by Alyson Noel
Mateo was taken aback, wondering what she meant.
“Sorry, I mean ex-girlfriend, Layla. Anyway.” Emily shook her head and flushed in embarrassment. “Heather was so upset when I told her about my meeting with Paul that she decided to go in my place. That’s why she ran out of here without telling you. Hopefully she’ll succeed and we can keep Blue.” She ran a knowing gaze over Mateo. “God knows she’s a master at getting whatever she wants.”
The smile she flashed him saw Mateo mumbling a quick good-bye and retreating to Heather’s room. He dressed in a hurry and was about to leave, when he decided to jot a quick note. Not a breakup note—since they weren’t exactly a couple, there was no relationship to break. But it was time to put some distance between them. And though Mateo hated to admit it, it was a lot easier for him to do that when Heather wasn’t in front of him.
Heather was fun, and he’d meant what he said when he told her she was sexy as hell. But aside from their mutual lust, he didn’t feel any real and lasting connection to her. He’d thank her for all that she’d done on his behalf, and avoid making mention of possibly meeting again.
He’d just found a pen and was searching for paper, when a picture slid free from a binder and swooped onto her desk.
Speechless, Mateo desperately searched his mind for a way to explain the photo now lying before him.
It was a picture of Layla, standing in the middle of the Jewel dance floor, kissing Tommy.
Mateo instantly recognized it as the same picture someone had anonymously sent to his phone, which had prompted him and Layla to split.
So what was Heather doing with it—unless she was the one who sent it?
Did she manipulate their breakup just so she could move in on him?
He was trying to decide what to do when his phone chimed with an incoming text.
So sorry I had to run. Promise to make it up to you!
Attached was a photo of Heather’s promise.
Mateo glanced between his cell and the picture on the desk, wondering what the hell kind of mess he’d gotten himself into.
Instead of leaving a note, he slipped the picture back inside the binder and quietly let himself out.
ELEVEN
WORLD SPINS MADLY
There was a little less than half a tank of gas in the Jeep. Probably enough to make the drive, but Madison wouldn’t risk it. Driving in LA was less about actual distance, and more about flow of traffic. If she got caught in the dreaded stop-and-coast snarl, she’d burn through the fuel in no time.
She pulled up to the pump and killed the ignition. With a wallet full of cash and no credit cards, she had no choice but to pay inside.
The whole world was searching for her—her face was on every TV screen, every magazine cover—and yet, she was about to march straight into that mini-mart and take her place at the end of the line. Her entire future now hung on the hope that no one would see through her cover.
Her sunglasses were dark and oversize. The wig was of the highest quality, made from real hair. And while she’d always been thin, it was more in a lean and sinewy personal trainer kind of way, as opposed to the gaunt and bony look she had now. Weeks of poor nutrition and little to no exercise had left her looking haunted and stark. Although she was eager to return to a healthier, stronger version of herself, she had to admit it did lend a certain authenticity to her current disguise.
It’d been a while since she’d worn this particular getup. The frayed denim mini and black lace camisole were the opposite of what her fans would expect, which was why they had never once failed her.
Though thanks to her injury, the usual shoes she paired the outfit with had to be swapped for a flip-flop on one foot and a big, black medical boot on the other. At the last minute, she’d pulled on a long-sleeved army jacket, figuring it would help her feel less exposed, and also cover the telltale burn scar on the inside of her arm.
She had a lot to lose, and the game she was playing was risky at best. One false move and the entire thing would backfire, resulting in the sort of headlines that could end her career, or worse—wind up getting her killed by whoever was out there hunting for her.
Still, she needed to make her move before Paul found her. There were a few places she knew he would look; she just didn’t know in what order.
She climbed out of the Jeep and headed inside. Figuring she might as well pick up a few things while she was at it, she filled her arms with two large bottles of water, a family-size bag of M&M’s, aspirin, toothpaste, a toothbrush, body lotion, and small bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner.
“Next!” the cashier barked, her eyes squinting in disapproval when Madison stepped forward and dumped her supplies on the counter. The clerk tallied her purchases, all the while directing the occasional condemning glance at the plunging neckline of Madison’s sheer lace camisole. “Anything else?” She chomped her gum, acting as though Madison was taking too long even though there was no one behind her.
“Um, yeah. Twenty on pump number five.”
“And?”
The clerk quirked a brow in annoyance, but Madison was too busy staring at the front page of the LA Times displayed on the rack just beside her.
Instead of the usual Where Is Madison Brooks? headline, this one screamed: Who Is Madison Brooks?
“Hello? Anything else?”
With a shaky hand, Madison added the paper to the pile, handed over the money, and got the hell out of there.
After filling her tank, she drove a few blocks, pulled into an empty parking lot, reached for the paper, and began to read.
Breaking News: Madison Brooks’s True Identity Revealed!
By Trena Moretti
In a town built on make-believe, it should come as no surprise that missing Hollywood A-lister Madison Brooks just might turn out to be as fictional as the characters she portrays in her movies.
