She looked at Trena and said, “No. Not anymore.”
Immediately, the bench where she sat began to warm, along with the rest of the room, which up until that point had been unbearably cold.
“Very good. See how this works? Who knows, another correct answer might connect you with Ryan. So, Trena, what say you?”
Trena took a deep breath, then looked at Aster. “This one’s about your little brother, Javen.”
Aster held her breath.
“Is he gay?”
Aster closed her eyes. This was insane. When she opened them again, she looked directly into the camera and said, “This is bullshit. I demand you open this door right now and let me out of here. Or so help me God I will—”
“You will what exactly?” The voice laughed. “Save your empty threats. I’m in charge. You’re captive. I’ve shown you the way out. Now it’s up to you whether or not you decide to take it by answering the question. Is your little brother, Javen, gay?”
Aster closed her eyes and lowered her chin to her chest.
“We’re waiting. . . .”
Aster lifted her gaze, stared into the camera, and said, “No. No, he’s not.”
“Hmmmm . . . not sure that’s a correct answer,” the voice said. “Just to give your memory a nudge, I’m going to project two pictures onto the wall that only you can see. It’s up to you to decide which secret goes out into the world.”
Aster stared in dismay. One side of the wall featured a picture of Javen kissing a boy she recognized as his friend Dylan.
The other side showed a still from the video clip of Aster taking off her clothes and dancing seductively the night she went missing.
“You get to decide which one, but if you don’t answer in the next five seconds, then they’ll both be released.”
Superimposed over the pictures was the image of a countdown clock. Aster watched in grief as the numbers counted down from five . . . four . . . three . . . She closed her eyes.
Please forgive me. . . .
She opened them again, and said, “Me. Share the one of me.”
“You sure about that? Once it’s out, there’s no taking it back, and I can guarantee it’ll go viral.”
Aster nodded. Her throat clogged with tears, she was unable to speak.
“As you wish . . .”
The next thing she knew, the lights turned back on and the wall went blank.
FORTY-ONEHEARTLESS
Someone was on the other side of the wall, in the next room. She could hear the faint echo of a voice raised in anger. Despite their obvious panic, it gave Layla hope. She wasn’t as alone as she felt.
“Hey, I’m here!” She shouted the words as loud as she could. “Can you hear me?”
Out of nowhere a voice said, “Not only can I hear you, but I can see you as well.”
Layla spun around and searched for the source.
“Hello, Layla. I must say you look lovely tonight. Thanks for making the effort. You’ve come a long way from the girl who once wore knockoff shoes and rode a secondhand bike.”
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“You were always the most impatient. The most straightforward, and, I grudgingly admit, the smartest. But if you still don’t know who I am, then I guess you’re not as smart as I thought.”
Layla frowned. The voice was disguised in a way that made it impossible to tell if it was male or female. But the word choice leaned toward female, especially the part about knockoff shoes. Only a girl would use that as an insult. Then again, Ira might do so as well.
“I want you to play a little game with me. Please direct your attention to the wall directly in front of you.”
Layla did as instructed and was surprised to find Trena staring right back.
“Your host for tonight’s show should be familiar. After all, you recently broke into her apartment, didn’t you?”
Trena looked startled. Layla froze.
“Well, didn’t you?”
“No.” Layla shook her head.
“Aw, but I’m one hundred percent sure you did. Lying will not work in your favor, I can promise you that. So let’s try again.”
“I didn’t break in,” Layla said, unsure just how much to reveal. Considering she had no idea what this was about, she didn’t know how far she could push it. “Someone let me in.”
“Care to elaborate?”
She searched Trena’s face for a sign of what was really going on. Her gaze was pained, and she moved her shoulder in a way that hinted she might be restrained.
“Still waiting . . . ,” the voice said, exaggerating each word.
Trena gave a subtle nod, and Layla stared into the camera. “I convinced Javen to lure Trena out of her apartment so I could go through her files.” Layla made an apologetic face, but Trena was under too much duress to notice, much less care.
“And why would you do that?”
“Because I suspected her of hiding evidence.”
“And was she?”
Layla rubbed her lips together, buying a few seconds of time. “Yes,” she said, figuring that whoever was asking the questions already knew the answers anyway.
“And what did you find?”
“The name of the man who went to jail for killing Madison’s parents.”
“I like how you phrased that. Just like a journalist—facts without judgment. So tell me, do you think this man killed Madison’s parents?”
Layla sensed the answer they wanted, but she just wasn’t sure what she believed.
“Let the record show that Layla shrugged. So, is it safe to say you think Gerald Rawlins might be innocent of the crime?”
“I can’t say for sure,” Layla said. “I wasn’t there.”
“Aw, but you know who was there, don’t you?”
Layla looked at Trena, who so far hadn’t spoken a word. “Madison was there. Also Paul.”
“Do you think it’s possible that Madison did it? That Madison Brooks shot her own parents, and not Gerald Rawlins, even though he went to jail for the crime?”
The voice was disguised, but there was no doubt it was veering toward hysterical. Hoping to temper the mood, Layla took a deep breath and said, “Let’s just say that under the right circumstances,
