Ryan flashed his palms in surrender and settled back in his seat. Aster was sure that was the end of it until he piped up again. “I’m just saying if you were assaulted, then you need to get checked by a physician.”
It was all she could do to keep from screaming in frustration. She needed to focus, needed to locate some kind of landmark telling her she was on the right path. But with Ryan going on the way he was, it was nearly impossible. Through gritted teeth she glared at him and said, “And what good would it do? That was weeks ago. Besides, what are they going to do—conduct a virginity test?”
“Aster.” He placed a hand on her arm, but the way she flinched in response saw him quickly retract. “I know a doctor who can help. She has a large celebrity clientele and knows how to keep the press away. Look, I don’t want to cross any boundaries, and I apologize if this is coming off all wrong, or offending you in any way. It’s just . . . well, I’m worried about you, and I want you to know that I’m here to help in any way I can.”
Aster closed her eyes, but only for a moment. She was way beyond shutting out the sort of things she wasn’t ready to face. It was time to put that particular game to rest. Besides, she needed to take steps toward reclaiming her memories and clearing her name. Maybe seeing a doctor would help in some way.
“Also . . .” He shot her a tentative look. “From everything you’ve said, it sounds like someone drugged you. You only drank half your champagne and you can’t remember a thing. I drained the bottle while waiting for you to return, and I was fine.”
Aster froze, forced herself not to react, at least not outwardly. Though there was nothing she could do about the wild trembling inside her belly.
“Who poured the champagne?” Her voice shook as she fought to recall.
Ryan looked right at her. “Ira.”
Aster slammed the brakes hard, causing the car to skid to a stop and just narrowly miss the SUV right before her. She gripped the wheel tightly and struggled to catch her breath, unsure if her pounding heart was because of what Ryan had said, the near miss, or the view just beyond the windshield.
“That’s it!” she whispered.
“You seriously think Ira had something to do with it?” Ryan made a surprised face. “I mean, why would he go after Madison—and why would he frame you for it? What could he possibly gain from something like that?”
Aster could think of a few things Ira could gain—namely the kind of PR for his clubs that money could never buy. Still, she shook her head in dismissal. She couldn’t even think about that. She was too busy counting the seconds until the light turned green once again.
“Aster? You okay?”
Ryan shifted in his seat and leaned toward her, as Aster pushed through the intersection. Once she’d cleared it, she jammed the wheel to the right and parked alongside the curb. “This is it.” She nudged her chin toward the high-rise looming tall and wide before her. “This is the building.”
Without a word, Ryan popped his door open.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m investigating.”
“You don’t even know what to look for.”
“And you do?”
“I remember everything from that morning.”
The look he gave her was doubtful.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t remember the address, but everything else is clear as a photograph. Besides, you’re too recognizable.”
“And you’re not?”
She reached into the backseat and retrieved a slouchy black beanie for him and a large floppy brimmed hat for herself. Paired with the dark sunnies she was already wearing, she reasoned she could be mistaken for just about anybody.
“You really think it’s this easy?” He assessed his reflection in the lighted visor mirror.
“Look, it’s now or never,” she said in frustration. Ryan’s skepticism only served to magnify her own, and she couldn’t afford to take on his doubt. She needed to move before she lost all her nerve. “For the moment, no one even knows that I’m out, which means this may be my one and only chance to move about without the paps on my trail. Ira can only hold back TMZ for so long, you know. Besides, once Trena’s interview airs, it’ll be a whole other story. And it’s not like you can stop me.”
Ryan shook his head, slipped out of the car, and walked alongside her toward the building’s entrance. “Pretty sure this is it,” she said.
“How sure?”
“Eighty to ninety percent sure.”
“What will it take to get a hundred?”
“The artwork in the lobby. It’s big, bold, colorful, and definitely memorable.”
Ryan frowned. “All these buildings have modern art in their foyers. . . .”
“Trust me, I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, cutting him off. “Now try to be quiet and pretend you don’t know me.” She pushed through the revolving glass door, crossed the gleaming stone floor, and approached the guy behind the concierge desk tucked away in the corner. He definitely hadn’t been there the morning she’d fled. Then again, she’d left just after sunrise, so it was probably hours before his shift began. “I was wondering if there were any available units I could see?” She stole a quick glance at Ryan, who was somewhere behind her, discreetly taking pics with his cell phone.
She held her breath as the guy looked her over. His gaze shifted from her hat, to her sunglasses, to her expensive designer bag, before he finally got around to replying. “You can check with the leasing office if you want, or I can save you the trip and tell you there’re no vacancies.”
He returned to his phone as though expecting her to leave, but Aster remained firmly in place. “Nothing at all—not even short term?”
The guy looked her over again. This time studying her so intensely, Aster was sure he recognized her as the girl in the picture, right next to the one of Madison, featured on the cover of the newspaper he’d recently abandoned to the far side of his desk. But all he said was, “No short terms allowed.”