The story of her ascent from poor little orphan girl to Hollywood’s most highly paid and sought-after star is nothing more than a glossy facade meant to hide a much darker tale.
In a stunning revelation on In-Depth Sunday night, I revealed a birth certificate, believed to be that of Madison Brooks, that states her real name as MaryDella Slocum, her place of birth as West Virginia, and her parents as the deceased Henry and WillaJean Slocum—two small-time hustlers with an extensive criminal background.
A far cry from the bio Madison sold us.
Hours before my show went live, Layla Harrison, writer of the Beautiful Idols blog, and one of the four teens recently arrested in Joshua Tree in connection with Madison’s disappearance, posted an entry allegedly torn from the diary of Madison/MaryDella that would’ve placed her at fourteen years old at the time. The piece, shared below, reveals the young star to be far more calculating and conniving than her pristine persona ever let on.
Numerous mentions of P seem to point to Paul Banks, who . . .
Madison’s gaze raced down the page. By the time she reached the end, she could barely breathe.
It was all there. Her birth certificate, the fire, even the diary entries she’d written as a much younger girl.
Her whole life was exposed.
Well, maybe not all of it. Though it was just a matter of time before they uncovered those secrets too.
And then what?
What would become of her once the ugly truth was revealed?
Where could she possibly go once her secrets were known all over the world?
Was she supposed to live out the rest of her life hiding behind dark sunglasses and a wig?
She gazed around wildly, trying to make sense of what was happening. Someone had pulled back the curtain on her life, and apparently Paul had known all along. He’d even hinted as much when he said, It’s about destroying you and everything you’ve worked so hard to build.
Had he seen the article? Her guess was he had. He’d probably planned to keep her in the dark until it was handled.
Well, it was too late now. The article was merely
a trickle in what promised to become an epic flood.
Question was: How the hell had Layla Harrison gotten hold of her diary?
Whatever the answer, one thing was clear: Between the journal entry, the birth certificate, and the original article about the fire, Madison was screwed.
Really, truly, and royally screwed.
And yet, just as Paul had taught her to always peer past the surface, that everything was capable of serving more than one purpose, he’d also taught her how to control her own narrative. She had no idea how she’d begin to spin this, but she knew she eventually would.
When it came to the story of her life, the ending would be hers to write.
She sank a hand into her bag and patted the gun for reassurance. Then she tossed the paper into the backseat, started up the Jeep, and headed for the secret hideout she kept tucked away on the outskirts of Ojai.
It’d been a while since her last visit, but Trena’s article had thrown her off balance. She’d take the night to figure out a new plan of attack, sure of only one thing: whatever decision she made would not be easily reversed.
TWELVE
GUYS MY AGE
Trena pulled up to the curb, propped open the passenger-side door, and let Javen in.
“Your sister would kill me if she found out about this,” she said.
Javen tugged at his seat belt and settled beside her. “Only if my parents don’t get to you first.” He stared through the windshield and frowned. “Then again, I haven’t even heard from her. She’s been out of jail since yesterday and won’t even answer my texts.”
“I think I might know why.” Trena told him about the threatening notes Layla had received. “Maybe Aster got one too?”
Javen considered. “Well, it would make sense. At least, it better be the reason. After all I’ve done for her . . .”
“And all you’re still planning to do?” Trena pulled out of the school parking lot and merged into traffic.
“Yeah. Sure.” Javen shrugged and took in the passing scenery.
Trena stopped at a light and used the moment to study him. He was avoiding eye contact, had barely so much as looked at her. Normally she was skilled when it came to reading people, but in this case she hadn’t a clue as to what might be motivating his cagey behavior.
“You know, you don’t have to do this,” she said, figuring if he was worried about getting into trouble, it was her job to reassure him. “You’re under no obligation. Last time, you got off easy. Not sure that’ll be the case if Larsen catches you again.”
Javen focused his brown eyes on hers. “Well, let’s make sure he doesn’t catch me then.”
Trena held the look, then returned to driving
“You know, you really send a lot of mixed signals.”
Trena cracked a half smile. “How so?”
“You seemed pretty scary when you barged into my sister’s apartment that night.”
“No, not me.” Trena shook her head in a way that sent her curls bouncing. “I didn’t barge. The barger was Larsen, one hundred percent.”
“Well, you were part of the barge.” Javen was not about to give in. “You were right there with your notepad in hand, looking for someone to incriminate.”
“No notepad either. I forgot to bring it.” Trena stopped at an intersection and scrutinized him. He seemed to be warming up. She took it as a good sign. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Maybe you don’t have the eye for detail I thought you did. Should I drop you at the mall, or the library instead?”
