Infamous

by Alyson Noel

  Javen grinned happily. “You know, I’ve always wanted to live in a penthouse apartment.” He stood before a framed black-and-white print—a gift from Trena’s ex-fiancé that she still couldn’t bring herself to part with. “My parents’ house is huge, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it feels too big, you know?”

  Trena folded her arms across her chest. He was seconds from being evicted. He just didn’t know it.

  “But a place like this is pretty much the stuff of my dreams.”

  “Really?” Trena cocked her head and squinted at the beautiful, manipulative, savvy boy she’d wildly underestimated. “You dream about real estate?”

  Javen gave a casual lift of his shoulders. “That. And a few other things.”

  It was time to take back the reins before this went any further. “You’re not moving in.”

  “Wouldn’t consider it. Pretty sure I just mentioned I live at home with my parents. Now that Aster’s gone, I have an entire wing to myself. Still, every now and then, I do find myself in need of a little more privacy.”

  Their eyes met. If she agreed, she’d be aiding and abetting a minor in who knew what kind of teenage debauchery. If she didn’t, she might never get what she needed.

  Deftly avoiding an answer, she said, “I figured I could set you up right over here.” She gestured toward the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the den.

  Javen pursed his lips and tapped a finger to his chin, looking as though it didn’t quite live up to his standards. Trena was just about to blow, when he said, “That’ll do.” He grabbed a stool, propped open his laptop, and went to work.

  “You know what would be good?” He glanced at her, his hands hovering over the keyboard.

  Inwardly, Trena groaned. She was already regretting her decision to involve him. “Let me guess, you want me to go on a fro-yo run?”

  Javen rubbed his chin as though considering the offer. Deciding against it, he said, “No. But a little road trip might be fun.”

  “Javen,” she said, ready to let him have it, when he turned his computer toward her. She leaned over his shoulder and peered at the screen showing a document for a property in Ojai registered under the name of MaryDella Slocum. “Is this legit?” Trena skimmed the page again, sure that it was. “You found that just now? After less than a minute of typing?”

  Javen laughed. “No, I just placed an order with Postmates. It’ll be here in twenty-five to thirty minutes. This I found right after you revealed Madison’s birth certificate on your show.”

  Trena stared. Clearly, she’d been played by a pro.

  “I’ll text you whatever else I find. But for now, I think you should go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll let myself out when I’m done.”

  THIRTEEN

  SURFACE ENVY

  “I hope you brought tacos, because that’s what I ordered.”

  Layla breezed past Javen and moved toward the center of the room. “Did she believe you?” She turned in a circle, taking in the bright, open space.

  “What do you think?” He shot her a mock-offended look. “Sure took you long enough to get here. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

  “I watched her leave.” Layla roamed Trena’s spacious apartment. It was a large open-floor plan with stunning city views and sleek modern furnishings. Aside from a few framed pieces on the walls, the personal touches were kept to a minimum, leaving Layla to wonder if Trena preferred a more anonymous, spare look, or if she’d simply been too busy to add her own stamp to it.

  It was a recent acquisition, and though Layla had never visited her last place, she was willing to bet it wasn’t nearly as nice as this new one. Clearly, her hit TV show had come with a considerable leap in the pay grade.

  Glancing at Javen, Layla said, “I wanted to make sure she stayed gone.” She lifted a hardcover book from the coffee table authored by an esteemed journalist Layla admired. She inspected the front and back covers, flipped to the title page, and confirmed it was indeed signed and personalized. Then she placed it right back where she’d found it and joined Aster’s brother.

  “Again, you’re doubting my skills.” Javen scowled.

  “Or overestimating Trena’s. Two sides to everything, right?” She peered over his shoulder and peeked at his laptop. From what she could see, he was writing a school essay.

  “It’s part of my escape plan.” He nodded toward the screen. “I need to maintain my grades so I can graduate early and attend an East Coast college. I don’t even care which one, just the farther away the better.”

  Layla could relate. There was a time, not long ago, when she’d made a similar plan. Now it seemed like nothing more than the quaint dream of someone who’d never been arrested, never seen the inside of a jail cell, never been chased by paparazzi, never received death threats that flooded her in-box until she’d stopped reading all incoming comments, direct messages, and email. She was living each moment as it came. There was no looking ahead, no telling where she’d end up. Planning seemed like a luxury she could not afford.

  To Javen, she said, “It’s a good goal.”

  “So.” He looked at her. “What now?”

  Layla pursed her lips. “We snoop.”

  “And are we looking for anything in particular?”

  It was a good question, but Layla had no solid answer. “I guess just anything remotely connected to Madison, your sister, Ira, Paul . . .” She finished with a shrug. “Does Trena keep an office here?”

  Javen directed her down the hallway and into a back room, where Layla stood in the doorway, stunned by the sudden jolt of jealousy that overcame her.

  Normally, she made fun of people who crammed their wall space with framed certificates and photos of all the famous people they’d met. But now she understood that her former urge to poke fun had more to do with her own glaring lack of accomplishments than the pride Trena took in hers.

