Aster gulped, dropped her gaze to the floor. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She looked like c.r.a.p, smelled like boy, and her mother was totally onto her.

"And what is that you're wearing?"

Aster rubbed her lips together, squinted at her clothes-or rather, Ryan Hawthorne's clothes. "It's just, you know, the 'borrowed from your boyfriend' look, that's all."

Her father let out a small cry of despair and rushed down the hall as though his daughter had just died and he couldn't bear to look at the corpse. But of course Nanny Mitra stayed put. She had absolutely no qualms about hanging around the crime scene.

"And who is this boyfriend you borrowed these from?" Her mother inched closer. Close enough to catch the scent of shame and despair surrounding her daughter.

"Mine." Javen pushed his way into her room and stood before their mom. "I mean, clearly I'm not her boyfriend, because-gross! But the clothes belong to me."

Their mother waved a hand in dismissal. "Javen, go to your room. You have nothing to do with this," she said, but Javen stayed put.

"You're wrong. I have everything to do with this. My sister raided my closet without my permission! I'd like to see her punished for that." He crossed his arms in defiance and arranged his face into the kind of angry expression he was unused to wearing.

It was a good attempt, and Aster loved him more in that moment than she probably ever had, but she wouldn't let him take the fall. Not like their mother was buying it. With a nod to Nanny Mitra, Javen was hauled out of the room by his arm, shouting in protest the whole way.

Too ashamed to face her mother, Aster stared down at her feet and studied her pedicure, sickened by the sight of the dark-red polish she'd chosen with the sole hope of gaining Ryan's approval. If she confided the truth that she didn't exactly have a boyfriend, but that for a few false moments she'd allowed herself to believe that she had, only to discover she'd been deflowered and discarded without a second glance-well, it was everything her mother had ever warned her about come true, in the most awful, most dramatic, most public way possible.

"There's no boyfriend," she whispered, eyes burning with tears.

"Then where did you get these clothes if there is no boyfriend to borrow them from?"

"Doesn't matter." She shook her head, wondering how it was possible for the night that had started so perfectly to end in such a nightmare.

"On the contrary." Her mother's voice rang as sharp as the verdict she would surely deliver. "You snuck out of the house, only to arrive home early in the morning wearing the clothes of a boy who isn't your boyfriend. I say it matters a great deal."

Aster forced herself to keep standing, keep breathing, but did nothing to stop the flow of tears that streamed down her face. She'd shamed herself, shamed her family. The only thing left was to wait for whatever punishment her mother deemed appropriate for the offense.

"All of which begs the question: If you're wearing his clothes, what happened to yours?"

Aster thought about the dress and undergarments she'd left in the trash. Stuff her mother had never seen and luckily never would-her one smart move in a long list of regrets.

"Does it matter?" She lifted her chin, her vision blurred by tears, as her mother stood stiff-backed before her. "Do you really give a s.h.i.t about the current state of my clothes?"

Her mother's gaze hardened, as Aster awaited final judgment. Among her many crimes, she'd used foul language and spent the night with a boy who wasn't her boyfriend-a boy she would never marry-the ruling would undoubtedly be harsh.

"You're grounded until further notice."

Aster exhaled. She'd honestly thought she might be packed off to a brutal reform school for wayward girls, or excommunicated from the family. In the scheme of things, grounded wasn't so bad.

"You will not leave this house for any reason whatsoever outside of an emergency."

She nodded. That would certainly keep her out of the contest, but Ira Redman's compet.i.tion no longer made the list of things she cared about. Besides, she didn't want to leave the house, possibly ever again.

"Okay." Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she headed for the shower, only to hear her mom call out from behind.

"You've disrespected yourself and brought great shame on this family. This is not something your father will recover from anytime soon."

Aster stopped, knowing she shouldn't say it, but she'd already fallen so far she figured she had nothing to lose. "And what about you?" She turned to face her mother. "How soon will you recover?"

She held her mother's gaze, the seconds seeming to multiply before her mother shook her regal head, lifted a finger toward the bathroom, and said, "Go clean yourself up, Aster. Your father and I have had a very long trip. We are tired and in need of rest."

Without another word, she turned on her Ferragamo heels and closed the door behind her. Leaving Aster to stare after them, knowing she'd disappointed her family in a way she might never recover from.

FORTY-FOUR.

THE SWEET ESCAPE.

