by Alexa Riley
Luke pauses when we reach the stairs of the hotel.
He always does this. He likes to feel important. Standing high above everyone else when he looks down on them and answers their questions.
His left hand is still wrapped around my arm, his fingers digging into the pale flesh.
He holds up his other palm to the crowd, silencing them. I glare at him through the dark screen of my sunglasses. My cheeks are hot, and my hands are locked into fists.
I specifically told him no questions. Not today.
Not ever.
I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to be here with their eyes on me. Cold, calculating. Tearing me apart.
Exhaustion settles into my bones, and any fight I may have had drowned under the weight of my heavy eyelids. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. I don’t even know what city we’re in right now.
They blur together.
I’m running on caffeine and avoidance. But I know it’s short lived. The press isn’t here for the tour. They won’t be asking about the show or my upcoming albums.
The masses are hungry for answers. And I’m the injured fish in the middle of a shark tank.
"We'll take a few brief questions," Luke announces.
His face is smug and proud in a way only he can pull off. He’s charming as ever, even while he capitalizes on my tragedy to squeeze out every last ounce of media attention he can garner from it.
Later tonight, when I bring it up again, he'll try to tell me this is what's best. That the media cares about me. That we’re bringing attention to my father’s case, which is the most important thing we can do.
He’s always been good at spinning things in his favor. The absolute best.
Any PR is good PR, he says. And for the last six months, my name has been splashed across national headlines more times than I can count.
American Star singer Isabella Rossi set for upcoming world tour. The question remains... beauty or talent?
I've read them all.
The articles proclaiming that I won the show based on my looks alone. The outraged fan interviews and rumors that I slept with one of the judges. Pregnancy claims and unflattering photos printed in ink for all the world to see. But now they have something else to lynch me with.
Something I can't stomach.
Luke picks out a reporter from the crowd, and she speaks into her microphone.
"Is it true that you are canceling your world tour in light of the tragic events with your father, Isabella?"
I don't have to answer because Luke speaks for me.
Always.
"That is completely false. The show will go on."
The show does go on when he wraps an arm around me in a display of support for the cameras.
"Isabella believes her father would want her to continue her life as normally as possible while the authorities handle the investigation."
Lies. Lies. Lies.
It's all that ever drips out of his mouth. He doesn't know what my father would want.
He couldn't possibly since I don't even know myself.
"Isabella!" a man in the back of the crowd yells. "Is it true that you were sent a video of your father's execution?"
My hands tremble, and my eyes seek out an exit. A gap in the crowd. A dark hole. Anything to get away.
Luke gestures for security to remove the man.
"Those rumors are completely false and unsubstantiated," he announces.
"I'm done," I tell him. "Stop this now."
His hand tightens around my arm in warning, locking me in place so that I don’t make a scene.
"Just look at the cameras, baby," he whispers. "Show them how sad you are."
I stare at him, and I am empty.
I don’t know how my life came to this. How any of this happened. It feels like a blur of events I can no longer recall.
All I ever wanted to do was sing. I wanted to create something. I wanted to be an artist. But somewhere along the way, art turned into marketing, and marketing turned into a puppet show with Luke controlling the strings.
That flame inside of me has burnt out.
And the truth is, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to light it again.
CHAPTER TWO
“OMIGOD, OMIGOD, OMIGOD,” Megan squeals.
I rub my temples and wonder if I play dead if she’ll leave me alone. I’ve been trapped in this hotel suite with her for three days.
She pinches my arm, and I hiss.
“Omigod,” she says again. “Do you even realize who that is?”
She makes a wild gesture across the room, to the guy that Luke is currently schmoozing. It’s another big shot producer I have no interest in meeting.
Megan fluffs her hair and glosses her lips beside me.
“How do I look?”
Truthfully, she looks worse than me.
She’s lost a lot of weight since we left the show. Weight that she didn’t really need to lose in the first place. And the way she’s constantly sniffling and never eats tells me she’s been doing a lot more than drinking every night at the parties.
While Luke has me on a low carb diet, Megan apparently is on an all coke diet.
“You look… great.”
Another lie.
They come easily to me now too.
I just want to be alone.
Megan is over the top about literally everything. She’s the Regina George to my Wednesday Addams. After the show, Luke snagged us both for his label. It seemed like the right choice at the time, but I quickly realized not everything that glitters is gold.
Megan trots off, and Luke flares his nostrils when she approaches.
She’ll get a mouthful about it later, but right now I’m too tired to care. The conversation lasts for all of five minutes before Luke moves it to a more private setting and Megan returns to the sofa where I’m currently parked.
She plops down beside me with a dreamy expression on her face. She wants me to ask, but I don’t.