He was back to ignoring her, but Aster had no intention of giving up so easily. Leaning against the desk, she flashed him the best grin she could manage, considering the scab bisecting her lip. “Just because they’re not allowed doesn’t mean they don’t happen. . . .” She slid a thick roll of bills toward him and pushed her lips wider.
“You two together?” He glanced between her and Ryan, who was wandering around the lobby.
Without hesitation, Aster shook her head.
The guy paused as though considering whether or not to believe her.
“Fine.” He relented and slid a plastic key fob toward her. “Twelfth floor, unit seven.”
“And the price?”
“Two K a week, plus a five-hundred-dollar deposit.”
Aster nodded and made her way toward the elevator bank. She’d just hit the call button when she heard the guy address Ryan. “Hey, bro, you need something?”
“I’m wondering what you can you tell me about this piece.” Ryan gestured toward the large painting Aster had recognized from her last visit.
“Local artist. Signed at the bottom.” The guy shrugged, frowned, and went back to his phone.
“Yeah . . .” Ryan bent to get a closer look at the bottom right corner. “I can’t quite make it out.” He glanced between the guy and the painting.
The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and Aster stepped inside. Last thing she heard before the doors squeezed shut was the guy’s annoyed voice telling Ryan, “It’s by H. D. Harrison.” Followed by, “You know there’s no loitering, right?”
Aster rode the elevator all the way to the twelfth floor, trying to think of why the artist’s name was so familiar. By the time the car arrived, she’d given up and gone in search of unit seven.
She tapped the key fob against the reader and felt a small burst of triumph when the light flashed green, allowing her entry. Despite all the mental prep she’d put herself through, the moment she stepped inside, her heart clenched like a fist and she
was forced to grasp frantically at the glass console in an effort to steady herself.
This was it. She was sure of it.
The oversize modern furniture with its leather couches and mirrored surfaces, and the black satin sheets in the bedroom (the sight of which made her skin crawl), all of it was familiar—terribly, hauntingly familiar.
She was glad she’d made Ryan stay behind. He meant well, she knew, but this wasn’t the sort of moment she was willing to share. While she had no idea what had transpired here, chances were it wasn’t good. Either way, she couldn’t afford any distractions when there was so much she needed to process.
After peering inside the closet and drawers and finding them empty, she sighed in frustration. The events of that night remained as elusive as ever.
Was Ryan right? Had someone gone to the trouble to drug her? Ira had poured the champagne, and yet she had a hard time believing he was responsible. Maybe she was being naive, but really, why would Ira go to the trouble to frame her, only to go to even greater trouble to help her disentangle herself from the mess? It just didn’t make sense.
She moved through the apartment. There was no telling how many people had occupied the space since she’d left. But who had rented it that night? And had they done so with the sole intent of setting her up? Surely her attorneys could subpoena the records, but that would require her to confide that she’d been here, and that she wouldn’t, couldn’t do.
There had to be another way.
She took pics of all the rooms, including the one where, according to the DVD, she’d acted out her shameful striptease. First standing in the spot where the person with the camera might’ve stood, and then from the place where she’d danced. She closed her eyes and tried to rewind to that night, when she heard the muffled sound of something moving beside her.
Her eyes sprang open, her pulse jammed into overdrive, and she whirled all around, trying to determine who had managed to sneak in without her noticing.
She heard the sound again, insistent but hollow. “Ryan?” she called in a shaky voice that betrayed the full extent of her fear. Her body tensed, she crept toward the door, nearly tripping over her bag, which had fallen to the floor.
What the—?
The sound repeated, followed by a soft knock at the door. Slinging her purse onto her shoulder, she crept toward the entry and peered through the peephole, then frowned as she let Ryan in.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she whispered as her phone vibrated from inside her purse and she recognized it as the sound that she’d heard.
“I sent you a text.”
Without a word she moved back into the living room, as Ryan looked all around. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists, as though ready to lash out at the specter of the person who’d wronged her.
In a way, it was sweet. But Aster refused to be swayed.
“This is where I was standing when that video was made,” she said, hating the way her voice shook when she said it.
“So, how far away was the person filming you?”
She looked at him, not quite comprehending.
“I mean, was it a close-up, or a bit farther away?”
Aster swallowed hard, and said, “A bit farther away. Like, you could see most of me . . . or at least to my knees . . . maybe my shins. I can’t really remember. But I don’t think you could see my feet.”
Ryan nodded and squinted at the painting. “So, someone was standing here.” He went to stand just in front of it. But before he reached it, something caught Aster’s eye.
“Wait—is that . . .”
Ryan turned to see what she was pointing at.
“Do you see that? Right there—toward the middle. Is that a hole?”
They moved closer, and as Ryan brushed his fingers over the canvas, they caught in the small hole that had been punched into the painting.