He rolled his eyes, and it reminded Trena so much of Aster it was like they were twins. Never mind that Javen was three years younger, and slightly prettier, which seemed impossible, even though it was true. “Fine,” he huffed. “A metaphorical notepad. Whatever. At any rate, I’m in. If it’ll help Aster, it’s worth it. And I hate to say it, but this is turning out to be the most exciting thing that’s happened all week.” He frowned. “Which, by the way, is off the record. You put that on your show, I’ll lose half my Snapchat followers once they get a true glimpse of how tragic my life has become.”
Trena maneuvered through traffic, taking surreptitious looks at him. With his smooth olive complexion, wavy dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, and large brown eyes with those ridiculously long lashes, he had a face that was made for the spotlight. Though strangely, unlike most beautiful people she’d met in LA, Javen had no interest in fame. Unfortunately, because of the mess involving his sister, infamy had found him.
No wonder he preferred a low profile. Couldn’t be easy being gay in a family like that. From what Trena had gathered, the parents were traditional, conservative, and extremely strict. For a moment, she considered turning around and dropping him back at school where she’d found him. But she needed him, and he wanted to help. And so, she kept driving.
“Clearly you’re not here to chat or lure me into an episode of carpool karaoke, so what’s really going on here?”
Trena grinned. Now he reminded her of Layla.
“I need help,” she said.
He gazed out the passenger-side window. “Obvi.”
Trena laughed. It’d been a while since she’d spent time with a fifteen-year-old. “The kind of help that will hopefully help your sister as well. I need you to go deep on a few people.”
“Listening . . .” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.
Trena swerved into the underground parking structure of her building, claimed her designated space, and said, “I need a few background checks.”
“Something a little more than a Google search, I’m guessing?”
“I need you to dig up whatever you can on Paul Banks and Kevin O’Dell.” She turned off the ignition. “See if their paths converge. If they come together at some point.”
“I know what ‘converge’ means.” He shook his head. “I’m in honors English, you know. Thing is, those are pretty common names. Any way to narrow it down?”
“Not to worry.” Trena climbed out of the car and led him toward the elevator bank. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got, along with a few suggestions on where to start. You can take it from there.”
“What about MaryDella Slocum? You forget about her?”
“Her too,” Trena said. “I know it’s a lot to ask.” She pressed the call button and frowned.
“Generally speaking, it’s not. But since I’m guessing you’re expecting me to hack into a protected database or three, then yeah, it kinda is.”
“Well, if you can’t do it, or don’t want to . . .”
Javen stared openly. It took Trena a moment to catch on to the fact that he’d just switched to negotiating mode.
She entered the waiting car and pushed the button for the thirty-fifth floor. She never should’ve underestimated the kid. He lived a pampered, somewhat sheltered life, but he still had his share of street smarts. Not only was she on the spot, but also annoyed with herself for being so slow to catch on.
Still, might as well get to the point. Trena turned to him. “What is it you want?” The second it was out, she realized she’d blown it. She’d basically tossed him the ball and told him to run with it. She’d negotiated a killer contract with the network’s top brass, but when it came to a teen, she was out of her league. She’d just forfeited the game before it even started.
“First and foremost,” he said, his tone professional, brisk, “I want to be clear that this is about helping Aster.”
“Of course.” Trena nodded, watching as the doors opened to a short hallway, just a handful of steps to her apartment.
“Because Aster is innocent, and she’s in desperate need of our help.”
Trena readily agreed and ushered him inside.
“In fact, maybe we should take a moment of silence for—”
“Don’t push it.” She needed his help, but she still had her limits.
Javen crossed the spacious room to the floor-to-ceiling windows and took in the expansive city view. “I know you’re eager to get started,” he said. “An
d I’m guessing you plan to share whatever I find on your show so you can raise your ratings, broaden your audience, and further promote your agenda.” He looked over his shoulder, and when she failed to confirm, he continued, “In which case, I think it’s only fair I get something out of it too.”
“You mean aside from helping your sister avoid a guilty verdict?” Trena placed her hands on her hips and steeled herself for whatever came next.
“Well, yes.” Javen turned away from the window.
“And what is it you’re looking for?” She was worried he’d overestimated her. Her spike in ratings had also led to a spike in power and clout, and had undoubtedly padded her bank account. Still, there were limits to the sort of things she could offer.
“My parents monitor all my comings and goings.”
Trena watched as he wandered the apartment, plumping the couch cushions and running a finger across her shelves, inspecting for dust. He was the world’s worst mother-in-law disguised as a beautiful adolescent boy.
“Sometimes I feel like they have eyes everywhere. It’s like there’s not a single space in the city where they’re not spying on me.”
Trena rocked back on the heels of her Jimmy Choos. Her bullshit radar had just kicked into high gear. “Let me guess.” She looked him over. “Your parents have eyes all over the city—everywhere but here.”
Javen nodded solemnly, though the gleam in his eyes assured her she’d just been masterminded by a fifteen-year-old. “Exactly,” he said. “Which is why I’m thinking I might need to visit a few more times in the future. You know, for follow-up work.”
Trena grew silent. This was not at all what she’d planned. “I’m sure that can be discussed at some point,” she finally said, her voice tight.
