them, and since he’d yet to divulge that to the press, she figured her secret was safe.
She tossed some clothes in a bag, pulled her unwashed hair into a ponytail, swiped a little makeup on her face, took one last look around the room, and headed downstairs in search of her mother. Pausing in the kitchen doorway, Aster watched as her mother clipped the leaves off a dozen roses plucked from their garden before arranging them into a round, cut-crystal vase.
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you and Daddy.” The words came out shakier than intended. “I’m sorry my actions disappointed and shamed you. But I refuse to be punished for making the kind of mistakes that aren’t all that uncommon for someone my age. You may not agree with my choices, but I’m eighteen now, which means you no longer get a say in how I make my decisions.” She pressed a hand to her fluttering belly, willing it to settle. All the while studying her mother’s immaculately made-up face for even a trace of emotion, but her mother remained as cool and imperious as ever.
“And how do you plan to support yourself, Aster?” She set the curved, pink-handled pruning shears on the granite countertop and pulled nervously at her diamond-encrusted wedding band with perfectly manicured fingers. “You won’t be able to access your trust for another seven years.”
Aster closed her eyes. She’d been foolish enough to hope for a different reaction, maybe even a hug, but it was time to face the truth. Her mother had never been the warm and nurturing type. She was detached, wooden, regal, and cold, but Aster had loved her in spite of it. Her father was the dispenser of hugs and kind words—the one she ran to in moments of crisis. But her dad was no longer speaking to her, Javen wasn’t home, and Nanny Mitra was the one who’d gotten her into this mess, by alerting her parents to trouble and encouraging them to return. It was hard not to feel bitter toward the woman who’d practically raised her. Still, this was her only chance at good-bye. It was time to speak her piece and move on.
“You can’t hold me hostage.” Aster pressed her hand to her cheek, about to wipe away the tears that had gathered, then decided against it. She refused to run from her emotions like her mother. She would allow them to surface—allow herself to feel them—no matter how much pain they might cause. “You can’t turn this into some kind of tug-of-war over money. You can’t control me that way anymore. If I don’t want to live like this, I don’t have to. And if you don’t have it in your heart to release some of that money so I can adequately support myself, then I’ll find another way.”
“And what about school?” Her mother had gone from pulling at her wedding ring to fluffing the ends of her perfectly coiffed and colored shoulder-length hair—the only visible signs she might not feel as serene as she pretended.
“What about it?” Her mother’s insistent focus on the practical was the single biggest tragedy of her family. Theirs was a house of repression, marred by the lies that resulted from living that way. Aster couldn’t wait to break free. “I still plan on getting my degree, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She shrugged, eager to wrap it up and be on her way. “I’ll be back at some point for the rest of my stuff. So . . .” She moved to hug her mother good-bye, but it was like embracing a wall, so she quickly pulled away. Stealing a moment to send a quick text to Javen, promising she was only a phone call away. She felt guilty leaving him there on his own. There was no telling what her parents might do if they ever discovered he liked boys more than girls. And yet, how could she possibly protect him when she’d so epically failed to protect herself?
Without a single look back, she tossed her bag in the trunk of her car, settled inside, and headed down the driveway toward a new life.
FORTY-SEVEN
CALIFORNICATION
Tommy settled onto the hard metal chair and waited for the detective to bring him a mug filled with bottom-of-the-pot, end-of-the-day scorched coffee along with some of those little packets of powdered creamer. It was his first visit to the precinct, yet he was handling it like a regular.
He’d shown up without a lawyer, but he was pretty sure he didn’t need one. He wasn’t guilty of anything having to do with Madison’s disappearance, and it was just a matter of time before they got that through their thick skulls and moved on to someone who might actually be involved. Until then, he’d committed to being as polite and cooperative as his mother had taught him. If he needed to amp up the simple-boy-from-the-country act, so be it. Whatever it took to get them off his tail and onto finding Madison.
There’d been a shitstorm of accusation, speculation, and downright hysteria, but Tommy refused to believe it. The memory of Madison was too fresh. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel her lips pulse against his. No way was she dead.
“You know why you’re here?” Detective Larsen slid the mug of coffee toward Tommy and claimed the opposite seat.
Tommy pressed two of the creamer packets together, pinched off the corners, and dumped the contents into the cup. “I’m the last known person to be seen with Madison.” He ventured a first sip and tried not to grimace—the first taste was always the worst, reminding him of just how far he’d fallen and how fast. His lifelong dream of gazing out at a crowd of hot girls screaming his name from the end of a stage had been replaced with the reality of a police interrogation and crazed Madison fans slashing his tires and sending him hate tweets.
Detective Larsen rested his beefy forearms on the table and hunched his shoulders forward. Regarding Tommy from under a lowered brow, he kept his voice quiet, conspiring, as though they were just two old buds enjoying an overdue conversation. “And how does that make you feel—knowing you were the last to see her alive?”
Tommy ran his fingers around the edge of the mug. How does that make me feel? What is this, a therapy session? He lifted his gaze to the cop’s red, scrub-brush hair clipped close to the scalp, his green eyes and pale, freckled skin losing the war against the relentless Los Angeles sun, his overtrained deltoids and pecs threatening to wage a hostile takeover of his neck. “Doesn’t make me feel anything. I refuse to believe it.”
Larsen pressed his fingertips together until they resembled thick, meaty sausage links. “You were the last known person to see her. There are pics of
the two of you heading into the Vesper. A club you apparently had access to even after it had closed for the night. The evidence speaks for itself.”
Tommy swallowed. At least they didn’t know about the pics on his phone. The ones of Madison kicking back a beer, which were incriminating on two levels—one, because everyone knew Madison was three years shy of the legal drinking age, and two, because Tommy had yet to volunteer those particular photos. Short of arresting him, the cops would never know those pictures existed, and he was determined to keep it that way.
It was Layla’s fault he was there, standing in as their number one suspect. Sure she wasn’t the only witness, but she was definitely the first one to blog about it. Question was whether she’d done it on purpose, to get back at him for some unknown reason.
From the moment she uploaded that video, hers had become the go-to blog for celebrity junkies. The Madison-Ryan-Aster-Tommy scandal was like catnip to them. They couldn’t get enough. Then again, the scandal had also ensured that Ira’s clubs remained a permanent fixture in the twenty-four-hour news cycle, with Night for Night and the Vesper becoming makeshift shrines to Madison as people traveled from far away to pay homage to the last known whereabouts of their favorite teen star.
Tommy returned his focus to Larsen. It was never a good idea to let the mind drift for too long. “I don’t believe she’s dead.” He tried another sip of coffee. It was cold, brutally bitter, but the initial shock to the taste buds had faded, so he chased it with another. “And if she’s not dead, then I couldn’t possibly be the last person to have seen her.”
“Huh. You make an interesting point.” Detective Larsen gazed into the distance as though he was actually considering it, but Tommy recognized a con job when he saw one. “Still, in this modern age of Instagram, selfies, YouTube, cable news, and bloggers so hopped up on caffeine they no longer sleep, you’d think that if someone had seen Madison since you, we’d have some sort of photographic proof, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you think that?”