  It was an impressive collection of achievements, and there was no denying Trena had worked hard to get where she was—nothing had ever been handed to her. But this latest accomplishment—the penthouse apartment and the prime-time slot—was entirely due to a story Layla had helped her create.

  Though instead of feeling bitter, Layla was left to wonder if journalism was something she still wanted to pursue. After playing a major role in one of the world’s most scandalous stories, she was no longer sure she had it in her to be the hunter after having spent so much time as the prey.

  Writing for a major news publication was the only solid dream she’d ever really had, and now, even that was in jeopardy. The summer had robbed her of nearly everything she’d ever cared about.

  “Are we starting in here?”

  Layla turned to find Javen leaning against the door frame.

  She looked away, needing a moment to compose herself. “You start in the bedroom,” she said.

  Javen’s reply was swift. “No. No way.”

  Layla heaved a frustrated sigh.

  “Not a chance. You go looking in her underwear drawer. I’m not going anywhere near it. This is not what I signed up for.”

  He was so adamant there was no use pushing it. “Fine,” Layla said. “I’m sure if there’s anything to find, it’ll probably be in here anyway.”

  “Or on her laptop,” he said. “Only it’s not here. She took it with her.”

  Layla pressed her lips together, trying to decide where to begin. “Is there any way to tap into her network—or her cloud—or whatever?” Might as well encourage him to use one of his most valuable skills. “The note said she was hiding a clue, but it wasn’t specific as to where.”

  “There’s always a way.” He smirked, disappearing down the hall as Layla made for Trena’s desk.

  Trena had left the Washington Post to head up the LA Times digital division, which probably meant Javen was right. Anything important was stored on her computer.

  Then again, Layla specifically remembered seeing Trena carrying a notebook back when they’d first met.
Finding her stash of notebooks would be a good start.

  The desk was modern, sleek and white—exactly the sort of desk Layla might choose for herself. The top drawer didn’t offer much more than a stack of sticky notes, some paper clips, and a book of stamps. The side drawers revealed a tube of hand lotion, a pricey lip balm, and a pile of hair bands.

  Layla ran her hands underneath and all along the sides in search of secret compartments. Realizing she was reenacting every spy movie she’d ever seen, she stepped away and surveyed the room. If she had important documents she didn’t want anyone to find, she’d store them in a place no one would ever think to look.

  The bookshelf was tightly packed, though it was obvious from the pristine condition of the individual book jackets that Trena harbored a real affection for her collection. She’d never choose to deface one.

  Magazines, on the other hand . . .

  There was a stack of Vanity Fair and the Hollywood Reporter, a few in particular that appeared especially lumpy and thick.

  Pulling them from the stack, Layla claimed a space on the rug and spread them all around. Arranging them by the dates on the cover, she started with the June issue of Vanity Fair and immediately confirmed that her hunch was correct. The pages had been torn out and replaced with meticulous notes Trena had kept on Ira’s Unrivaled Nightlife contest, including a rundown of the rules and the names of those who were cut—there was a full dossier on every one of them.

  Layla was tempted to see what Trena had written about her, but not wanting to waste time on something with the potential to upset her and throw her off track, she pushed the magazine aside and moved on to September.

  She rifled through the papers. Trena’s writing was loopy and wide, and at times it was hard to make out every word. Most of it consisted of stuff Trena had already told her, and Layla was ready to give up when she came across a photocopy of an old news clipping Trena hadn’t mentioned.

  After skimming it, Layla knew why.

  She reached for her phone and took a quick pic. Trena was on her way to Ojai, which meant there was no hurry to leave. But now that Layla had found what she needed, there was no reason to stay.

  “Find anything?” Javen moved into the office and glanced over Layla’s shoulder.

  She briefly considered telling him, but decided the less he knew the better.

  “Well, I’ve got something,” Javen said. “It’s an address, in Ventura County. A different one from where I sent Trena. According to Google Maps, it’s about an hour’s drive.”

  Layla hoisted her bag on her shoulder and went to stand beside him. “You actually sent her somewhere legit?”

  “I sent her to a tiny parcel of land with a trailer on it.” He shrugged. “This, on the other hand, is a house. And from what I’ve seen, it’s the sort of place Madison would choose to hang out.”

  “And if I run into Trena while I’m out there?”

  “Out of my jurisdiction. I’m just the hacker. Though you should know, the only side I’m taking is Aster’s, and mine, of course.”

  “Duly noted,” Layla said.

  She was heading for the door when he called, “Oh, and before you go, can you bring me my Postmates? Pretty sure it was just delivered.”

  FOURTEEN

  FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND

  For the first time in a long time, Madison Brooks was having fun.

  Maybe not fun in the usual pampered, VIP sort of way with all the highly coveted freebies and perks regularly showered on a star of her caliber. But she was out on her own, free to move about as she pleased. After weeks under lock and key, that alone meant everything.

  She was also taking the first meaningful step toward revenge. The thought was enough to coax that world-famous grin to her face.

  Though she still felt guilty about Blue, Madison knew her beloved mutt would be well looked after. Despite whatever suspicions she might have about Paul, he had a code he’d never deviate from. Paul would kill a human without a second thought, but when it came to animals, he would do no harm. He considered them sacred, and far superior to most people he knew. Madison tended to agree.

