She passed a handful of souvenir shops hawking T-shirts that featured her image. The ones that said Missing seemed sweet. The ones that said In Memoriam gave her the creeps.
There were Madison masks, Madison key chains, Madison prayer candles. It was like she was haunting the city, serving as a grim reminder of how a person could be blessed with every conceivable gift—beauty, talent, riches, and stardom—and yet, they could still end up as tragically as any junkie on the street.
For those who had little, her disappearance provided a sense of justice, proving they weren’t the only ones vulnerable to the whims of the universe.
For those who had much, it filled their hearts with terror. If it could happen to Madison Brooks, then no one was safe.
There was no shortage of people looking to make a buck off her story, and she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once she stepped out of the shadows and reclaimed her place in the spotlight.
Most likely, it wouldn’t make much difference. The leftover merchandise would be sold at a discount while they waited for the next scandal to occur. It was Hollywood, after all. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of celebrity meltdowns.
She drove past the Vesper and Jewel without so much as a glance. But as she approached Night for Night, against her better judgment she eased the Jeep into a nearby parking spot and gazed at the sprawling memorial set up near the entrance.
A sizable crowd gathered around a jumble of stuffed animals, flowers, and crosses nestled alongside several poster-size pictures of her. Tourists. She frowned with derision, a little miffed to find not a single peer among them. They might’ve spared a few minutes the first week, maybe even shared a charming story about the time they’d run into her at Soho House. But as soon as the cameras moved on, they’d return to their regularly scheduled life of detoxing, Botoxing, and fighting their way to the top.
But these people, with their thick-soled sneakers and sunburned shoulders—they were the true fans. The ones who read every interview, who dedicated entire weekends to binge-watching her films and buying every product she was ever paid to endorse, never seeming to notice that she rarely used those products herself. Hell, she didn’t even wear the perfume that featured her name on the label. She preferred a more exclusive brand.
They even bought into her overhyped romance with Ryan. When he’d given her the gold-and-turquoise hoop earrings, you would’ve thought he’d surprised her with the Hope diamond the way they went on about it.
They believed wholly in the gospel of Instagram, Snapchat, and People magazine. PR teams all over the city relied on their continued gullibility.
Madison had burst onto the scene with the necessary good looks and talent to succeed. But it was these very people who’d projected their dreams onto her who had propelled her to the top of the heap.
She watched as a frizzy-haired girl in a garish sundress broke into such a dramatic display of tears, several people nearby moved in to console her.
The girl had probably bought all Madison’s posters—memorized all her movies by heart. If anyone were to
recognize her, it would be that girl.
Madison popped open the door and slid from the seat. It was only the second time she’d ventured out in public. The first time, at the gas station, the girl working the register was so busy judging Madison’s skimpy outfit she’d barely bothered to look at her face.
But this time was different. This was the test that would determine how she’d move forward from here. These people had devoted countless hours of their lives to watching her, reading about her, studying her, discussing her, dissecting her every Instagram post as though each pic held the key to her soul. If the disguise failed, it could prove catastrophic. And yet, she had no real choice but to see it through.
She smoothed a hand over her long blond wig, readjusted her sunglasses, and limped toward the memorial.
The first thing that struck her was how many were crying. It felt weird, like she was crashing her own funeral.
She moved toward the frizzy-haired girl and shot her a tentative smile, even made a point to pat her lightly on the shoulder. The girl would totally freak if she knew Madison Brooks had just tried to console her. As it was, she thrust a crumpled tissue to her face and blew her nose so loudly Madison cringed and slipped away.
It seemed every square inch was crammed with stacks of cards and letters—countless declarations of devotion, admiration, and love. These people adored her. They longed for her safe return. Madison was eager to grant them their wish, but there were things she had to do first.
Wanting to leave them with a symbol of hope, she reached into her bag and retrieved the single hoop earring from Ryan that had managed to survive. She’d just placed it beside a stuffed teddy bear with angel wings, when two girls came to stand beside her, and one of them said, “Oh, look at all the pretty flowers!” She angled her cell and started filming.
Her friend snickered and shook her head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Shhh . . . video in progress!” And then in a mock-serious tone: “We’re on Hollywood Boulevard outside Night for Night, where MaryDella Slocum was last seen.” The girl couldn’t even finish the sentence without breaking into hysterical laughter, prompting her friend to take over.
“And we sincerely hope she turns up dead, because that’s what she deserves for lying to us all these years! RIP, bitch!”
Madison froze. She felt like she was about to be sick.
She looked to her fan in the hideous sundress. Surely she’d jump in to defend her. But she didn’t. Nobody did. And that was when Madison realized they weren’t there to memorialize her. They were there to condemn her and all the lies she’d told through the years.
“I can’t believe what a phony she turned out to be,” someone said.
Another chimed in, “Well, she may be a fake, but I still like her movies.”
“I’m not surprised,” said a girl in an off-the-shoulder T-shirt. “Everything about her seemed bogus. I heard she gets tons of Botox, and those aren’t even her real eyes—they’re contacts.”