The artwork was large and vibrant, another H. D. Harrison, according to the signature at the bottom. And though the puncture was small and easily missed, upon closer inspection there was no doubt it’d been purposely placed there. She’d started to lift the painting from the wall when Ryan rushed to help. Then the two of them gaped in dismay at the crudely constructed shallow shelf that could easily hold a portable video surveillance device or even a cell phone set to record.
“Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you think?” Ryan had barely finished the thought when Aster whirled on him, ready to let him have it, and he quickly flashed his palms in surrender. “I know. I just heard it, and I’m sorry that it came out all wrong. What I meant was, maybe you were alone. Maybe no one was ever here with you.”
She felt the air rush out of her as the real words, the ones he wanted to say, but either couldn’t or wouldn’t, played in her head. Maybe your worst fear never happened. Maybe no one raped you. Maybe you can let go of this particular burden you’ve been dragging around.
The thought was worth clinging to, but at the moment, it was pure speculation. There was no proof it was true.
All she knew for sure was that someone had gone to great lengths to set her up. The thought of this nameless, faceless enemy intent on taking her down was almost impossible to imagine, and yet Aster no longer had the luxury of living in denial.
After taking a series of pics of the find, Ryan replaced the painting, and they made to leave. Checking her phone on the way out the door, she gasped audibly as she read Ira’s text.
“What is it?” Ryan slung a protective arm around her, and for a change, she made no attempt to push him away.
Wanted you to hear it from me first—your trial date just set for Sept 20. Earlier than hoped, but judge won’t budge. Not to worry, your defense is on it.
She stood rooted in place, on the verge of hyperventilating. “I can’t even believe this!” She gazed imploringly at Ryan. “I’m a little more than a month away from sitting in a courtroom, forced to passively look on as my attorneys try to convince twelve strangers to believe in my innocence, and they probably won’t even let me testify on my own behalf. The defense is always so afraid the defendant will get tripped up under cross-examination they rarely allow that. Meanwhile, the jurors all naturally assume that if you really are innocent, then you should get up there and proclaim it. So when you don’t, it’s like a major strike against you. There’s no getting around it—I’m doomed!”
Her knees started to give as she saw the floor rearing up to meet her. And the next thing she knew, Ryan had folded her into his arms and was smoothing a hand over her hair, whispering softly into her ear. “It’s all right—you’re all right—it will all be okay. . . .”
She wanted to believe him, wanted so badly for it to be true. But a moment later, she broke free of his grasp, steadied herself, and said, “But what if you’re wrong?”
His worried gaze met hers, but it was nothing compared to the brand of panic stirring within her.
“Way it stands now, there’s just not enough to support my plea of innocent. My only hope for acquittal lies in finding a proper alibi—one that can’t be contested. Which means I have to fill in the missing gaps of that night or find Madison. Either way, I need to move fast. Every moment spent is a potential moment lost. The countdown has begun.”
She moved toward the elevator bank and impatiently jabbed the call button with one hand, while texting Javen with the other and asking him to meet after school. Then, looking at Ryan, she said, “Wait a few minutes before you make your way down. Then meet me outside by the car.”
She rode the car to the lobby and returned the key fob to the concierge.
“And?” The guy gave her a squinty look. Or maybe that was how he always looked.
“I’m definitely interested,” Aster told him, her voice a little shaky in a way she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “How does this work?”
He slid a card toward her. It was completely blank other than a web address.
“Log on, fill out the form, and make your deposit online.”
“That’s it?”
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He shrugged noncommittally. “You want more?”
For someone playing fast and loose with the rules, he sure was a prick. Still, Aster just shot him another bright grin and made for the door. She’d just passed the painting hanging in the entry when the thought hit her.
H. D. Harrison was Layla Harrison’s dad.
EIGHTEEN
PAINT IT BLACK
“Where you headed?”
Tommy froze in his tracks and stared longingly at the door. He’d been so close—just a handful of steps from freedom—only to get caught checking out early. He waited a beat, sucked in a breath, then turned to face Ira.
“Uh, I’ve got a meeting, so . . .” He jabbed a thumb toward the door as though Ira hadn’t realized that was his intended destination. As though his sole purpose for interrupting him hadn’t been to stop him from leaving.
Ira eased around the bar and came to stand before him. Between the expensive designer clothes he wore like armor, and his usual unreadable expression, he was intimidating as hell, and pretty much the last person Tommy wanted to displease. Though he guessed it was too late for that.
“And this meeting of yours—does it happen to be work related?”
Not really, Tommy thought. What he said was, “Of course.”
Ira looked him over. “VIP room’s shaping up nicely,” he finally said. “You been up there lately?”
Tommy shook his head. Though Ira’s tone seemed friendly enough, it was never a good idea to relax around him. Like any fierce predator, it was impossible to tell when he might strike.
“Don’t you think you should take a look? Seeing as it’s your job to promote it.”
Tommy shrugged, raked a hand through his hair. “Just trying to give the artist some privacy. Besides, pretty sure the room will promote itself once it’s ready.”