Blacklist (Beautiful Idols 2)

Aster seemed to breathe easier, but Layla was still on edge. What Aster was proposing could end really badly for both of them. Maybe Tommy had been right to call it quits.

“What exactly is the plan?” Layla asked. “I mean, even if the cops aren’t waiting inside, then surely Madison has a serious alarm system in place. Probably even a guard dog, security cameras, a retina-scanning device . . .” She glanced over Aster’s shoulder, on the lookout for

squad cars, a pack of ravenous hellhounds, a random black cat crossing their path, any sort of omen she could use as a viable excuse to bail while she could. And yet, for whatever reason, she knew that she wouldn’t. She just couldn’t bring herself to let Aster go it alone.

“This.” Aster nodded toward a row of towering hedges, fidgeting in a way that did not inspire confidence. “This is the plan. It may seem crazy, but I have to do something, and to me this makes sense.” She turned away, tugged her beanie onto her head, and started walking purposefully toward the nearest house. Stopping before the formidable gate, she squinted at the address on her phone. “Last chance to turn back.”

As tempting as it was to flee to the safety of her car, for better or worse, Layla had committed to this point; she might as well see it through to the end. She watched as Aster pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, headed for the keypad, and punched in the code. The two of them unwittingly held their breath as they waited for the gate to inch open.

“Someone must’ve changed the code,” Layla said, struggling to hide her relief when the gate didn’t so much as budge.

“Here, you read it. Maybe I transposed the numbers or something.” Aster thrust the phone at Layla and flexed her fingers as though warming up for a race.

Layla slowly repeated the numbers as Aster punched them into the pad. Then they stood back and waited, staring hard at the gate. Aster sighed in relief when it slowly eased open. Layla sighed in defeat.

Together, they began the walk down the long stone drive that led to the house. From the lawn plagued with brown patches and weeds, to the run of untamed rosebushes dropping dead buds along the path like forgotten offerings, it was clear the yard hadn’t been tended to since Madison went missing.

Still, the garden lights were aglow, which meant the electricity was still humming. Though in light of what they were about to do, Layla took it as an ominous sign. At best the alarm system was still working and fully engaged. At worst, Larsen was inside, raiding Madison’s wine cellar and watching all her premium cable channels, just waiting for the moment they walked through the door.

What would become of the property and all of Madison’s belongings—the bits and pieces of the life she’d worked so hard to assemble? Just how long would her team of managers keep feeding the banks and utility companies, waiting for her to return, before they decided to call it quits and begin the long process of dismantling the estate?

There were so many unanswered questions, though Layla chose to voice the one closest to the matter at hand. “So, what exactly are we looking for?” She watched as the heel of Aster’s boot came down hard on a deadhead. The squished and rotted rosebud rocked her off balance for a moment before she righted herself and angrily kicked it aside.

“Clues, signs, evidence—anything that might hint toward what really happened that night,” Aster whispered, sounding irritated in a way Layla couldn’t ignore. Here she was, risking her life to clear Aster’s name, and Aster had the nerve to get annoyed?

“Pretty sure the cops already did that,” Layla grumbled.

Aster paused before the massive front door. “Maybe, maybe not.” She tapped her gold-and-diamond hamsa pendant for luck, though in Layla’s mind Aster was better off ditching that thing. She’d been wearing it the day she got booked for first-degree murder; clearly it didn’t work in her favor. “From the moment they zeroed in on me as their main suspect, I have no reason to think they looked anywhere else. And even if they were here, they didn’t know what to look for, and we do.”

“We do?” Before Layla could finish, Aster was already rolling her eyes.

“Anything that bears the name Della, for starters. We need to determine if it’s merely her Starbucks alias, or if it means something more. Also, if we can find anything tracking back to that apartment I woke up in, see if it’s somehow connected to Madison . . . And speaking of Ryan, what’s going on with him?”

Layla shook her head. “He’s been pretty low profile. Claims he’s trying to sort things out, and is asking the press to respect his privacy during this difficult time.”

Aster smirked. “That’s code for ‘Don’t bother me until I’ve had a chance to destroy all the evidence.’ Or worse, he’s pointing the evidence toward me to make me look guilty. And now . . . the moment of truth . . .” She gave the door an anxious glance that did not inspire confidence.

Again, Layla wondered if it was too late to bolt. But the next thing she knew, Aster had inserted what appeared to be the house key into the lock and was slowly turning it until they heard the dead bolt retreating and the door eased open.

“If the alarm goes off—run!” Aster whispered, taking a tentative step into the entry as Layla stood frozen behind her, waiting for something terrible to happen. When a few moments passed with no sign of chaos, they ventured farther inside.

“Doesn’t she have a dog?” Layla cringed at the way her voice seemed to echo in the high-ceilinged room.

“Blue.” Aster nodded. “Not sure who has him now—maybe her assistant, Emily?” Aster turned a slow circle, gazing from the enormous chandelier that dominated the entry to the collection of large black-and-white photographs that covered most of the wall space.

While the house was decorated in a sort of eclectic, modern Regency style, the oversize prints really stood out. They were haunting, and not at all what Layla expected. Though they were obviously professional quality, pictures of run-down trailer parks and decrepit interiors featuring sagging couches and broken TVs weren’t usually paired with Carrara marble floors and seven-foot-tall hand-blown glass installations that had easily cost somewhere in the six-figure range.

“It’s a Chihuly.” Layla nodded toward the glimmering cobalt-blue sculpture. “A real one, not a copy. The only other one I’ve seen is in the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas.”

“Does that mean something?” Aster squinted between the chandelier and Layla, but Layla just shook her head.

“No. Madison could definitely afford it.” She forced her gaze away from the photo of a gleaming gun placed on a beat-up coffee table and surveyed the rest of the room. She felt shivery and unsure, her limbs gone suddenly heavy, reluctant to move. “It just feels so spooky to be in her space, knowing she may never return.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aster whirled around to face her.

“We have no idea what happened—no way of knowing if she’s dead or alive. And why are you looking at me like that when you know it’s the truth? I mean, it was her blood on the terrace,” Layla ventured. “And all over your dress . . .”

“So why are you here if you assume that I’m guilty?” Aster was enraged, but Layla was too.