Blacklist

  The package was substantial, but not terribly weighty. And when she shook it ever so slightly, she could sense something bulky shifting inside. All of which brought her no closer to guessing its contents.

  Hoping the mail room had some sort of defined protocol for screening potential mail bombs, she retrieved a pair of scissors from her drawer, sliced through the tape, and stared perplexed at the red satin heart-shaped box she found tucked inside with a small envelope attached to its front.

  It was the kind of box usually seen on Valentine’s Day. The kind of box that looked very out of place sitting on her desk in the middle of a scorching-hot August afternoon. And with no love life to speak of since Mateo had dumped her, she couldn’t even venture a guess as to who might’ve sent it.

  Her dad simply wasn’t the grand gesture type. And Ira—well, Ira was her boss, which made it grossly inappropriate and completely out of the question. As for Tommy . . . well, she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it.

  On the front of the envelope, her name was written in an elaborate curlicue script. Still no closer to determining who’d sent it, she flipped it over, ran her finger under the flap, and removed the small rectangular card placed inside, which bore a picture of a grinning cartoon cat with a noose tied snugly around its neck.

  Layla stared at the card—it was hideous, creepy, and the sight of it gave her the chills. While she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, one thing was sure—it definitely hadn’t been plucked from the Hallmark shelf.

  With trembling fingers, she popped the card open to find a message written in the same fancy curlicue script.

  Hey, Valentine!

  In your effort to help your friend get out of jail

  Your blog has become a total fail

  And while I consider that a real shame

  I think we both know, you alone are to blame

  If it’s clues that you want

  Then trust me, this is no taunt

  Inside the box awaits a surprise

  I truly believe it will open your eyes

  All I ask from you

  Is to post it for public view

  I hope you take the bait

  And don’t make me wait

  If this all gives you pause

  Then remember this clause:

  Curiosity killed the cat—but satisfaction brought her right back!

  Xoxo

  Your Secret Admirer

  Layla set the card aside and pried open the box, only to groan in dismay as a pile of pink confetti and glitter spilled out all around her. Her heart racing, she slipped a nail under the flap of the slim manila envelope hidden beneath and retrieved a single piece of paper folded neatly in thirds.

  The paper was yellowing and worn, its edges curled, the writing dramatic and loopy, with small chubby hearts dotting the i’s and carefully drawn stars and twisting vines of flowers trailing the length of the margins.

  Layla began to read, and by the time she reached the end she went right back to the beginning and started again. By the third reading, she was left with more questions than answers, mainly: Who on earth did it belong to and why had someone seen fit to send it to her?

  She was just refolding the pages, about to slip them back into the envelope, when a picture she hadn’t noticed tumbled out and landed faceup on her desk.

  The girl in the photo was young, probably somewhere around seven or eight, but definitely no older than ten. Her hair was long, tangled, and dark. She had skinny legs and dirty bare feet. The dress she wore was wrinkled, stained, and at least one size too small, while the doll she dangled by her side was missing an eye and a limb and wore a strange, somewhat malevolent, lopsided grin.

  But it was the girl’s eyes that held Layla transfixed. They were so intense, so arresting, so startlingly familiar it was nearly impossible to look away.

  Hurriedly, she shoved the package into her bag, pushed away from her desk, and darted toward the exit. Aware of Emerson’s gaze burning into the back of her head, she anchored her cell between her shoulder and ear and in a lowered voice said, “We need to meet. I think I’ve just found our first clue.”

  THREE

  THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHERF****R

  Aster Amirpour shuffled into the room and took the only chair available to her—the one bolted into the floor. Despite hating every moment of being locked in her cell, she’d come to dread leaving it as well, and for that she had her parents to thank. They meant well, she knew. But every visit from them and her attorneys left her feeling progressively worse, depleted of hope and resenting the freak show her life had become.

  It was strange to think how just a few months earlier she’d graduated high school fully convinced she was standing on the precipice of a bright and shiny future, only to end up arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder.

  All her life she’d dreamed of being famous—the face on every magazine cover, the name on everyone’s lips. Never once had she imagined she’d achieve all those things in the absolute worst, most inconceivable way.

  She’d been in lockup less than a week and she already missed absolutely everything having to do with her former life. She missed her little brother Javen so much it was like a physical ache. She missed the feel of the hot California sun on her skin and spontaneous trips to the beach with her friends. She missed shopping sprees at Barneys, her large collection of designer handbags and shoes, as well as her weekly salon appointments for manis, pedis, and blowouts. And after the revolting, carb-heavy, jail-issued meals she was forced to gag down, she could honestly say she even missed green juice. Basically every aspect of her daily existence she’d once taken for granted she found herself missing with the kind of intensity most people reserved for loved ones or pets. If she was lucky enough to get out, she swore to express a lot more gratitude for the luxurious life she’d been given.

  But for the moment, locked behind bars and clothed in an orange jail-issued jumpsuit, there was little to be grateful for. Her parents refused to let Javen visit, claiming they didn’t want Aster to traumatize him any more than she already had. Just when she was sure she’d reached rock bottom, their comment made her realize there were still several more layers of hell left to explore.

