“The evidence is all pointing to Ryan, no?” Tommy looked between them. “He was probably really angry at Madison for making that scene.”
“Mad enough to kill her?” Aster screwed up her face, unsure if her reluctance to believe it was because she couldn’t bear to think she’d willingly gone home with a murderer. She had enough shame in her life. She didn’t need to add that to the list.
“I’m not convinced she’s dead.” Tommy was adamant, but he had nothing to back it other than a potent combination of stubbornness and hope.
“Well, the fact that he disappeared in the middle of the night is pretty disturbing.” Layla drove home the point.
“And it’s not like he’s not milking his role in the scandal.” Aster rolled her eyes. Annoyed by the way Ryan had continually confessed his remorse, his undying love for Madison, and how he’d made Aster look like a convenient ego fluffer.
“The same could be said of you guys.” Layla frowned, then looked at Tommy and said, “Is there anything she said, or did, that seemed unusual? Anything you saw that seemed out of place when you followed her?”
Tommy closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, “She spoke with an accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“Country. Mountain. She’s definitely not East Coast, like she says.”
Layla nodded excitedly, her blond bob swishing around her face. “I ran into her one day getting coffee. She went by the name Della. At first I didn’t think much of it, since everyone uses aliases at Starbucks, but what if there’s more to Madison’s past than she admits? And what if Ryan discovered her secret and was blackmailing her or something?”
“Why would Ryan blackmail her?” Tommy asked.
“Because his show’s getting canceled, he has nothing lined up, he lives an expensive, flashy life, and he’s probably starting to panic. I’m just saying, it’s a very real possibility. . . .”
“Okay, so we’re all leaning toward Ryan, but what exactly do we do about it?” Aster said.
“Well, whatever we do, we can’t afford to let the LAPD divide us. I’m not saying we need to be BFFs—but we don’t have to depart as enemies either. Nothing good will come of that.”
Tommy was the first to stand, but Aster was quick to follow. She’d heard enough for one day. She needed time to digest, work it out in her head. And though she didn’t want to admit it, she was definitely second-guessing her hiding place for the video. She hoped Layla was wrong, but she was determined to get back to the W and confirm either way. Still, before she left, there was one last thing to get off her chest. Her words directed at Layla, she said, “If you so much as mention the sex tape or Ryan ditching me to Larsen or anyone else, so help me, I won’t hesitate to take you down with me.”
“Is that a threat?” Layla regarded her from under a quirked brow, as Tommy glanced anxiously between them.
“Most definitely.” Aster lifted her chin, clutched her bag to her side.
“Noted. I meant what I said about us sticking together.”
When Layla offered her hand, for a split second Aster nearly rejected it. But in a world where she no longer had any friends, she’d been touched to discover true compassion in the least likely place. She placed her hand on Layla’s, and Tommy placed his on top. The three of them were united, for better or worse.
FIFTY-FOUR
RUNNIN’ DOWN A DREAM
We need to talk—preferably somewhere private.
Trena Moretti stared at her cell phone and frowned. In another hour it would be too dark to run, and she didn’t consider treadmills an option. She tossed the phone aside and returned to the business of lacing up her running shoes.
The phone chimed again.
I promise, you do not want to miss this. Text me.
Damn.
Trena glanced out the window and jumped to her feet. Running was her religion. It was sacred, necessary, and often illuminating. Some of her very best work occurred when she was pushing beyond her physical limits, gasping for breath and dripping with sweat.
She could use a little illumination. Her story had served its purpose, effectively shaking the LAPD out of their inertia and getting a lot of eyes to take note of her byline. But lately, there’d been nothing juicy to report. Though all that could change with Layla’s text.
Still, forfeiting her run was unthinkable.
You a runner? she typed, putting herself through a series of stretches while she waited for a reply.