Trena spoke in earnest, but Layla responded by rolling her eyes. “Pretty sure I saw that exact quote on an inspirational meme.”
To her surprise, Trena laughed. “Listen, I think I know you well enough to know you don’t sit around waiting for people to tell you what to do. You’re smarter than most, and your vision cuts right through the bullshit. Don’t deny that part of yourself—use it! Now more than ever, you’ve got to put your strengths to work so you can clear your name. As a journalist, your credibility depends on your reputation. You lose the trust of the people, you lose everything.”
Layla grew quiet, allowing the words to sink in. “It’s not just the notes and the death threats. Whoever’s behind this always knows right where to find me. They have access to everything.”
“So, who has direct access to your life outside of Aster, Tommy, and Ryan?”
“My dad.” Layla shrugged. “Mateo—or at least he used to. Ira.” Her gaze leveled on Trena’s.
“So perhaps we should take a closer look at some of them.”
“Aster, Tommy, and Ryan were arrested too.”
“And what about Mateo? Where was he?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“But he knew you were going?”
“Forget Mateo,” Layla snapped, surprising herself. “Not because of any lingering feelings for him, but . . .” Before she could finish, Trena shot her a knowing look that annoyed Layla to no end. “Just because a relationship ends, doesn’t mean—” She caught herself before she could go any further. Overexplaining was only making it worse. “Whatever, just . . . no.”
“That leaves Ira. Also, your dad, but let’s just stick with Ira.”
It wasn’t like Layla hadn’t always considered Ira a suspect, but she had no idea where to begin.
“Problem is, I haven’t been able to uncover much of anything. Certainly no ties to West Virginia, though there was a stint in Oklahoma that for some reason he keeps under wraps.”
“Oklahoma?” Layla jerked to attention.
“He went to university there, though not for long. It was right before he moved to LA.”
“Do you know when that was?” Layla fought to keep her cool and seem only mildly interested.
“Nearly two decades ago, but there’s no connection to Madison. Thing is, if Ira is behind this, which I really believe he could be, then there’s got to be a connection somewhere, something that links him to Madison. So far, all I’ve managed to uncover is the stuff you already know. . . .”
Trena went on to list Madison’s lies. How she wasn’t really a tragic yet well-bred East Coast prep, but rather little MaryDella Slocum, born and raised in West Virginia until the night her parents mysteriously died in a fire and she was reborn as Madison.
Layla tuned her out. She’d heard it all before. It was Ira’s stint in Oklahoma that intrigued her the most.
Tommy was from Oklahoma. And though Trena had been vague about the dates, Tommy was eighteen, soon to be nineteen. Ira having been there around two decades ago gave new insight into something that had always bothered her, a sort of nagging truth she could never quite grasp.
Tommy possessed an uncanny understanding of Ira’s motivations. Once, when Layla questioned him, Tommy had been quick to dismiss it, claiming he simply liked to know who he worked for.
At the time, Layla let it pass. But now, if what Trena said was true, then Layla was sure Ira Redman was Tommy’s father.
“I found a news report claiming two dead and two injured in that fire. Madison burned her arm, as we all know, but I got the impression the article wasn’t referring to her. . . .” Trena droned on while Layla pretended to listen. Truth was, her mind was in a whirl.
Tommy Phillips was Ira Redman’s son!
The more Layla thought about it, the more it made sense.
Their nearly identical navy-blue eyes only served to seal it.
Layla looked at Trena, wondering if she should tell her.
“Before MaryDella was adopted, she lived with Eileen Banks, Paul Banks’s mother.” Trena’s voice was a whisper. “Paul was first on the scene the night of the fire. He was head of the drug task force unit before he abruptly quit and moved to LA.”
If Ira was somehow behind it, and Tommy was involved, did that mean Tommy was part of it too?
Layla shivered at the thought, causing Trena to misread her reaction. “I know,” she said. “It’s like the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to take shape; only the inside is still missing, so we can’t yet determine the face.”
Layla decided to keep the revelation to herself. Information was power, and she’d yet to meet the person who could keep a secret as potentially explosive as that.
She pushed her thoughts aside and focused on Trena.
“In the diary entry, she mentioned she owes her life to P,” Trena said. “Clearly P stands for Paul. I’ve been unable to locate him, which led me to believe the body found in Joshua Tree was his.”
Layla’s gaze narrowed.
“LAPD’s holding a press conference today—they identified the body.” She paused dramatically, as though imagining the at-home audience leaning closer to their TV screens.
Layla found it extremely annoying.
With a shake of her curls, Trena said, “Not him.”
Just like that, Layla felt a block of tension dissolve. Paul had served her a restraining order demanding she stay clear of Madison. It was a connection Layla couldn’t afford. Larsen would read it as motive. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Kevin O’Dell.”
The name meant nothing to Layla.
“A white male, forty-one years old, with an extensive criminal record. All petty crime, nothing that points to kidnapping or murder.”
“Then why was Madison’s tracker found with his body?”