  Then there were the shackles her jailers insisted she wear on her ankles and wrists, which were not only humiliating but completely unnecessary. Aster wasn’t violent, and she certainly didn’t pose a threat to anyone, but she’d failed to convince them of that.

  It was hardly her fault that within minutes of being locked into the overcrowded holding cell she’d been dragged into a brawl. One moment she was eyeballing the filthy exposed toilet set smack in the center of the cell, wondering how long she could hold out before she’d have no choice but to use it, and the next, some crazy chick was whaling on her with both fists, leaving Aster no choice but to use the moves she’d learned in kickboxing class. Even though she’d acted in self-defense, there was no explaining that to the powers that be.

  In the end, the incident had gained her a black eye, a split lip, the distrust of her jailers, and her very own cell, which was meant as a punishment but felt more like a win.

  She slumped toward the edge of her seat and waited for her attorneys to enter, hoping they’d finally agreed to post bail. Her parents could’ve handled it days ago, but they wanted to teach Aster a lesson. As though the first-degree murder charge she was facing wasn’t lesson enough.

  And yet, as desperate as she was to get out—as much as she hated the food, the filthy mattress, the lack of privacy, the disgusting smells, the hideous orange jumpsuit she was forced to wear, and pretty much everything else—the idea of returning home to live with her parents was its own kind of prison. Sure, the environment was incomparably luxurious, but the house rules were just as stringent. Though at the moment, it was the only option she had.

  The door swooshed open behind her and Aster closed her eyes, wanting to savor a few moments to herself before she took in her mother’s impeccab
ly coiffed hair and expertly made-up face, which only seemed to emphasize the judgmental look in her eyes. Though as tough as it was facing her mother, seeing her father was worse. He could barely bring himself to look at her, and when he did, it left Aster wishing he hadn’t bothered. His grief was so profound Aster swore she could see it emanating from him like exhaust from a car. She’d been a daddy’s girl for as long as she could remember, but now that she’d done the unthinkable, now that she’d disappointed him and brought shame on the family, she was sure there was nothing she could ever do to regain his favor.

  It was a childish game, refusing to look. She’d done the same thing as a kid whenever she was faced with something she didn’t want to deal with. Of course it never worked, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Still, maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she’d wake from the nightmare and rewind her life to the day her agent called with news of Ira Redman’s contest. Only this time, armed with the foresight she lacked then, she’d refuse the offer and spend the rest of the summer like any other normal eighteen-year-old—shopping, sunning, flirting with cute boys, and waiting for her first semester of college classes to begin.

  “Aster. Aster—you okay?”

  The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t the one she’d expected. She blinked her eyes open to find Ira Redman sitting before her, wearing a crisp cotton shirt folded at the cuffs, the better to showcase his sporty Breguet watch. Beside him sat the attorney she’d met with before, back when she was first called in for questioning and had no idea just how much trouble she’d soon be facing.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I still represent you.” The lawyer centered his gaze on hers.

  Aster nodded and picked at her jail-issued jumpsuit, which drained her complexion and made her look as close to death as she currently felt. It was strange to see the two powerful men sitting before her. It was so opposite of what she’d expected it took a few moments to process.

  “I would’ve come sooner, but you forgot to put us on the list.” Ira shot her a pointed look that told her they both knew it wasn’t exactly an oversight.

  She squinted between the attorney and Ira. The two men were probably around the same age, but Ira was clearly the one wielding the power. In a place like LA, a bespoke suit and designer silk tie was the uniform of those who answered to a higher authority. Whereas Ira’s dark designer jeans and untucked shirt indicated he answered to no one.

  “We want to help you. If you’ll let us, that is.”

  Aster stared at the dull green wall just past his shoulder, the shade forever imprinted on her mind as the color of misery, despair, and lost hope. She clenched her hands in her lap, unsure which of the two evils was worse, being in her parents’ debt or Ira Redman’s. God knew she needed help. Her parents’ idea of support was to swap one jail for another by putting her under house arrest. Not that she actually had anywhere to go outside of the family manse. She was the most reviled person in LA. The safest place for her would be tucked away in her family’s massive gated Beverly Hills estate, where no one could reach her.

  Yet Aster refused to play it safe. Refused to admit she’d messed up her life so badly she needed her parents’ strictest guidance to get back on track. She was just stubborn enough that she could not, absolutely would not, surrender to their will. But mostly, she’d do whatever was necessary to shield them from the mess and keep their involvement to a minimum. Accepting Ira’s help was a sure way to do that.

  She’d made so many stupid mistakes—falling for Ryan Hawthorne was at the top of the list. She’d let her ego take over and fooled herself into believing Ryan when he said he cared about her, that he’d always be there for her. It was all lies, of course.

  What had Ira said? Never trust an actor, Aster. They’re always acting; they have no off switch. It was only now that she could see the truth of those words.

  All she knew for sure was that she didn’t harm Madison Brooks. She was 100 percent innocent of any wrongdoing—despite the abundance of evidence the state of California was holding against her.

