She shook off the memory and shimmied into the black lace minidress. She was just slipping into her shoes when she heard someone knock. Teetering on one Manolo, she opened the door to find one of the hotel staff delivering a small packet.
“Sorry to bother, it’s marked ‘urgent.’”
Aster stared at the envelope. There was no return address, which struck her as strange. Though she was already running late, she was intrigued enough to slip her index finger under the flap and dump the contents into her hand.
It was a homemade DVD in a clear plastic case with her name written in black.
Her belly churned, a wave of apprehension coursed through her, as her mind reeled with a thousand possibilities, none of them good. She stumbled toward the TV, unable to so much as breathe as the large flat-screen flickered to life and she collapsed on the couch.
Her worst fear had come true.
FIFTY-ONE
DON’T SAVE ME
Layla pushed free of the interrogation room and headed down the bleak hallway, which reeked of panic, dread, and burnt coffee. She was unsure if she’d just successfully cleared herself of suspicion or sealed her own disastrous fate. The fact that she wasn’t wearing handcuffs and leg shackles was probably a good sign. Still, despite what seemed like hours spent protesting her innocence, between the restraining order and the Madison slams on her blog, Larsen seemed convinced that Layla had all the motive she needed to get rid of Madison Brooks. The only thing missing was evidence.
Desperate to put some distance between her and Detective Larsen, she made for her bike, thinking a nice long ride might clear her head. But considering the way her life was seriously spiraling out of control, she could circle the earth a handful of times and it probably wouldn’t do any good.
Besides, now more than ever, she, Aster, and Tommy needed to talk. The fact that they’d been hauled into separate interrogation rooms around the same time was no accident. Clearly the detectives wanted them to see one another, probably hoping it would cause them to panic, confess to the kinds of things they’d previously chosen to omit.
Were Tommy or Aster guilty of harming Madison? Her first thought was to doubt it—doubt it in the way she’d doubt that anyone she knew was capable of something like that. But wasn’t that really more of a naive, almost hopeful way of seeing the world? Wasn’t it more likely that, given the right situation, the right circumstance, anyone was capable of just about anything?
Clearly Tommy viewed her as capable—or at least that was what he’d told Larsen. Or maybe he’d never even said that. Maybe Larsen was just maneuvering them to all turn on one another. All she knew for sure was she was growing increasingly uneasy with each passing day.
She kicked a rock with the toe of her boot, glanced between the time on her phone and the door to the station. Had he left before her? Short of marching back inside and asking, she had no way of knowing. She decided to wait a bit longer. Between the black wristbands he’d freely supplied to the under-twenty-one crowd and hooking up with Madison, she’d already seen the lengths he’d go to to win a contest—who knew how far he’d go now that his life was at stake?
An engine rumbled to life, prompting Layla to look up in time to see Tommy backing out of the lot. She darted toward him, shouting his name as he switched into drive, foot heavy on the accelerator, unsure if he failed to acknowledge her because his windows were closed and his music was loud, or if he was purposely ignoring her. It wasn’t until she leaped right in front of him that she knew she’d finally been seen.
The brakes screeched, the car lurched forward, then back, missing her by a matter of inches, as Tommy leaned out the window and yelled, “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
She leaned on the hood and fought to catch her breath. At least she wasn’t wrong about him not being a killer. He’d clearly chosen not to run her over when he very well could have and called it an accident.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, his blue eyes narrowed in anger.
“We need to talk.” Layla veered around the hood and stood beside his door. “You, me, and Aster. Can you convince her?”
“Do you think you’ve convinced me?” He shook his head, looked at her like she was insane.
She brushed her hair from her face. “I’m not spending my life in prison for something I didn’t do, and neither should you. Meet me at Hollywood Forever in an hour.” She went for her bike.
“The cemetery?” he called out from behind her.
She looked over her shoulder, centered her gaze on his. “Johnny Ramone’s grave. I’m sure you know where it is. But don’t worry—I have no plans to bury you. But if we don’t find a way to get together and talk, they will.” She hooked a thumb toward the precinct and pulled her helmet onto her head. She watched as Tommy shrugged and drove away, leaving Layla to hope he’d be smart enough to do what was needed.
FIFTY-TWO
PARANOID
Tommy Phillips pulled out of the precinct parking lot and drove a few random blocks, before stopping on a quiet residential street with Old Hollywood–style homes—the kind with red-tiled roofs, arched doorways, and spare, sloping lawns. Homes that harkened back to a different Hollywood, a less complicated time. Or maybe it hadn’t been any less complicated then than it was now. Maybe things only seemed easier when viewed in reverse.
He stared out the windshield, needing a moment to process what had gone down, and, more important, what it might mean. First he got called into the station to go over the same shit he’d already been over, only to have Layla leapfrog onto the hood of his car,
practically daring him to mow her down.
Who does that?
What the hell was she up to?