by Jessica Ashe
Strawberry chapstick. Like the one I’d seen Lance use and then quickly slip in his pocket when he saw me coming.
God, I’m being an idiot. I’ve come up with some crazy theory just because I want to get Naomi back. That has to be it. I desperately need to talk this through someone else, but it’s not something I can just bring up in casual conversation.
The whole thing is too insane. Five years ago, a crazy fan attacks Naomi, and out of nowhere a security guard offers his services with a résumé that sounds too good to be true. Lance has a job where he’s paid to be with Naomi every waking hour. It’s the sort of job a lunatic fan would crave. He’d even have access to her dressing room to take little mementos whenever he feels like it.
No, I’m not going any further with this. Fuck, I need some sleep. I’ve been getting four hours a night if I’m lucky. I’m not the type to take naps, but right now I have to sleep or I’m going to go on some crazy rampage chasing after an insane theory revolving around chapstick.
I can just picture myself explaining the whole thing to the police now.
Yes officer, he was using the exact same chapstick that went missing from Naomi’s dressing room.
Anything else?
Yes, he’s also of average height and weight which is a perfect match for the guy who attacked Naomi five years ago.
Uh huh. Are you aware that wasting police time is a criminal offense, sir?
Emma is in her room studying hard as always, so I lay down on top of the bed and shut my eyes. When I wake up, my brain should be functioning again.
* * *
I wake up with such a start that I almost fall out of bed. I’m sticky with sweat and feel groggy as hell. This is why I don’t usually take naps.
I look at the time on my phone—only forty minutes have passed since I lay down. I’m still tired, but I woke up for a reason. Was I even asleep? Something was going through my mind. Photos, photos of Naomi. Not just Naomi, there were photos of Emma as well. Think, think, think.
I hit myself hard on the head, which brings my brain into focus like when people used to hit the television when the reception was fuzzy.
Emma is still studying, but there’s something in her room I need to see. Something that caught my eye before my nap. Hanging on the wall is the front page of the local paper from the day after Emma nearly got kidnapped. I remember being worried that the incident would traumatize Emma, but instead she embraced it. When she saw her face on the front of the local paper, she decided to keep it and hang it up in her bedroom. Kids are awesome.
I walk over and look at the image closer. There’s a small portrait photo of Emma, and then a larger image of the scene taken once the police had arrived. In the background, wearing his usual suit and tie, is Lance.
Naomi was never at the school that day. I know that, because she was waiting for me to pay her a booty call in her hotel room. Lance had no reason to be by Emma’s school. He certainly never told the police he was there.
I’m not crazy.
Lance got the job with incredibly fortuitous timing, he’s had stuff from her dressing room, and now he’s outside Emma’s school just after someone tried to kidnap her.
It was Lance. He tried to kidnap Emma. That’s not all. I think he’s the man who killed Naomi’s father five years ago today.
What’s to stop him trying again on the anniversary of his last attempt?
I already know the answer to that.
Me.
* * *
I don’t have a plan when I arrive at the BBC building, but I get phenomenally lucky. Calvin is hanging outside the building on a cigarette break. Calvin’s always liked me, or at least more than Lance ever did.
“Calvin, I need to speak to Lance. It’s urgent.”
“Damon? What are you doing here?”
“Sorry, but I can’t tell you. Can you get me to Lance?”
Calvin shakes his head. “He’s already inside. There’s no way I can get you in. Why?”
“Look, I know this seems a bit weird, what with Naomi and I breaking up and all, but I have to see Lance. I’ve been getting messages from a crazed fan of mine, and she’s taken a disliking to Naomi. She thinks Naomi’s to blame for us breaking up and wants to get revenge on my behalf. I’ve been to the police, but they don’t believe the threat is credible. I have to get to Lance to warn him.”
“Show me, and I can take it to Lance.”
“Come on Calvin, I have to deal with this myself or I’ll never be able to sleep at night.”
Calvin takes a long drag on his cigarette, and when he breathes out he mutters the word “okay.”
The only way for me to get through is to take Calvin’s security pass which he gives up after I promise to bring it back as soon as possible. Once I’m backstage I’m able to move around freely, and I look for Lance in all the likely locations. He likes to position himself at the end of corridors, on the corners to get as many viewing angles as possible.
I must’ve looped around in a circle three times before I finally give up. He’s nowhere to be seen, and the show is already filming. Naomi will be in the green room; maybe Lance is outside there. I need to find somewhere to wait for him. Lance always checks Naomi’s dressing room before she comes back, so I look for her name on the doors.
Oh boy, this brings back memories.
The first time we met, I barged into her dressing room by accident. Now that I’m looking for the damn thing, I can’t find it.
Finally, I spot her name on a piece of paper stuck to one of the doors. Not quite as posh as the big star she had at Wembley Stadium. Typical BBC, always looking for ways to save taxpayer pennies.
I open the door, and there he is.
Lance turns to look at me as I step inside and quickly close the door behind me.