  “We’re prepared to post your bail.”

  Aster glanced at them between wet, clumpy lashes, unaware she’d been crying. She did that a lot lately.

  “And what do you want in return?”

  Ira and the attorney exchanged a loaded glance, before Ira switched his focus to her. “Nothing.”

  “You know I can never repay you.” She frowned at her chipped nails and ragged cuticles. Her hair was matted and dirty, her skin broken out, and she was probably rocking a major case of unibrow, but she was too depressed to care about any of that. It wasn’t like she was posting selfies from her jail cell.

  “You going to flee the country?”

  She frowned. “Where would I go?”

  Ira shrugged. “Then it looks like neither of us has anything to worry about.”

  “And so you bail me out . . . and then what?”

  “You return to your normally scheduled life. Your suite at the W is waiting.”

  She inched lower still on the hard plastic chair. It was embarrassing to keep taking from him. It needed to stop. She needed to stand on her own two feet. Though at the moment, she was so far gone, so in need of a savior, she had no idea where to start.

  “And how am I supposed to live?” Aster mumbled the words. “How am I supposed to support myself? Who would be crazy enough to hire me?”

  Ira laughed. Actually threw his head back and laughed as though she’d said something funny. When he finally quieted down, he looked at her and said, “Call me crazy, but I distinctly remember offering you a job, and I seem to remember you accepting.”

  “Yeah, and then five seconds later I was cuffed as someone read me my Miranda rights.” She shook her head and refused to look at him. “I’m no good to you now.”

  “On the contrary.” He was quick to counter. “This is Hollywood, Aster, not the Republican primary. In the nightclub biz, scandal is currency. Even so, if you decide you’re not interested in my offer, there’s still the matter of the prize money you won.”

  Aster wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. Her last memory of the prize money was the moment Ira plucked the check from her fingers and slid it into his pocket. For safekeeping, he’d said, though the expression he wore had convinced her she’d never see it again. Seconds later, she was shoved into the back of a squad car and hauled away, and she’d pretty much forgotten about it until now. Had she really been so wrong about him?

  “You earned it fair and square. It’s yours for the taking. I deposited it in a trust account under your name.”

  “Keep it.” She dismissed the offer with a quick wave of her hand. She might be desperate and broke, but it was the right thing to do. “Put it toward the attorney’s fees and bail.” She glanced briefly at the lawyer sitting opposite her and ran a series of quick calculations in her head. Though the prizewinning check bore an impressive number of zeros, it was merely a start. A good defense team would plow through it in no time. It would be spent well before they even made it to trial.

  She dropped her chin to her chest and scrubbed her hands through her hair. She’d moved one step forward, only to find herself right back where she’d started. She had nowhere to live and no good way of supporting herself. As a high school grad with no real skills and a mug shot that had gone viral, she was untouchable, unemployable. The independence she’d longed for came at a price she could not afford.

  “I’m serious about the job offer as well,” Ira said, as though reading her mind.

  “The job was as a promoter. How am I supposed to bring people in? I’m a social pariah!”

  Ira remained undeterred. “If you want to change public opinion, you need to put yourself out there and prove you have nothing to hide. I wouldn’t make the offer if I didn’t think you were capable. Remember the promise I made at the start of the contest?”

  She looked at him, her head spinning with all that he’d said, all that remained unsa
id.

  “I promised that working for me would amount to the sort of real-life experience you can’t get at school, and I’m pretty sure I delivered, no?”

  This time, when a rush of tears coursed down her cheeks, Aster did nothing to stop them. It marked the second time Ira had stepped in to help her in a way her parents refused to do. But more importantly, unlike her parents, Ira didn’t judge her. Didn’t try to keep her feeling diminished and small. His belief in her potential was relentless, and he encouraged her to believe in herself relentlessly too.

  She wondered why he did it—why he even bothered. He’d never asked for anything in return other than for her to succeed at her job. For someone who always seemed to be working an angle, she’d yet to figure out what angle he was working with her.

  While she loved her family, the thought of returning home to the watchful glare of Nanny Mitra and her parents was too much to bear. She hated the fact that she needed rescuing, but was grateful to have someone other than her parents to save her from drowning.

  “Thank you,” she said, her throat so constricted she nearly choked on the words.

  Ira smiled and stood. A second later the lawyer stood too, saying, “It may take a few hours to process your bail, but you’ll be out of here soon.”

  Aster watched as the guard opened the door and the two men filed out of the room.

  “And Aster,” Ira called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. It’s all going to fall into place. I promise you that.”

  As the guard led her back to her cell, Aster clung to Ira’s words like the life preserver they were.

  FOUR

  WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT

  Tommy Phillips arrived five minutes later than planned, but still early enough to claim the darkest, most secluded booth in the nearly empty bar. In a city fueled by ambitious overachievers who equated success with an inflated level of busyness, the only other patrons were tourists looking to boost their Instagram accounts with a grim piece of Hollywood lore, and the daytime regulars who bore the soft, defeated look of those who’d not only forfeited the race, but had chosen never to run.