She Died Famous

by Kyle Rutkin

  Soon enough, he’ll realize his mistake.

  I unlock the door of room 232 and take in a deep breath of the stale, musty air. A real piece of shit. Exactly what I remember. What I deserve. Stained carpets and walls, a threadbare comforter, a dogeared Bible in the nightstand drawer. I’m glad it will end here. Far away from the glitz and glamour. Far away from the scene of the crime. Out here, the rage dissipates. The guilt and grief settle. The truth will rise to the surface.

  I take a shower, unpack a few things—three grams of coke, a bottle of pills, three bottles of vodka, a bag of assorted drugs. A few other goodies. I have five photographs.

  One silver sparrow necklace.

  A copy of my book.

  I run my shaky hands over the sleek matte cover, tracing my fingers along the embossed letters to the very bottom, where the words “a novel” almost disappear into the background. It’s all here, detective. Everything you need to know.

  Keep reading.

  I believe in you.

  I pour myself a drink. A coffee mug full of vodka steadies the hands. I flip through the crème pages until I get to the final scene. It’s been almost three years since I wrote this, deep in the Oregon wilderness. The scene depicts my best self. A man with a real purpose, strength. A man who overcame his past. Kelly saw something in these pages that others couldn’t. A fallen hero. A knight seeking redemption.

  I pour another drink.

  I failed her.

  I failed them all.

  My father was right about me.

  My demons are relentless.

  I thought I could outrun them.

  I thought I could protect her.

  Alas, my story will end in this motel room. This is where I’ll make my final stand.

  I open the curtain. A warm breeze rolls in through the cracked window, bringing me back to better times. I open my computer on the wobbly desk. Rituals are in order. I scatter four of the photographs across the desktop. I tuck one between the pages of the Bible. Each one represents a piece of this tragedy. I lay the silver sparrow necklace to the left of the computer. My novel to the right. I crack my knuckles, then hover my hands over the keys.

  A disclaimer before we begin. Much of what you read will be shocking, disturbing. Exaggerated. Dare I say, unbelievable. Fear not. It’s all part of the grand illusion. And if I’ve learned anything from my time in Hollywood, it’s this: Illusion is everything.

  And I learned from the best.

  To our atonement, America.

  Welcome to my confession.

  ACT I

  The Blog of Kaleb Reed

  (Continued)

  My confession begins less than twenty-four hours after Kelly’s death. I was detained and taken to the Los Angeles Police Department in handcuffs.

  I was poked and prodded. Photographs were taken. Swabs were taken. I was confined to a cold room with a metal table and a mirrored glass window for Detective Donaldson’s viewing pleasure. By dawn, the world would know. The great circus would begin. But if I confessed…much less stress on the department. They wouldn’t need much. I was sleep-deprived and dazed. My hands were trembling.

  Hours went by before Detective Donaldson entered the interrogation room. He was just what I expected: middle aged and overweight, with a receding hairline and thick, animated eyebrows. He slammed my file down in front of me. Cliché. Just like his cheap button-down and baggy blue slacks. Just like his overwhelming aftershave and self-assured smile.

  “So, how do you want to do this?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  I didn’t respond.

  “It’s not going to take long to put the pieces together.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “We looked you up,” he said, opening my file. “A year ago, you were a nobody.” He flipped through the pages. “You have a few priors, don’t you? Possession. Assault. Jeez. These pictures of your last victim…disturbing.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, unfazed. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you? It’s been one of those nights.” He lit the cigarette, took a drag, exhaled.

  “Well, I’m just going ask the question on everyone’s minds… How on earth did some degenerate like you end up with Kelly Trozzo?” His caterpillar eyebrows arched in amusement.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Hey, I’m not going to knock you. She was a hot little thing, wasn’t she?” He chuckled. “I see you Hollywood creeps all the time. Anything for a little notoriety…a few extra followers on your fucking profiles, right? Guess they won’t forget you now.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Not much of a talker. We don’t have to start with the juicy stuff yet. Just relax. Want some coffee?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Good.” He beckoned to the window.