  She cruised up Hollywood Boulevard and headed toward Sunset. The day was bright and sunny, another scorcher in the making, and it seemed like everywhere she looked she caught a glimpse of her face.

  The billboards for her movie were still up. According to Paul, it was the biggest hit of the summer. There was even talk of an Oscar nom for best actress, which meant she’d probably be up for a Golden Globe too.

  Of course, she was featured on Trena Moretti’s In-Depth billboards as well. Only on those, Trena’s picture was bigger, leaving no doubt that she was the star of her show.

  So much had changed since Madison had been taken. While the frenzied news coverage she’d received didn’t surprise her, it was odd to witness firsthand the sort of cottage industry that had grown in the wake of her disappearance.

  She passed a handful of souvenir shops hawking T-shirts that featured her image. The ones that said Missing seemed sweet. The ones that said In Memoriam gave her the creeps.

  There were Madison masks, Madison key chains, Madison prayer candles. It was like she was haunting the city, serving as a grim reminder of how a person could be blessed with every conceivable gift—beauty, talent, riches, and stardom—and yet, they could still end up as tragically as any junkie on the street.

  For those who had little, her disappearance provided a sense of justice, proving they weren’t the only ones vulnerable to the whims of the universe.

  For those who had much, it filled their hearts with terror. If it could happen to Madison Brooks, then no one was safe.

  There was no shortage of people looking to make a buck off her story, and she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once she stepped out of the shadows and reclaimed her place in the spotlight.

  Most likely, it wouldn’t make much difference. The leftover merchandise would be sold at a discount while they waited for the next scandal to occur. It was Hollywood, after all. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of celebrity meltdowns.

  She drove past the Vesper and Jewel without so much as a glance. But as she approached Night for Night, against her better judgment she eased the Jeep into a nearby parking spot and gazed at the sprawling memorial set up near the entrance.

  A sizable crowd gathered around a jumble of stuffed animals, flowers, and crosses nestled alongside several poster-size pictures of her. Tourists. She frowned with derision, a little miffed to find not a single peer among them. They might’ve spared a few minutes the first week, maybe even shared a charming story about the time they’d run into her at Soho House. But as soon as the cameras moved on, they’d return to their regularly scheduled life of detoxing, Botoxing, and fighting their way to the top.

  But these people, with their thick-soled sneakers and sunburned shoulders—they were the true fans. The ones who read every interview, who dedicated entire weekends to binge-watching her films and buying every product she was ever paid to endorse, never seeming to notice that she rarely used those products herself. Hell, she didn’t even wear the perfume that featured her name on the label. She preferred a more exclusive brand.

  They even bought into her overhyped romance with Ryan. When he’d given her the gold-and-turquoise hoop earrings, you would’ve thought he’d surprised her with the Hope diamond the way they went on about it.

  They believed wholly in the gospel of Instagram, Snapchat, and People magazine. PR teams all over the city relied on their continued gullibility.

  Madison had burst onto the scene with the necessary good looks and talent to succeed. But it was these very people who’d projected their dreams onto her who had propelled her to the top of the heap.

  She watched as a frizzy-haired girl in a garish sundress broke into such a dramatic display of tears, several people nearby moved in to console her.

  The girl had probably bought all Madison’s posters—memorized all her movies by heart. If anyone were to
recognize her, it would be that girl.

  Madison popped open the door and slid from the seat. It was only the second time she’d ventured out in public. The first time, at the gas station, the girl working the register was so busy judging Madison’s skimpy outfit she’d barely bothered to look at her face.

  But this time was different. This was the test that would determine how she’d move forward from here. These people had devoted countless hours of their lives to watching her, reading about her, studying her, discussing her, dissecting her every Instagram post as though each pic held the key to her soul. If the disguise failed, it could prove catastrophic. And yet, she had no real choice but to see it through.

  She smoothed a hand over her long blond wig, readjusted her sunglasses, and limped toward the memorial.

  The first thing that struck her was how many were crying. It felt weird, like she was crashing her own funeral.

  She moved toward the frizzy-haired girl and shot her a tentative smile, even made a point to pat her lightly on the shoulder. The girl would totally freak if she knew Madison Brooks had just tried to console her. As it was, she thrust a crumpled tissue to her face and blew her nose so loudly Madison cringed and slipped away.

  It seemed every square inch was crammed with stacks of cards and letters—countless declarations of devotion, admiration, and love. These people adored her. They longed for her safe return. Madison was eager to grant them their wish, but there were things she had to do first.

  Wanting to leave them with a symbol of hope, she reached into her bag and retrieved the single hoop earring from Ryan that had managed to survive. She’d just placed it beside a stuffed teddy bear with angel wings, when two girls came to stand beside her, and one of them said, “Oh, look at all the pretty flowers!” She angled her cell and started filming.

  Her friend snickered and shook her head. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Shhh . . . video in progress!” And then in a mock-serious tone: “We’re on Hollywood Boulevard outside Night for Night, where MaryDella Slocum was last seen.” The girl couldn’t even finish the sentence without breaking into hysterical laughter, prompting her friend to take over.