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.
“And we sincerely hope she turns up dead, because that’s what she deserves for lying to us all these years! RIP, bitch!”
Madison froze. She felt like she was about to be sick.
She looked to her fan in the hideous sundress. Surely she’d jump in to defend her. But she didn’t. Nobody did. And that was when Madison realized they weren’t there to memorialize her. They were there to condemn her and all the lies she’d told through the years.
“I can’t believe what a phony she turned out to be,” someone said.
Another chimed in, “Well, she may be a fake, but I still like her movies.”
“I’m not surprised,” said a girl in an off-the-shoulder T-shirt. “Everything about her seemed bogus. I heard she gets tons of Botox, and those aren’t even her real eyes—they’re contacts.”
Botox? Madison shook her head. She was eighteen, what the hell did she need with Botox?
This had been a mistake. If someone recognized her now, it wouldn’t end well. She ran a serious risk of being attacked by the mob, and from what she could see, there wasn’t a single person willing to jump in and help.
She stood on shaky legs, determined to make a quick getaway, when someone shoved into her so hard, it nearly sent her crashing into a huge poster of herself. Under any other circumstances, the scene would be comical. As it was, Madison was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
“You okay?” a girl asked.
Tentatively, Madison nodded. She wasn’t used to feeling so vulnerable, and she hated every moment of it.
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
Madison turned. The girl was probably around her age and had long brown hair, styled in long, beachy waves. Same way Madison often wore hers.
“All that time I spent admiring her.” The girl scowled. “I can never get that time back.”
Madison was incensed. She’d made the movies they loved, promoted the products they clamored for. She’d allowed glimpses into a lifestyle they all dreamed of living. What more did she actually owe them?
“Really?” Madison spat. “That’s your idea of tragic? Maybe you should try stepping away from your Instagram feed long enough to read a newspaper so you can see what real tragedy looks like.”
The second it was out, she was overcome with regret. But it was too late to walk it back.
Enraged, the girl spun on her and unleashed a tirade of hate that left Madison with no choice but to get the hell out of there as fast as her ankle allowed.
She limped toward the Jeep and had just swung open the door when a hand caught hold of her. The fingers pinched at the spot where the tracker had been ripped from her arm.
The moment sent her mind reeling back to the two previous times, at Night for Night and in Joshua Tree, when some unknown attacker had come out of nowhere and grabbed her from behind.
She whipped her body around. It was broad daylight, on a crowded street. She would not go down easily.
A scream rose up her throat, only to die on her tongue when she locked eyes with a guy holding a T-shirt bearing her image.
“Fifteen dollar,” he said.
Madison stared in astonishment and fought hard not to laugh. It was one of the more surreal moments of what had become a very strange life.
Above her picture was the word Wanted. Below, it read: MaryDella Slocum, goes by the alias Madison Brooks. If seen, contact LAPD Trena Moretti.
Unfreakingbelievable. The world had known for two days, and a T-shirt had already entered the marketplace. It was capitalism at its best.
“I’ll give you six.” She reached for her wallet.
“Ten,” he shot back, looking offended.
“Seven,” she said. “Best and final.”
After a moment of false deliberation he agreed, and Madison climbed into the Jeep and drove away from the scene. Her crumpled image on the seat beside her, she went in search of Tommy Phillips.
FIFTEENTHINK A LITTLE