  A small Styrofoam cup was brought in.

  “Let’s just talk. Why don’t you tell me how you guys met? How you weaseled your way into Kelly’s life?”

  Weaseled my way into her life. I laughed. That first one slipped out. The second one was intentional. I met our detective’s gaze, smirking.

  “Oh, that’s funny to you, is it?” He smashed his cigarette onto the table. “You twisted fuck.”

  For the first time that night, my mind was lucid. I was poised, strong. I didn’t back down. His intimidating eyebrows couldn’t fool me. It was all an act. Overworked and underpaid, this case was going to ruin him. He had no idea what I had in store for him. This was going to be fun.

  “You have it all wrong.” I took a slow sip of the lukewarm coffee. “I didn’t weasel my way into anything, detective.” I smiled.

  “She found me.”

  Ten months prior to the night in question. I was huddled in a rundown gymnasium, amongst folding chairs, stale coffee, and recovering addicts. The air reeked of moldy tennis shoes and puberty. There were eight of us at the meeting, each one dark and tan from the Orange County sun. Some over a decade sober. Some trying to make it through day one. And me…

  “I’m eighty-seven days sober,” I said, glancing over to my sponsor, Nathan. He had a newspaper under his nose, a greasy ballcap pulled low over his stringy gray hair. He rarely paid attention, though none of us objected. I continued. “Still, I can’t seem to get my latest relapse out of my head. It lingers like static in the background. Reminding me who I am. What I’m capable of.”

  Thank you for sharing.

  The meeting ended and I went to refill my coffee. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It had been that way all night. New email alerts. Notifications from apps I never used. I glanced down at my splintered display screen.

  A familiar grunt snorted behind me. “Eighty-seven days. Impressive.”

  Nathan’s calloused fingers reached for a stir stick. He was in his usual attire, a flannel shirt with a pair of worn-down Dickies. He was an alpha male through and through, no time for bullshit. Nathan was an incredible writer, a stern man. He had taken a while to warm up to me, if ever. He was my sponsor, though he wouldn’t describe our relationship that formally. Still, he helped me in my darkest hour.

  I didn’t respond. Secretly, I hoped he would be pleased with my progress. Even if he didn’t approve of my methods. The results spoke for themselves.

  My phone buzzed.

  Ding.

  Ding.

  “How’s the new book coming along?” He stirred his coffee.

  “A new one?” I laughed, unable to meet his gaze. “I couldn’t sell the first one.”

  Nathan drained the last of the coffee. Threw the stick in the trash. “You never fucking learn.”

  Ding.

  Ding.

  Shit.

  I looked down at my phone. A text message from my agent, who I hadn’t spoken to in months. What the hell is going on?

  When I looked up, the doors of the gymnasium door shut. Nathan was gone.

  I lived on the rundown side of Santa Ana, amongst abandoned storefronts and a steady stream of police
sirens. Fifteen minutes from the happiest place on earth. The only light in my barren studio apartment was the glow of the laptop screen. I was staring at my inbox, two hundred new emails and counting. Not the typical fanfare for a no-name author. But there they were. Shiny new messages, pouring in like water bursting through a submarine hatch. Messages from fans who bought my book. Messages from my forsaken website, a few reporters. Mostly Twitter notifications. I opened up my profile. My last login was over three months ago.

  I clicked till I found the source.

  A tweet from a user of significance.

  @KellyTrozzo.

  The post was an image of her lying on a bed, holding my novel. The book jacket concealed her face. The tweet read: Pay Me, Alice is a masterpiece. Suspense. Love. Real sacrifice. All KTroops must read and follow the author. She tagged my username. Added hashtags.

  I knew who she was. Not to be smug, but Kelly Trozzo wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. I didn’t understand her world, her fans. And truthfully, I wasn’t optimistic that an online plug with hashtags could help me sell books. The youth of America likes GIFs, texts, grams, and snaps. Not four-hundred-page novels. Only Oprah can sell those.

