She looked back at her glass again, one fingertip tracing the edge. It swept across the glass, smooth and slow. Hypnotic. She climbed off the stool and reached down the front of the loose, gauzy black shirt she wore over a purple bra. Her fingertips came back out with cash she tossed on the counter. She walked away from the bar.
And out of the club.
Chapter Four Now
"Who is this girl?" I ask.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks.
"It says she's a celebrity, but I don't know that I’ve ever heard of her."
"You aren't exactly an authority when it comes to what's popular," Dean points out.
I turn a glare at him, but it doesn't last long. He speaks the truth.
I shrug. "Not enough space in my brain for drivel."
"Says the woman who I know for a fact spent last Saturday watching Don Knotts movies because I called you during one, and Sam said you were on your third."
"That's not drivel. That's… cultivated frivolity." Dean lifts his eyebrows at me, and I relent. "Alright, so I don't have enough space in my brain for contemporary drivel. I just can't deal with all the insta-stars who are famous because they are celebrities because they are famous for being celebrities. You really look into them, and they are Norma Jean down the block at the drugstore."
"I don't know her," he says, grabbing a handful of tiny pretzel twists and tipping them into his mouth.
"Yes, you do," I say.
A knock on the front door announces the arrival of our pizza, and I get up to get it.
"Oh, right. That movie with, um… with the union," Dean says, raising up a fist.
I let out a short laugh and set the pizza on the table before heading to the kitchen for plates and napkins.
"That would be Norma Rae," I tell him when I come back in. "Norma Jean is Marilyn Monroe when she was still redheaded and boring, which brings me to my next question. Lakyn Monroe? Seriously? Is that actually her name?"
Dean narrows his eyes at me over his first bite into double pepperoni and pineapple pizza. "How would I know that?"
I reach into the box and shift a slice over onto my plate. "You're the one who was interested in the news report."
"Because she's been missing for four months, not because I have a picture of her surrounded by candles I light every night while I listen to her album," he protests.
"Does she sing?" I ask.
He rolls his eyes. "I don't know."
"Alright." I wipe glorious pizza grease off my lips and promise myself a few extra laps around the neighborhood. "What do you know about her?"
"Just like the news report said, she started doing those video blog things while she toured theme parks. That's what got people's attention," Dean explains.
"Theme parks?"
"Yeah. Apparently, people get really invested in watching other people walk around theme parks and talk about what they are doing. They ride rides and talk about the food they're eating and stuff," he says.
The description strikes me, and I glance down at my pizza for a second. "Like Mary Preston."
The look that flickers across Dean's face tells me he didn't make the connection either until that moment. "A more specific version, but essentially."
I can still see Mary’s face. Young and beautiful. She thought she was just starting out, that she was going to find fame through the videos she posted. She died thinking that. Her phone recorded the last seconds of her life before a bomb decimated the bus station where she sat, waiting for her next adventure.
She wasn't famous. Not yet, anyway. But she was getting there. Her videos got hundreds of comments from people devoted to her every move. She seemed so confident in those videos, so sure of herself. The reality was she was desperate for the attention. Mary clung to every one of those comments. They fulfilled her, defined her.
They were what ultimately destroyed her. Her need to draw life and validation from those comments is what let Anson infiltrate her very being. She didn't matter to him. To him, Mary was a collection of convenient syllables, an easily manipulated mind, and a camera.
"And she's just gone?" I say, wanting to move on from the painful thoughts of Mary.
"Apparently." Dean reaches for his third slice of pizza. "Like it said, she'd gotten onto some shows and got a flash of fame. A couple of people saw her leaving the lot where she filmed the baking show, and she hasn't been seen or heard from since. It was just like that."
"And her car?" I ask. "Did they find it?"
"No. She just disappeared into thin air." He cringes. "I'm sorry."
I shake my head. "It's fine. But we both know people don't just disappear. No matter how much it seems like it, they're there." I pluck a chunk of pineapple out of my slice and think for a few seconds. "If this girl is famous and has been missing for four months, how have I not heard about it?"
"Her fame was starting to fade. That baking show was the first thing she did not on her own internet channel for a while. It seems she stopped worrying so much about staying famous and got wrapped up in a bunch of causes."
"Like the innocent people being convicted," I note.
"That's the one I've heard the most about. But getting tangled up with criminals doesn’t quite have the playful, innocent sex appeal the theme park videos had. So, I guess even vanished, she's not getting as much screen time," he says.
"Depending on who she got herself involved with, it might also be a tactic of the investigation," I say. Dean's eyes slide over to me, and I hold up my hands to display my innocence. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing anything. I was just making an observation."
"Sure. I definitely believe that."
I roll my eyes