Trena shrugged. “I’m sure he’s a suspect. But I also heard the body was purposely dumped there long before you arrived, so there’s a good chance he’ll be cleared. If you ask me, someone set the scene, then lured you there on purpose.” She glanced over her shoulder, as though she didn’t quite trust her surroundings. “We need to find Paul. He’ll lead us to Madison.”
“You think he kidnapped her?”
Without hesitation, Trena said, “Technically, I guess he could have, but I doubt it. I think he’s protecting her.”
“What makes you say that?”
Trena hooked a stray curl behind her ear. “He’s spent a lifetime doing exactly that. Why stop now?”
“A thing does what a thing is known to do.”
Trena quirked a brow.
“Something I read once. It stuck because it seemed simultaneously dumb and insightful. Anyway, in this case it applies. But don’t you think we should look into this Kevin O’Dell person?”
Trena nodded. “That’s how we find Paul. My gut tells me they’re linked. And when my gut speaks, I’ve learned to listen.” She gave a short laugh. “Well, most of the time.”
“So why include me?”
“Because you’re coming on my show, of course.”
Layla sat with the news. She should’ve guessed as much. “And what do I get in return? Aside from being on your show, which isn’t actually as valuable as you might think.”
Trena’s expression was patient. “Don’t kid yourself,” she said. “But if you need more, how about a letter of recommendation to the journalism school of your dreams?”
Layla paused a few beats to consider. “It’s a start.” She knew better than to display even the slightest hint of appreciation. “So, where to begin?”
“With Javen. Unless you know of a better hacker we can trust.”
“I can’t go near him. I won’t take the chance, not after the text I received.”
“Okay, so I’ll deal with Javen. And you?”
Layla lifted her chin. “I’m going after Ira.” She rose from the bench and straightened her skirt. Now that she’d decided, she was eager to leave. “Thanks for the talk,” she said, surpris
ing Trena with her sudden departure. “It really did help.”
Before Trena could respond, Layla retraced her steps to her car. About to climb inside, she noticed a small envelope wedged under her windshield wiper, though of course there was no one around. Whoever was responsible for these things made a point of never being caught at the scene.
She ran a finger under the flap and retrieved a note written on high-quality card stock with a rhyme that read:
Seems like you’ve learned your lesson
So I won’t keep you guessin’
Meeting with Trena puts you on the right track
Though she has never truly had your back
She’s hiding a clue
And has no plans to reveal it to you
You can beat her at her own fame-seeking game
Or risk looking lame
It’s up to you to discover
I shall remain undercover
If you make me proud
I will sing your praises out loud
If not
I will make sure you rot
Without hesitation, Layla slipped the note into her bag, reached for her phone, and called Javen.
NINE
CAKE BY THE OCEAN
Aster Amirpour gazed out the passenger-side window and stared longingly at the pretty postcard view of Laguna Beach. With its iconic lifeguard tower and crowded pedestrian walkways, everyone looked so happy and trouble free, skating, strolling, and surfing their way through another hot summer day.
At the start of the season, Aster would’ve defined luxury as a closet full of designer dresses, handbags, and shoes. It was only now that she understood just how misguided she’d been.
Real luxury, true luxury, was having the freedom to embrace a beautiful day relaxed and unbridled from the sort of threats she currently faced.
“I can’t believe I don’t visit more often.” She sounded distant and dreamy, like they were merely enjoying an afternoon drive, and not on a mission to unearth the sort of clues that could change everything.
“I blame the traffic. That long stretch of freeway is a formidable barrier no matter what time of day.” Ryan exited Coast Highway and navigated a series of hilly, narrow paved streets, as Aster tracked the numbers on the haphazard row of mailboxes alongside the road.
The neighborhood was beachy and cute, pretty much what she expected to find in a small coastal town, though its quaint appearance was deceiving. Those small, charming cottages were known to consistently fetch an easy seven figures whenever one came on the market. The neighboring Tuscan-style two-stories fetched even more.
“You sure this is the right street?” Aster frowned.
“Camellia—that’s a flower, right?”
Aster gave a distracted nod.
“But more importantly, are you sure you want to go through with this?”
Aster balked, surprised by his words. They’d driven all this way and he was still questioning her intentions? “Of course I’m going through with this! Unless you have a better idea?”
She didn’t mean to sound so edgy, but luckily, Ryan took it in stride. “Actually, I have a lot of ideas. Not necessarily better ones, just—”
From out of nowhere, a band of skateboarding teens blazed down the middle of the street, immune to any oncoming traffic concerns.
Ryan swerved to avoid them, then rolled his eyes and groaned, “Kids.”
Aster was about to laugh, when she noticed the house just up ahead. “That’s it.” She jabbed a finger in that direction. “Number fifty-eight. Quick, pull over!”
“Um, where?” Ryan glanced up and down the street, crowded with cars lining both sides.
“Right up there.”
“That’s someone’s driveway.”
“Well, I don’t know.” Aster was flustered. “Double-park—or drop me off while you figure it out.”
She was antsy, shaky. Now that they’d arrived, she could barely contain her excitement. It was entirely possible the clue she needed most was right within reach.
“Hey—” Ryan reached for her arm in an attempt to keep her from jumping free of the still-moving car. “You can’t just run in there. We need to come up with a convincing story.”