  I stared at the picture, then her profile, verified with a blue seal. Fearless Leader of the KTroops in her bio. In her profile picture, she was staring off to the side, a seductive grin, with long blonde hair engulfing half the circular frame. A face that once saturated toy stores—dolls, backpacks, you name it. But things had changed. No more tiaras, bubble gum, and sundresses. The new Kelly Trozzo had tattoos and tabloid covers. She was pretty; a cute freckly nose, sharp blue eyes. Cryptic blue eyes. Eighty-nine million followers. A fruitful transformation.

  I clicked a link I was tagged in. Kelly’s thirty-five-second book review had garnered 217,000 views. It was strange seeing her grown up, but not nearly as strange as seeing her holding my book. The little girl America fell in love with was gone. She was sexy, provocative—undeniably adult. There was something about her. Her mannerisms, her gestures. She was trained to lure you in. Trained to make you watch. Trained to make you feel.

  She told her fans that she loved this book, Pay Me, Alice. It made her cry, laugh, and then text her ex-boyfriend. In that order. She laughed after she said “ex-boyfriend,” rolling her eyes and falling back onto the bed. She was lying on her sheets in the video, wearing booty shorts and a white tank top. She twirled a silver necklace as she stared into the camera. She told her fans that it was a modern-day fairy tale. A manifesto for her KTroops. She told them to buy my book. Link below.

  I closed the video. Whatever that was, it would blow over. It always did. That shit wasn’t real. None of it was. A flash in the pan. The tweets would be swept away with the digital tide. My novel would stay hidden. My career would stay buried.

  My secrets were safe.

  Speaking of secrets…My cursor hovered over a special folder on my desktop filled with photos of my ex, my good life. She was real—Sara. I clicked on the most recent pictures, taken earlier that night. From my preferred viewpoint, less than a block away from her suburban house, my former residence. She wore a black tank top, dirty blonde hair tied back in a messy bun as she washed the dishes. Her faded tattoo on her left forearm, a black sparrow.

  I clicked the next photo. She was gazing out the kitchen window, biting her lip. Her light brown eyes ensnared in fantasies. I liked to imagine where she went. Back to our favorite diner in that sleepy old town. The place we fell in love. Before the secrets. Before my sins. Before I ever published my novel.

  Perhaps I was seeing things the night I destroyed our life together. When I let my rage consume me. I had my reasons. A shadow from my past had paid me a visit, warning me of his return. I saw the outline of his dark boater hat from the bedroom. Then I did something bad. Sara had every right to kick me out.

  Checking on her every night was all I had left. Protecting her gave me a purpose. A reason to stay sober. Eighty-seven days and counting. Old habits die hard.

  More notifications from my laptop interrupted my thoughts.

  I toggled back to Kelly Trozzo’s profile.

  @KellyTrozzo

  This is just the beginning. @KalebReedAuthor #KTbookclub

  3.4K Comments 16K Retweets 80K Likes

  A new photo appeared on her feed. Kelly with her blonde hair swept to the side, holding a finger to her lips. As if she was hiding from someone in the room. She was still gripping her silver necklace. I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I scrolled, stared, clicked. The glow of my laptop screen shone for hours.

  Please state your name for the record.

  My name is Lizzy Anne Michaels and I was Kelly Trozzo’s best friend and co-star on her show Zoe Loves. We met in 2015 when I was cast for a small part, a two-episode stint as an up-and-coming country singer. I was a nobody back then. Just a glorified extra. But she was the biggest star on the network. Every child actor wanted to be Kelly Trozzo. Especially me. She was my idol. My character was there to help Zoe write a ballad, maybe one or two scenes, four speaking lines total. If Kelly hadn’t begged the directors to make the song a duet, I don’t think—I mean, I know for a fact, I wouldn’t be where I am. I owe everything to Kelly, everything.

  Please state your name for the record.