“What are you doing here?” Lance asks.
“I’m here for Naomi’s safety,” I reply.
“You need to leave. Now.”
Lance tries to square up to me, but he’s never been good at looking dominant compared to me. He has the courage, but I have the size and the muscles.
“I’m not leaving,” I say firmly. “Not until I’ve sorted this out.”
“Sorted what out? What happened between you and Naomi is none of my business, but she hasn’t told me she’s expecting to see you. I suggest you leave.”
“Show me your arm,” I demand.
“What?”
“Show me your arm. The left one.”
Lance keeps staring at me. No one has ever managed to maintain eye contact with me this long. I’ve got to admire him for that at least.
Eventually, he looks down and slowly takes off his jacket. I expect him to swing for me, but instead he undoes the button on his cuffs and rolls up his left sleeve.
I look at his arm and see exactly what I’m expecting to see.
“Lance. I need your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Naomi
That went about as well as could be expected. This date is sacred to me. I never imagined I’d spend the fifth anniversary of Dad’s death giving an interview instead of being at home with Mom.
I want to be with her today, but she convinced me otherwise. Tonight is for a good cause, not just my bank account. Once Katrina started getting in touch with drug addiction charities, they asked me to talk about the cause live on television. Tonight’s show will go out live on Friday night, and the song will be released on Monday.
I did my bit and explained the charity’s mission and the benefits of the work it does, and then I sat there for the rest of the show and acted like a huge fan girl seated next to two of my idols. There aren’t many young female singers more successful than me, but I sat next to one of them tonight. They say never meet your heroes, but she’s just as awesome in real life as she is on television. We did meet briefly once before, but that was at a party and we did little more than exchange pleasantries.
Then there’s the silver fox sat the other side of me who still looks as good
at sixty as he did at thirty. I totally get why Mom has a crush on him now. She’s going to be so jealous.
After the show, I head back to my idol’s dressing room and we exchange contact information. Well, technically we exchange our managers’ contact information, but that’s kind of the same thing in this world. We agree to perform a duet soon, although with our schedules I have no idea when we’ll find the time to record it.
Finally, I head back to my own dressing room, intending to get in and out as quickly as possible. I don’t like being in dressing rooms anymore. I typically go in, get changed, and go back out again. If I’m sticky I’ll have a shower, but usually I don’t bother. I don’t need a $750 an hour psychiatrist to tell me why. Every time I hear a knock at the door, or just hear someone walk passed, I look up expectantly, hoping beyond hope to see Damon walk in.
I know he’s not going to. I’m sad, but I’m not stupid. If he cared, he would’ve called by now. I couldn’t even get in touch with him to discuss royalties on the song. According to Katrina, the USB stick came with a note saying I was free to use the material on a completely royalty-free basis. I think he’ll approve of what I’m doing with the song.
When I’m outside my dressing room, I take a deep, calming breath, and open the door.
I’m not alone.
There’s a woman in my chair with her back to me. She doesn’t move when the door closes behind me, so I don’t know if she’s ignoring me or hasn’t heard me. At first, I assume it’s my makeup artist. Sometimes, when she’s waiting for me she’ll sit down and rest her eyes. But this isn’t her.
I walk forward slowly as the woman runs my hairbrush through her hair. My makeup artist would never do that.
Suddenly the woman turns around in the seat and stares at me curiously.
She’s wearing my clothes.
She’s even wearing one of my wigs. That’s why I don’t recognize her immediately, but as the two of us stare at each other I remember where I know her from.
She’s the paparazzi who’s been following me around for the last few months. She creeped me out before, but now she’s well overstepped her bounds. I’m almost relieved. Lance hasn’t been able to do anything about her before, but now she is in a whole lot of trouble.
And judging by the way she’s looking at me, so am I.
I’m too far from the door to make a run for it—she’d easily catch me in time—but I know I need to do something. I open my mouth and scream “Lance,” at the top of my voice.
Only half the word is audible. The rest is lost as the woman dives for me and slams me against the wall, her arm pressing up against my throat to stop me from speaking. I gasp for air while she just stares at me like I’m some curiosity in a museum.
Her fingers reach out and touch my face. I turn away as my skin crawls, but there’s nowhere to go.
“You’re even prettier in real life,” the woman says softly. “I’ve been using your moisturizer, but I just can’t get my skin looking like that.”
My face is dripping with sweat, but a cold shiver still manages to find its way down my spine. She was the one who stole my moisturizer. She’s been in my dressing room before. How many times? Does she always wear my clothes?
“I can… show you….” I force the words out through my constricted throat. She moves her arm just enough to let me breathe.
“Don’t scream,” she says firmly. “I love you, Naomi, but I will hurt you.”
Okay, calm down Naomi, she’s just a crazy fan.
This is creepy as hell, but I need to control the situation and give her what she wants. She can have all the selfies and autographs she ever wants. They won’t do her much good in prison.
“You’re a photographer,” I say. “I can help you get lots of great pictures. You’ll make a fortune.”
