“He wants to tell a story.”
“The story of Ira?”
Heather shook her luxurious mane of blond hair. “No, I don’t mean a biography. Anyone who wants to know that can simply pick up a back issue of Fortune or Vanity Fair. Ira wants the focus to be not just on him, but on the world that surrounds him.”
Trena stared wordlessly. She had no idea what Heather was getting at.
“His vision for RED was to build a space where one can create their own narrative. The guest list will be extremely limited, very exclusive, and expertly curated. Unlike his other clubs, it’s not about the number of bodies that walk through the door. It’s about cultivating an interesting and eclectic group of adventurous people who are willing to check their egos in order to engage with each other in deeply experimental, new ways.”
“It’s starting to sound like a combination of Soho House and a private sex club.”
“Not at all!” Heather’s face was aghast. She’d completely missed the fact that Trena was joking.
Trena vowed to lighten up and go easy on her. After all, Heather was merely the mouthpiece, and she’d probably spent days memorizing the spiel. The least Trena could do was pretend to go along.
While she’d been lost in her thoughts, she realized Heather had taken the opportunity to study her. “How’s it going with James?” she asked, brown eyes flashing.
“Excuse me?” Trena balked.
Heather shot her a knowing grin. “Can’t say I blame you. James is hot as fuck and loyal to the core. You could do a lot worse, you know.”
Trena stared in shock. Surely Heather had wandered wildly off script.
“Wondering if we can get back on topic,” Trena said, her voice stiff.
Heather gave a casual shrug. “Sorry if I caught you off guard. Consider that part of checking your ego.”
“Along with my right to privacy?”
Heather paused to consider. “In some cases, yes. But surely not all.”
Trena was scrambling to make sense of the weirdness, when Heather motioned toward the sign on the door, which consisted of raised white letters that spelled WATCH. Opening the door, she ushered Trena inside.
Again, the room was done all in white. There were several rows of comfortable-looking white lounge chairs, all of them with individual video monitors.
“Ira’s taken the idea of reality TV and kicked it up several notches,” Heather said in response to Trena’s reaction. “To quote the great prophet Andy Warhol,” she said without the slightest hint of irony, “‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.’ So why should the housewives and the Kardashians have all the fun?”
“You’re going to film people?”
“Those who sign the consent form, yes. Those who prefer to watch can come here and indulge their inner voyeur.”
Trena nodded like she was getting the hang of it, but she wasn’t, or at least not entirely.
“So each room is a set?”
“Yes.” Heather made a steeple with her hands, supporting her chin. “That’s why everything is white, like a blank canvas. The participants decide the design.” She dropped her hands to her hips and said, “So, what do you think?”
Trena rehearsed a few responses in her head. Rejecting them all, she said, “Are you the spokesperson just for tonight, or every night?”
Heather laughed. “Just tonight.”
“And why have you agreed to do this? Surely it’s taking time away from everything else you have going on?”
Heather met Trena’s gaze and held it for longer than expected. “Because Ira asked me to help.” Quickly switching gears, she added, “Anyway, for tonight, we thought it would be really cool if we let you guide the narrative.”
“But I thought this was just a walk-through. I don’t have my camera crew. I’m not sure what’s going on here.”
“Not to worry, you will.” Heather grinned. Leading her out of the room and to the mouth of a long hallway marked with doors on each side, she said, “And trust me, you’re in for a big surprise.”
THIRTY-NINELOST AND FOUND
Madison lifted herself off the floor and looked all around. She felt woozy, uncertain. Nearly losing her footing, she needed a moment to stabilize before she could take in her surroundings.
Last time she’d found herself locked in a room, it was nothing like this. Nonetheless, the intent was the same. To isolate her from the rest of the world, then release all her shame.
Of course her purse was missing, leaving her unarmed. But she’d seen her attacker, which was a sort of ammunition all its own. Though considering the size and scale of the crime, it was doubtful the enemy had acted alone. There were more of them still out there, somewhere.
She wandered the perimeter, tapping her knuckles against walls that appeared solid and unmovable. If that turned out to be true, then she was completely at the mercy of her captor, with no real chance of escape.
This was not how it was supposed to go down. She’d made a plan, studied it from every angle, and convinced herself it was a good one. The mistake was keeping Paul in the dark. She’d texted him from the beach, planning to meet in person so she could tell him everything she’d learned. After, she figured she’d find a place to lay low while he did whatever necessary to ensure her safety. Then, with Paul by her side, she’d reenter the world. It was simple. Easy. Seemingly foolproof. And yet, once again, her captor was way ahead of her.
From seemingly out of nowhere, an image of herself was projected onto the wall. The name MaryDella Slocum was written above a picture of her at age eight, barefoot, dirty, and wearing a size-too-small dress. It was the same photo that had covered the walls of her earlier cell, and that, thanks to Layla’s blog and Trena Moretti’s show, had gone viral all over the world.
She stretched her gaze toward the ceiling and spotted a camera aimed right at her. She stepped to the left and then to the