Layla wandered around the hotel meeting room. With its beige-and-white-patterned carpet, beige movable walls, and the lineup of beige chairs along the stage where Madison and her fellow actors would sit, the room elevated the neutral look to a ridiculous level. Still, the blandness of her surroundings did nothing to dampen her excitement at having fudged her way into her first press conference. She just hoped no one questioned her credentials. It would be embarra.s.sing to get kicked out in front of a crowd she admired.

She moved among the other journalists, not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed when no one took much notice of her. Well, at least there was a coffee setup in the corner. She never turned down a chance at caffeine, no matter how bad the coffee might be.

"Late as always."

She gazed up at the woman who'd said it, about to defend herself, point out that she was actually early, when she realized the woman was referring to the event.

"Typical celebrity bulls.h.i.t." She looked at Layla as though expecting her to agree.

"I know, right?" Layla said, immediately regretting it. It made her sound as young and inexperienced as she was. But the woman didn't seem to mind.

"Trena. Trena Moretti." She offered a hand, and Layla juggled her coffee in order to take it. "LA Times digital division." She shook her head, setting her wild bronze curls shimmering in a way that reminded Layla of fire season. "Still can't get used to saying that. I came over from the Washington Post."

Layla nodded. "Layla Harrison." She purposely omitted the name of her rag, mostly because it didn't exist. But when Trena leaned closer, eyes narrowed, trying to make out the name on her badge, she reluctantly said, "The Independent. Probably haven't heard of it, since we're new and . . . independent." Oh yeah, that was super convincing.

Trena shot her a knowing look. "First time at one of these?"

Layla was about to deny it, claim she'd been to many, but Trena was onto her. "That obvious?"

"You're drinking the coffee." Trena grinned. "Though it's good to see an excited new face. Reminds me why I was once drawn to this field."

"Why'd you leave the Post?" Layla asked, wondering if it was too invasive of a question for someone she'd just met, but weren't journalists supposed to dig deep? And besides, Trena could always plead the Fifth.

"A major career shift brought on by a cheating fiance. Guess Madison and I have more in common than I thought." She laughed, prompting Layla to laugh too. With her smooth caramel complexion, and intense blue-green eyes, she was incredibly striking. "So, what's your interest in Madison?" Trena asked.

Layla shrugged. She didn't have a ready answer for that. "I guess I don't trust her," she said, deciding to answer honestly. "And I'm waiting for her to slip up, show us who she really is."

Trena tapped her water bottle against Layla's Styrofoam cup. "That makes two of us. You see that breakup video?"

Layla nodded vaguely. If there was ever a time to brag about her accomplishments, it was now. But her badge claimed she worked for a nonexistent rag.

Trena looked toward the stage. "Oh, finally," she said. "Shall we?"

Layla glanced in that direction. She'd planned to stay put, stick to the fifty-foot radius she'd been warned about. But just as quickly she decided against it. She was a member of the press, and the press wouldn't be silenced.

She followed Trena, thrilled to have met someone who could possibly become a mentor. The two of them watched as Madison's costars took the stage one by one, leaving the chair in the middle, the one reserved for the star, empty, as the moderator took the mike and said, "We apologize for the delay."

"I'll bet." Trena rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"We're now ready to begin, but there's one caveat." He paused as though waiting for the situation to change within the next twenty seconds. When it didn't, he said, "It looks like Madison Brooks will not be joining us today."

That simple announcement was enough to set off an explosion of shouting as the reporters jockeyed for attention, yelling their questions.

Where's Madison?

What explanation did she give?

Does this have something to do with the events at Night for Night?

The moderator held up his hands. "I don't have answers to any of your questions, but if you'll all quiet down, we can proceed."

Trena glanced at Layla with an annoyed look on her face. "I don't know about you, but without Madison, I have no good reason to be here." She made for the door as Layla followed. "I'm not much for clubbing," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "But I'd love to talk with someone who was there. Something about that breakup feels wrong."

"I was there." Layla stopped short of the door, reluctant to leave her first press conference. With or without Madison, it was still worth attending.

"You don't strike me as the nightclub type." Trena studied her with renewed interest.

"I'm not." Layla shrugged. "Which is why I suck at my job as a promoter."

Trena fought to maintain a neutral face, but Layla caught the fleeting glimmer in her eye all the same.

"What do you say I buy you lunch, and in exchange, you tell me about your job as a promoter at Night for Night?"

"I promote Jewel. Another of Ira Redman's clubs."

"That works too." Trena pushed her way outside, a.s.suming Layla would follow.

She gazed back at the stage, a bunch of blah-blah about how much fun they all had working together, when the truth was, they probably all hated one another. More Hollywood bulls.h.i.t. The PR wheel never stopped spinning.