“I’m not a photographer.” She spits the words out angrily as if she’s disgusted by the thought. “I only take photos of you, Naomi. I’m your biggest fan. Do you remember me?”
“I… I’ve seen you a lot before. You asked me questions on the red carpet a few months ago.”
“No,” she screams and pushes her arm against my throat again. “I met you before that. I met you before you were even famous and I told you I was your biggest fan. How do you not remember?”
“I remember.”
“You’re lying. It was after your performance in Portland. No one even knew who you were, but I bought your CD, and you signed it.”
Portland?
I haven’t performed there for years. Life was different back then. Dad was still alive, and I was still a relative unknown.
“I remember now,” I lie. “I’m sorry, it was just such a long time ago. It’s so good to be reunited with my biggest fan.”
She smiles, and her arm moves away from my throat again. This time, I take advantage. I push her as hard as I can away from the door. It doesn’t do much good. She stumbles back a couple of feet, and then looks at me angrily, like a bull ready to charge.
She comes at me, but never makes it. The door to my dressing room swings open and a large arm reaches out, grabbing her around the waist, and throwing her against the far wall. She hits it hard, the back of her head leaving a dent in the wall, and then crashes to the ground.
Lance has either been working out or....
“Sorry I took so long.”
“About fucking time,” I reply through heavy breaths.
Damon wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. I try to kiss him, but I’m still panting and can barely breathe. I give up, and just let him hold me in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Naomi
“Police are on the way,” Lance says, standing over the body of Valerie Peterson, my ‘biggest fan.’
“Thanks Lance,” Damon says.
I’m sitting on his lap on the sofa, and he’s holding me tightly, much like he’d done with Emma a few months ago. He’s not letting go of me anytime soon, and you won’t hear any complaints from me about that.
I stare at Valerie as she lies unconscious on the floor.
“It was her, wasn’t it?” I ask. Lance looks over my shoulder to Damon, but neither of them say anything. “You can tell me. I’m going to find out sooner or later.”
Damon holds me tighter, but he’s not doing so out of affection. He’s holding me so that I don’t jump up out of his arms and attack Valerie. There’s only one reason he would do that.
“She killed my father,” I whisper.
“We think so, yes,” Damon replies. “And she was the one who tried to kidnap Emma.”
“Can we prove it?” I ask. If I can’t strangle her with my bare hands, then she at least better spend the rest of her life in prison.
“I’m not sure,” Damon says. “The evidence is a little circumstantial.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“It took a while,” Damon admits.
“He thought it was me,” Lance says.
“Not for long,” Damon quickly corrects. “I came here ready to kick his ass, but on the way over I realized I was wrong.”
“How?” I ask.
“Something about chapstick,” Lance mutters.
“Um, ignore that bit,” Damon says. “There were lots of little things that tipped me off. I saw her in photos published on DMZ. She claimed to be a reporter for them, but if that’s the case, why would she be in the photos? She’d be the one taking them.”
“You’re right, that is circumstantial.”
“There’s more. In some of the photos she’s got blonde hair. I’m not exactly an expert on women’s hair, but it looks a lot like the wig that went missing from your dressing room. Plus, some of the photos of her showed off her arm. Check it out.”
I look down at Valerie on the floor and notice she has a scar on her arm. It looks an awful lot like the type of scar you’d get if a small child bit you hard on the arm in a struggle.
“It’s exactly where Emma said she bit her,” I say. “Why do you
think she killed my father?”
Damon is silent again, and I have to repeat the question.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asks.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid. I promise.”
“I never told you this, but after a performance one night, Valerie approached me and asked me if you felt guilty about your father’s death. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but then it struck me. Why would you feel guilty for your father’s death?”
“Because he died trying to save me,” I say softly. “I never told you that. I should’ve, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I kept it to myself.”
Damon smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “It’s okay, I already know. Your mother paid me a little visit and explained everything. Anyway, the only people who know what happened that night are you and your mum. Plus, the attacker.”
“Shit.”
“When you didn’t come back after the show finished, we got worried and went looking for you. I guess Valerie snuck in while we were out.”
“Thank you,” I say, as I squeeze Damon almost as tightly as he’s holding me. The woman who murdered my father is just fifteen feet away from me, and she’s unconscious. It would be so easy to finish her off. Who am I kidding, I could never kill anyone. It’s not like in the movies. She’s a vile human being, but she’s still a human being. I look away, before I change my mind.
“Ms. Price,” Lance says softly, still looking down at the body. “I owe you an apology. And my resignation.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you saved my life.”
“Damon saved your life. I let this woman get close to you.”
“You did everything you could,” Damon says firmly. “Lance was on to her. That’s why he was at Emma’s school on the day she was kidnapped. He’d followed Valerie all the way there.”
“I never managed to catch her in the act,” Lance says. “I knew she was suspicious, but I had no idea she killed your father. Reports of that night identified a man as the culprit.”