“You can’t say a word if I tell you,” she says.
Her excitement is one hundred percent false. This is the same girl who used to ridicule me backstage for the way I dressed. The girl who referred to me as Goth Girl and spread a rumor about me practicing the occult. I’m also pretty sure she was the one behind some of the online terror campaigns during the show, but I don’t have proof of that.
I trust Megan about as much as I’d trust a chunk of cheese in a mouse trap.
Pretending is exhausting. But I learned a long time ago to go along with it. In this business, it’s better the enemy you know.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I assure her.
She peeks over her shoulder to see if we have an audience- probably wishing we did- and then leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Luke thinks he can get me in on a collab with Lana Cruz.”
Even if I did believe it, I couldn’t find the energy to care right now.
A smirk twists at Megan’s lips, and she thinks I’m feeling jilted.
She doesn’t know I don’t feel anything at all anymore. My life is a series of robotic events. Travel, sleep, write, sing. Rinse and repeat.
“We have to go shopping,” she insists.
I blink at her.
And the level of her ignorance- her coldness- shouldn’t come as a shock to me anymore. But it really does.
My father is missing. Possibly dead. I haven’t eaten a full meal in two months. I can barely manage to get out of bed or wash my hair.
And she wants me to go fucking shopping with her.
“Hey, Megan?”
“Yeah?” she perks up.
“Tell Luke I went to bed.”
I HIDE in my room for the rest of the night and search google for any piece of news I can find.
There’s nothing new. Nothing but speculation. Speculation I can’t stomach to read.
So I call Art.
Art works for the same sector of the government that my father d
oes.
What they actually do, I’ll probably never know. As for their actual job titles, they are both contractors. Contractors who have worked with the CIA and NSA. But the rest, they don’t disclose. Over the years, my father always told me it was better I didn’t know.
That was his answer for everything.
I tried to believe that was true. I tried to trust that he knew what he was doing and I didn’t have to worry. But now that he’s gone- everything has changed.
There is literally nothing I can do but put my faith into the people he works for, hoping they will come through on their promises. Hoping that they weren’t the ones to make him disappear in the first place.
Art has been acting as liaison during the investigation. Relaying information back to me although there’s never any to give. He is probably sick of me by now, but if he is, he doesn’t say so.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says from the other line.
“Any news today?”
“If there were, you’d be the first person I’d call.”
I don’t really believe that. As much as I trust Art, I still feel like the agency is covering this up. They aren’t telling me everything.
They aren’t telling me anything.
The only thing I know for sure is that my father went missing during a job he was doing overseas. I don’t even know what country he was in.
“Have you had a chance to speak with Javier Castillo?” I ask.
Art is quiet for a long pause.
Javi is another thing that I was never supposed to know about. And Art has already warned me once that I should never speak his name again. That I should pretend I never saw his file or that my father ever mentioned it, for my own safety.
But my safety doesn’t matter anymore. Not when I’m stuck in this purgatory.
“I have spoken to him,” Art answers quietly.
“And?”
“And you already know the answer, Isabella. He isn’t going to meet with you. He doesn’t speak to anybody. He doesn’t even leave his home.”
“He speaks to you,” I argue.
“Through email,” he sighs. “Hell, Isa, I’ve never even met the guy. The only one that I know who has is your father.”
“But you know where he lives, right? Take me to him. Just let me ask for myself. Please…”
“You know I can’t do that,” he tells me.
I can no longer hide my frustration or the sharpness of my voice.
“Why?”
“Because. I don’t know where he lives. Nobody does.”
“Except for my father,” I finish for him.
Again, I don’t believe that.
Before I even heard the news about my father, someone came into our house and took everything from his office. His files. His computer. Everything.
They have to know something. And I know Javi is the answer. He’s the only lead I have to go on. But not if I can’t get to him.
“I’m sorry, Isabella,” Art says. “I promise I’ll call you if I hear anything. Anything at all.”
“Okay.”
My voice is numb.
I don’t even know if he says goodbye.
The phone is still plastered against my ear long after the call ends. Until I fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling and think back on everything my father ever told me about the mysterious Javi.
The recluse who lives away from the rest of society. The child that he used to spend more time with than his own daughter.
I grew up hating him. Resenting him. Wondering what was so special about him that called my father away so often.
I asked him once if I could meet him. And I’d never seen my father so serious as when he looked at me and shook his head.
Never, Isabella. You must never meet him.
He made it sound as though the boy was dangerous. As though he were a monster. But yet, he was always there with him.
Always.
The door to my room opens, and I curl into myself.
It’s Luke.
And he’s drunk.
That never bodes well for me.
