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.