It was the cartoon cat that gave it away.
Heather had come to him with an idea for a line of T-shirts, greeting cards—an entire product line—and asked him to help fund it. She wanted to call it Socio Cat, a sort of demented version of Hello Kitty.
Ira had done his best to explain why the idea wasn’t one that interested him. But Heather was persistent, and he’d finally taken a meeting where she’d left a prototype behind.
The day it fell from his desk and he saw the way Tommy reacted, Ira knew it meant something more and decided to do a little digging.
Though he’d never intended to be held hostage inside his own club, much less all the bloodshed, he realized now he should’ve expected as much. Still, the latest rumor that the club was haunted with Heather’s ghost had guaranteed that Halloween at RED would continue to be the hottest ticket in town for years to come.
If Ira had one regret, and he wasn’t one for regret, but if he did have one, it would be the way Tommy had been forced to say what Ira had known from the start—Tommy Phillips was his son.
What Tommy had no way of knowing was that Ira had spent the last eighteen years watching from afar. Walking into Farrington’s that day was anything but random.
Some might say he’d been too hard on Tommy. But Ira would disagree. Maybe he wasn’t paternal in the usual way, but there was no doubt he played a large part in the sort of man Tommy had become.
Into his phone, he typed:
Thought I’d stop by and say good-bye before you leave. That okay?
Tommy was quick to reply:
Sure. We’re at Aster’s new place. I’ll text you the address.
Ira wrote:
Got it. See you there.
Tommy now commuted between his place in LA and Layla’s place in New York. Though Ira was happy for them, Aster’s choice to attend UCLA wasn’t exactly the future he’d envisioned at the start.
All along he’d been positioning Aster to be an A-list actress. And yet, while she definitely had the looks and charisma required, she lacked the sort of relentless tenacity needed to make it to the top of the heap. Not everyone could be Madison Brooks. And in the end, there was a part of Ira that was glad of that. Over the course of the summer, he’d come to think of Aster as a daughter. When he saw the look of fear on her face after finding him bound and gagged, he realized she cared for him too. So maybe it had all turned out for the best.
It was like Marilyn Monroe had once said: “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.”
More than anything Ira liked people to feel indebted to him, and yet he’d grown fond enough of Aster that he no longer wanted that for her.
“Got a moment?”
Ira pushed his phone aside and waved Emerson inside.
Emerson stood at the edge of Ira’s desk and handed over the file Ira had requested.
He flipped it open and quickly skimmed the first page. “You sure about them?”
Emerson nodded. “I think you’ll like what you find. An Instagrammer on the rise, a model with an impressive number of followers, an up-and-coming actress—and, of course, a musician.”
“Any artists? Like a painter, sculptor, graphic arts, anything like that?” Ira regarded Emerson closely. He’d shown a lot of promise when he’d worked in marketing. And when Ira had asked him to take on the additional assignment of keeping tabs on Layla and tracking her whereabouts, Emerson had been quick to comply, no questions asked.
“That wasn’t on the list of gets, but I’ll be sure to look into it.”
“Good,” Ira said. “No need to repeat the exact formula, no matter how well it worked before. And what about James—he ran all the usual checks?”
“Says they’re good and ready. He’s training Priya to take over.”
Ira grew silent. James had been one of his best employees, and though he’d miss him, no one was ever irreplaceable.
“Okay then.” Ira closed the file and met Emerson’s gaze. “You ready for this?”
“Of course,” Emerson said. “Just . . .”
Ira waited.
“How do we top the last competition? It’s not like we can actually kidnap anyone.”
Ira grew thoughtful. He looked at Emerson. “We may never top it. But I’m not sure we have to. With a list as young, driven, and hungry as this, something is bound to happen.”
He reached into his desk to retrieve a stack of flyers. “Start with these. See that they’re widely distributed. We’re shooting for a record turnout. We want every kid who interviews to think they stand a chance.”
“The Hollywood dream,” Emerson said.
“Works every time.”
FIFTY-ONETHE PRETTIEST STAR
Madison Brooks sat calmly in her front row aisle seat at the Dolby Theater. With Blue at her feet—she’d taken him as her date—and a fully recovered Paul by her side, life had never felt sweeter.
Six months after the tragedy at RED, Madison’s star continued to rise. She’d already won the Golden Globe for this role, and with Heather Rollins now buried and gone, she’d taken Madison’s secrets along with her. From this point on, Madison had nothing to fear. She could look forward to living out the rest of her life free of the burden of constantly looking over her shoulder.
Paul nudged her side. The nominees for Best Actress in a Leading Role were being announced. When her name was called, Madison faced the camera with the serene expression she’d been practicing with this exact moment in mind.
Her friends were all watching at Aster’s new apartment, and she wondered what they’d make of her gift of the black-and-white photographs that had once hung in her entry. She didn’t care if they displayed them or