He shuts the door behind him and comes to sit beside me on the bed, his fingers trailing over the naked skin of my ankle.
I pull away from him.
“What do you need, Luke?”
“Is that how you talk to me, baby?” he asks. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
Everything he’s done for me.
He claims to care for me, but it’s not the way I want or need. He’s supposed to be my guiding light as an artist, but lately, it feels like he’s driving me further and further into the darkness.
I’m locked into a contract I can’t get out of, and he exploits that at every possible opportunity.
“You’ve had too much to drink, Luke,” I tell him. “I think you should go to bed.”
“I think you don’t tell me what to do,” he says.
The room is quiet, and my body is rigid. I hate when he’s like this. I hate him more with every passing day.
“I care about you, Isa.” He reaches out to touch me again. “I just want what’s best for you. Let me comfort you. Let me be there for you.”
He wants to comfort me alright.
With his cock.
I shrug him off again, and he gets pissed. He grabs my arm and squeezes.
“Don’t be a tease.”
“Leave me the hell alone,” I tell him. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
He tries to climb on top of me. And this time, he’s taking it too far.
I knee him in the balls, and he doubles over, coughing in pain when I shove him off of me. I bolt from the bed and out the door while he screams after me.
But he’s too drunk to follow.
I make it down to the lobby and manage to flag down a cab.
I don’t know where I’m going. I’m supposed to attend a party tomorrow. I’m supposed to do a lot of things that I really just don’t give a fuck about anymore.
The cabbie asks me where I want to go.
“The bus station,” I tell him. “Just take me to the bus station.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE HOUSE that once seemed quaint and homey now sits stagnant. Brown patches of grass stain the formerly pristine green of our lawn. Dirt gathers in corners and crevices, and dust visibly lines the window sills from the outside.
But on the front stairs, a flurry of crimson rose petals blows in with the breeze, settling against the door frame.
Always the withered roses.
I don’t know where they come from. I only know when they arrived. The day of my father’s disappearance, these rose petals greeted me at the door.
There is solace in the dead beauty of the dark crimson. I collect them and keep them in a box above my closet.
I don’t know why.
I only know that somehow, they share in the pain of my grief. I hope they never stop coming. And I always wish they would.
I check the mail.
Three more letters wait for me there too. Always from a different city. Always anonymous.
The first is a charcoal drawing of a raven perched on a windowsill. The moon is eclipsed in the photo, and dark, ominous thunderheads line the sky above. A sliver of lightning pierces the center of the image, so real it looks as though it’s split the paper in two.
The eery scene sends a chill up the back of my neck.
The photos are always somewhat abstract. A message that often leaves me bogged down in the onslaught of disordered emotions they evoke. The lines are exacted so precisely. The artistry is pleasing to my eye in a way I can’t explain, except to say that I am drawn to the darkness of these photos.
I am drawn to everything he sends me, and I don’t know why.
I open the next letter, and I am confronted with a recurring sense of déjà vu. It is the same beautiful scrawl, only this time, it is words.
The same words he always sends me- this stalker of mine.
Sing me
a song, beauty.
With words only I can hear.
MY FINGERS MAP over the lines while I try to understand. I haven’t told Luke of these letters. I haven’t told anyone.
I’m not entirely sure why.
Only that it feels private. And I have not yet decided whether they are dangerous or simply innocent flattery.
The third and final letter contains the lyrics of my first song.
I try to imagine the man behind these creations. The lost soul who wanders and listens to my music. He tells me to go back to my roots. He asks if my fingers miss the piano, or do I really prefer being a pop princess instead?
I know what he prefers.
His letters all surround my early works. Before Luke got his claws into me and decided it was better for me to appeal to a younger demographic with an ‘edgier’ sound.
The ink had barely dried on my contract when he started changing the rules of the game.
I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. The only choice I had left was to adapt. It’s on constant replay inside my head.
I’m a fraud.
A phony.
Everything about me is fake, right down to my smile and the new lyrics I sing.
They aren’t my own. Those are private now. For my eyes only.
And this man doesn’t need to remind me of the things I already know.
I fold up the letters and put them out of sight.
My phone won’t stop ringing.
When I draw a bath and climb inside, I imagine a current sweeping me away. One that could pull me backward- when life was still real and possible.
Luke texts me incessantly. Threatening to drop me in one message while apologizing in the next. When that doesn’t work, he reminds me that I’m under contract. He reminds me of the fines he knows I can’t pay if I decide to stop being his puppet.
Inside of my chest, there is a gaping cavity where my heart used to be. And in the place of my lungs is lead.
I have to go back.
I know I have to go back.
And I will.
On Monday.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE HAS COME HOME.