"Wait up!" she called, pausing long enough to toss her coffee in the trash before following Trena into the sun.

FORTY-FIVE.

NOWHERE GIRL.

Was It Murder?

Following a very public breakup from former boyfriend Ryan Hawthorne after discovering his indiscretion with Aster Amirpour (a promoter for Ira Redman's Night for Night nightclub), America's Darling and tabloid staple Madison Brooks has seemingly fallen off the face of the earth.

Ms. Brooks is one of the world's most photographed celebrities, so the lack of sightings, along with the failure of the star to show up for scheduled appearances on Ellen, Conan, the Today show, and the press conference where she was first discovered missing, is troubling those closest to her, though the LAPD doesn't seem to share their concern.

"There are a variety of reasons why a person voluntarily disappears," claims Detective Sean La.r.s.en. "Not all missing persons are victims of foul play. And being a voluntary missing person is not a crime in itself. We ask the press to keep that in mind. All of this wild speculation is probably only serving to drive her farther away. After all she's been through, the poor girl is probably just looking for some privacy."

Maybe so. But according to Madison's longtime a.s.sistant, Emily Shields, there's one thing Madison Brooks would never abandon. "Was Madison upset about what happened between her and Ryan? Of course, who wouldn't be? But even if she did decide to hide out for a while, she never would've left without Blue. That dog is her best friend in the world. He cries all day without her, like he senses something's wrong, and it's breaking my heart. If anyone out there knows what happened to Madison, please, please speak up. We need your help, since the police don't seem to care."

At what point will the LAPD wake up and realize what the dog knows?

Something's gone terribly wrong with Madison Brooks.

Trena Moretti skimmed the article she'd written, then adjusted the font until the screaming headline filled up the screen.

Was It Murder?

Inflammatory? No doubt.

Attention-getting? Definitely.

But then, wasn't that the point?

It'd been days since anyone last saw Madison, and the usual rumors tossed around by the press had failed to satisfy her reporter's quest for the truth.

Madison's on the set of a top secret project, they'd said. Highly unlikely given that Madison herself had declared a hiatus, and from what Trena had gathered, Madison had done nothing to make her think otherwise.

Madison's holed up at the Golden Door, overcoming "exhaustion." The usual overused euphemism (along with dehydration) churned out by the Hollywood PR machine, which usually meant the star in question was suffering some sort of addiction, depressive episode, or maybe even an overdose-none of which applied to Madison. Not only had Trena contacted the Golden Door, but also Miraval, Mii amo, even the Ashram-a decidedly luxury-lacking starvation retreat inexplicably adored by A-list celebrities. Only the truly rich and spoiled would think nothing of spending thousands of dollars for a week of rigorous exercise, minuscule food portions, and austere rooms with shared bathrooms. And though Madison was undisputedly one of the most spoiled of all, according to Trena's sources, she hadn't checked into any of those places.

Madison and Ryan are reconciling on a remote island paradise. Another unlikely scenario, considering Ryan had become more visible than ever-there wasn't an interview he wasn't willing to grant. He basically repeated the same unbelievable refrain, claiming he'd felt Madison pulling away and so he'd hooked up with Aster Amirpour in an attempt to make Madison jealous. It was undoubtedly immature-an act he deeply regretted. According to People, US Weekly, and OK! magazines, not a day went by when he didn't wish he'd handled it differently. More than anything, he wanted Madison to return so he could offer the apology she deserved. Though he entertained no illusions about her taking him back, he was sure she was off somewhere licking her wounds, wounds he'd undoubtedly caused, but she'd show up eventually. In the meantime, after all she'd gone through, she deserved a little s.p.a.ce and privacy. He even went so far as to plead with the press to back off the story and show some respect.

Trena had dutifully slogged through the interviews, and as far as she was concerned, Ryan Hawthorne was giving the performance of a lifetime.

There was something far darker at stake.

Madison wasn't quite the girl she pretended to be. She worked hard to maintain her party image-yet she clearly preferred her sobriety. She seemed to spend a lot of time shopping-yet she spent very little of her own money, since most of the clothes she wore were given to her by the designers themselves. A single photograph of the right celebrity wearing the right dress was enough to boost a designer's profile, not to mention their profits, as it usually amounted to thousands of fans spending their hard-earned money to own the same thing. The result was an enormous return for a meager investment, and Madison was a willing partic.i.p.ant in the game.

From what Trena could determine, Madison's house was her one major extravagance. Though the number of gates and security measures she'd taken made it seem more like a fortress.