Aster grumbled in frustration and reached for the door handle. “I have a convincing story. I told you all about it on the drive down.”
“Okay, then we need a more convincing story.” Ryan switched between the side-view mirror and his backup monitor as he struggled to parallel park without scraping his bumper against the Tesla in front of him or the vintage Porsche angled awkwardly behind. “Listen,” he said. “I’m just . . .” He frowned at the small, well-kept cottage with its painted yellow shutters and wild English-style garden. “What exactly are you going to say? You can’t just storm in there and start grilling her about Madison.”
“Have a little faith.” Aster spoke with more confidence than she felt. “I’m going in as an interested buyer. I’ll admire her work, inquire about her process, and then I’ll just happen to mention . . .” She paused.
“That you saw her work on a missing A-list actress’s wall when you broke into her house?” Ryan righted the car and killed the ignition. “Call me crazy, but I highly advise against it.”
Aster steeled herself against him. “I’m going to wing this. I’m going to march right up to that front door, ring the bell, and see where it leads. So if you’d rather stay behind and keep a lookout for . . .” She glanced around the safe and pretty neighborhood, which seemed impervious to any sort of immediate danger. “Whatever,” she said, already tiring of the argument. “Just—are you in or are you out?”
Ryan sighed in a way that let her know he remained unconvinced. “We’re both easily recognized. I doubt she’ll be fooled.”
“Well, at this point, I have nothing to lose.” Agitated, Aster popped out of the car, unsure if he’d follow.
Ryan raced to catch up and entwined his fingers with hers. “This okay?” He raised their joined hands. “Are we a couple?”
Aster stalled. Was he asking in regard to the story they were going to tell? Or did he mean on a more personal level? Although he’d invited her to stay with him last night, she’d ended up sleeping alone in his guest room.
His gaze glittered on hers, and she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Following the arrowed signs leading to the studio tucked behind the small cottage, they came across an older woman busily tending the garden.
“We’re looking for Roland? Roland Jennings?” Aster said.
Gripping a pair of pink-handled clippers in her right hand, the woman slowly rose from a kneeling position and glanced between them. “I’m Roland.”
Aster fought to hide her surprise. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d expected the artist to be younger. In the bright sunlight, the woman appeared to be well into her sixties. But what she lacked in actual youth, she made up for in vibrant energy.
With her petite frame, short-cropped white hair, Breton-stripe T-shirt, and distressed skinny jeans, she reminded Aster of a chic combination of a female Andy Warhol and a more mature Jean Seberg.
“Do you have an appointment?” Roland anchored her dark sunglasses onto the top of her head and squinted against the glare of the sun.
Ryan looked worried, but Aster kept her composure and said. “I’m sorry, we didn’t realize we needed one.” Then, hoping to keep from being turned away, she was quick to add, “We just drove down from LA.”
“Well, aren’t you brave soldiers?” The woman’s lips widened and lifted in a way that sent her blue eyes sparkling and lit up her whole face. “Are you on holiday?”
Aster glanced at Ryan, then quickly shook her head. Roland was talking to them like they were just a normal couple enjoying a beautiful late summer day. Like she hadn’t seen a tabloid or turned on the news since last spring.
“Uh, no. Just a day trip,” Aster said.
“Too bad.” Roland placed a hand on her hip. “There are loads of interesting things to do an
d see. And here’s a well-kept secret: our beaches are much prettier than yours.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Ryan grinned, causing the woman to narrow her eyes and study him in a way that made Aster nervous.
“You a surfer?” Roland asked.
Ryan nodded, and Aster turned in surprise. She hadn’t known that about Ryan. Then again, there was probably a long list of things she still had to learn. Or maybe he was just acting. It was impossible to tell.
“I try to catch a few sets every morning,” the woman said. “If you stay, let me know. I’ll let you in on some of my favorite spots.” She set her clippers on a small mosaic-topped table and wiped her hands down the front of her jeans. “So what can I help you with?”
“We’re interested in seeing your work,” Aster said.
“Oh, well, that’s easy. I’m currently showing at a gallery just south of here on Coast Highway.”
“We’ll be sure to check it out,” Aster said. “But I heard you also allow private studio visits.”
Roland nodded. “By appointment only.”
“Oh, okay, well, we were hoping—”
Before she could finish, Ryan jumped in. “We were also interested in possibly commissioning a piece.” He squeezed Aster’s fingers, warning her not to say anything to the contrary.
Roland lingered in silence. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and motioned for them to follow.
She opened a door and led them inside a small but surprisingly warm and cozy space. Large windows punctuated the walls, and generous-sized skylights allowed a stream of natural light to pour in. There was a small kitchenette off to the left with a mini-fridge, a poured concrete countertop, and some pretty customized cabinets below and overhead. And a charming tiled fireplace was tucked away in the corner, surrounded by some comfortable-looking chairs and a carved wooden table piled high with various art tomes.
Although the room was cheery and bright, to Aster’s dismay there was no sign of either a camera or a darkroom.
Warily, she eyed the two easels in a far corner, both featuring similar works. One was a landscape of the beach at daybreak; the other a still life of an old, rustic shed with a surfboard propped alongside it.