  Jez Danielle Branson. Formally, I was Kelly’s assistant. But seriously…it was so much more than that. My friendship with Kelly was a total fairy tale. I was such a die-hard fan. I had every poster on my wall. Every album, everything. So you can imagine my excitement when fate handed me an invitation to an exclusive party at her mansion! Oh, my gosh. The universe was aligning for us, just like Kelly always said. As soon as I got there, I made sure to mix her favorite drink, exactly how she described in her Rolling Stone interview, October issue, page 57. See? I remember everything.

  Lizzy: The other cast members didn’t know her like I did. Maybe they were jealous of her success. Kelly and I had an undeniable chemistry. Neither of us had parents, so we had that in common. But there were other things. We just clicked. She liked being a big sister to me. She always wanted to teach me things. She always wanted to be there for me, look out for me—but if I’m being truthful, it was usually the other way around. I was the one looking out for her. I was the one keeping her safe. But in the end, I let her down…Can you give me a minute?

  Jez: Did you see her performance at the VMAs? Oh my gosh. Like I said, I wasn’t just her assistant. I love that picture of Kelly and me kissing on stage. It was such a beautiful moment. I have it framed and everything. We were inseparable this past year.

  Lizzy: I want to tell you everything I know about the man who killed her. I will not say his name because he is a monster. I warned her. I really did. Every time he acted out, I told her…What if one day it goes too far? What if you can’t undo this? You owe him nothing. He had a darkness inside him, detective. He was pure evil. I want him to pay for what he did.

  Jez: I am here on behalf of Kelly herself. Before this is over, they will all atone for what they did to her. The KTroops shall have their victory.

  A candid conversation with pop’s newest bad girl about her meltdown, her transformation, and the comeback that changed everything

  Child star gone rogue or misunderstood icon?

  Two years ago, Kelly Trozzo’s career was on the brink of extinction. After wrapping her eighth season of the hit show Zoe Loves, the star was abruptly fired. While producers claimed they wanted to take the show in a new direction, a string of leaked photos of an inebriated Kelly told a different story. Rumors began to swirl of a drug-addled Trozzo struggling to make it through her lines on set; a pill-popping diva who spent hours in her trailer crying. Tabloids celebrated. Her fans mourned. Then, Kelly Trozzo disappeared.

  For eight months, she was absent from the public eye—no interviews, no public appearances, not a single post on social media. Most assumed she had become another Hollywood casualty. Wrecked hotel rooms. Failed stints in rehab. Mediocre comebacks. Eventually, an E!
Hollywood True Story to top it off. We had seen it all before.

  Or had we?

  Last August, Kelly emerged onto the VMA stage like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Dressed in a leather bikini and performing a sultry new single advocating bathroom sex, Kelly detonated a media firestorm that broke the Internet. The gamble paid off. With intrigue and shock value in her corner, Kelly has done anything but fade into the Hollywood sunset.

  Her comeback album He’s Coming for Me became the most streamed album in the world. Her Reborn Tour is sold out in every city, every country. Even more impressive, she mobilized the largest online following of any pop star elite, with some of the most ruthless and loyal fans the world has ever seen. To them, Kelly Trozzo is much more than a singer. She is the leader of a mythical battle against bullies and oppressors. Those who have enlisted in this fandom call themselves the “KTtroops.”

  Despite her reemergence into the spotlight, Kelly has maintained a safe distance from the media. In fact, short of a fluff piece on Good Morning America and one late-night chat with Jimmy Kimmel, Kelly has declined any interviews to discuss her hiatus and electrifying comeback.

  Until now.

  INSIDEJUICE: Let’s just get into it, shall we? Why did you ask for this interview? Why now?

  TROZZO: It felt like the right time to shed light on my actions this past year.

  INSIDEJUICE: From an outside perspective, it seems like you’ve been very intentional about this transformation. What does this comeback mean to you?

  TROZZO: For the majority of my career, I’ve had two alter egos, both weaker, punier, more pathetic versions of myself. I have been Zoe Claireborn, a careless, quirky, ever-trusting girl who squealed over nail polish and cried over boys. I have also been Princess Jade—the naive little bitch who worshiped fairy tales. But now, those alter egos have been destroyed. And in their ashes, I have been reborn. The real Kelly Trozzo.