by Amina Akhtar
Epilogue
Seven months later
It was that time of year again, and though I’d sworn it off, I found myself in the crush of stilettos and sequins, moving through the crowds at Spring Street Studios. It was Fashion Week again. It was always Fashion Week somewhere. But this time it was my Fashion Week.
I was attending a presentation for Georges Pike’s latest jewelry show. Everyone and their mother wanted to show this season, and when jewelry designers got in on it, your calendar just exploded. Having gone through everything I had last year, I was the most in-demand person at every show and dinner—even without a magazine tied to my name. It was a coup to get me to actually come. Gimmick seating will always get you a few flashbulbs, and what could be cooler than the girl who survived Bloody Sarah’s reign of terror? Fashion loves a tale of survival and redemption.
Of course, I wasn’t covering the collections for anyone. I was now a consultant, whatever that meant. La Vie was in limbo, restaffing and relaunching, and I didn’t want to lead the new team. Greg had been fired; legal decided his sexual misconduct in the office was too big an issue for them. They had enough on their plates with all the dead bodies.
Dalia had dodged the great tampon massacre and was thriving at Barneys. I was 100 percent jealous of her. Imagine, working with those shoes all day? Heaven. We’d had lunch a few times but only because I wanted to see her boss in person. Aiko always said hello, and she seemed genuinely happy to see me each time we ran into each other. She wore red lipstick. (I bought five different shades of red from the beauty department downstairs.) And she had an A name, like me. I’d already started my Aiko mood board.
Jack met me outside in front of the show, photogs snapping away. The streets were clogged with black cars. He gave me a once-over before grinning. “Chic.”
I was wearing a black crepe jumpsuit with Balenciaga’s dad sneakers. Aiko had helped me pick it out. Or rather, the Barneys sales email did. Whatever. I know it came from her.
“Thanks, boo,” I replied to Jack. He was wearing a mustard-yellow suit. It was a look, but he made it work. We needed each other today. This week, especially. Ever since Sarah, I had avoided going to fashion events, avoided the cameras. But Jack had embraced the attention. There had been profile after profile on him. He always made sure to mention me. He was such a good friend.
We exchanged glances and then struck poses for the photographers out front. We were to stay together, that was our pact. Jack was my first male friend. A proper gay bestie. He told me when I had lipstick on my teeth and everything. We moved from pose to pose before heading inside.
A new PR bot was overseeing the entry list. She was a Brittany. Perky and peppy, Brittanys were never not smiling. She waved us in without checking our names. Clearly an updated model from the Laurens.
Once we got inside, we paused for more photos. The flashbulbs were giving me a headache.
“Ugh, we need to wear sunglasses,” Jack muttered. I put my arm through his.
There were police officers watching over things now. That was a change from last year. I didn’t know what they thought would happen, but the city wanted to be proactive. Detective Hopper wasn’t there. After his betrayal, after he told Sarah all about me, I cut him out of my life. Just like I did with Sarah. Except he was dead.
He’d insisted on digging up what happened to Dr. M. I tried everything to make him realize it wasn’t important, that Dr. M was happy with me. But he wouldn’t listen. Hopper’s death was a tragedy. A decorated detective turning to drugs, overdosing on a Xanax, Vicodin, and alcohol cocktail. There were now task forces set up to help the NYPD combat prescription drug use within the ranks.
I still saw him from time to time. Hopper would pop up somewhere and stare.
Sarah was still locked up. She had been moved to a facility in White Plains. How unchic is that?
“Anya! Jack! Over here! Pose for a photo!”
I smiled, throwing my hand on my hip and did my best Sarah imitation while Jack sucked his cheeks in. She would be so proud of all that I’d learned from her. I was wearing five coats of lip gloss for that perfect shine. I was momentarily blinded by the flashbulbs, but my smile didn’t waver. After all, a bad photo can ruin months of hard work. A true fashion girl kept her photo game on point at all times.
I spotted Georges surrounded by well-wishers. We went over to say hello.
“Anya! Jack! My loves, you made it!”
“Georges, mon cher! The collection is so chic.” One of us said it. It didn’t matter who. Fashion lies just fall from the tongue during shows.
“Did you see the Anya necklace? It’s made just for you!”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” He really shouldn’t have. Jack stifled a laugh. I hated Georges’s work, but he’d become extrafamous as the unofficial reason that Sarah had killed Zhazha. (Technically, that case was still unsolved. As were Mulberry’s, Cassie’s, and Lisa’s. But everyone knew it was Sarah.) As the designer chattered on and on, I saw Aiko swan in, and I waved to her. She was with Dalia.
“She’s so maje,” Jack said when he saw her. He got me. He got my style. But still, we needed a third. We needed Aiko.
Two guys were whispering behind us. I stiffened.
“Who are they?” one said.
“That’s Anya and Jack. You know, they survived Bloody Sarah at La Vie last year.”
“Ohhh, wow. You know what I heard? I heard Anya’s the one who killed everyone, not crazy Sarah.”
“No! Seriously? I heard it was Jack.”
“Wow. That’s so edgy.”
“Totally. Way chic.”
“Let’s get selfies with them!”
“O-M-G, totes!”
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my family for not only encouraging me but also putting up with me for so long. A huge thank-you to my incredible agents Deborah Schneider and Josie Freedman at ICM for never giving up on me or Anya. Giant bolt of gratitude to my patient and thorough editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, and everyone at Crooked Lane Books. Daniel Ross Noble: you know I adore you. And a big merci to Daniel and Mark Waters and Jessica Tuchinsky for being #TeamAnya and Katrina Escudero for first introducing me to everyone. Karen Robinovitz, for starting this whole thing off, and Dara and Gwen, thank you.
A huge shout-out to Jessica Morgan and Heather Cocks for encouraging me to write this book. Miranda Burgess and Alex Hestoft, thanks for the drinks and constant support. Toni Hacker and Ben Harnett, thank you for reading the earliest of drafts. Thank you Tali and Ophi Edut for always being there and Catherine Townsend for keeping me inspired. To all the fantastic writers and editors I’ve been lucky to work with, I’m forever thankful and grateful. To all the ridiculously talented people in fashion I’ve met over the years, you’re amazing.
And last but not least, I couldn’t have written this without Beanie, my very patient dog and writing partner. You get all the belly rubs in the world.
About the Author
Amina Akhtar is a former fashion writer and editor. She’s worked at Vogue, Elle, Style, NYTimes.com, and NYMag.com, where she was the founding editor of The Cut blog. She’s written for numerous publications, including Yahoo Style, Fashionista, xoJane, Refinery29, and Billboard, and for brands like Bergdorf Goodman and H&M’s 10 Years of Style tome. After toiling in the fashion ranks for more than fifteen years, she now writes full time in the desert mountains, where she’s detoxing from her once glam life. #FashionVictim is Amina’s first novel.