Blacklist. Alyson Noel
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to its front.
It was the kind of box usually seen on Valentine’s Day. The kind of box that looked very out of place sitting on her desk in the middle of a scorching-hot August afternoon. And with no love life to speak of since Mateo had dumped her, she couldn’t even venture a guess as to who might’ve sent it.
Her dad simply wasn’t the grand gesture type. And Ira—well, Ira was her boss, which made it grossly inappropriate and completely out of the question. As for Tommy . . . well, she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it.
On the front of the envelope, her name was written in an elaborate curlicue script. Still no closer to determining who’d sent it, she flipped it over, ran her finger under the flap, and removed the small rectangular card placed inside, which bore a picture of a grinning cartoon cat with a noose tied snugly around its neck.
Layla stared at the card—it was hideous, creepy, and the sight of it gave her the chills. While she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, one thing was sure—it definitely hadn’t been plucked from the Hallmark shelf.
With trembling fingers, she popped the card open to find a message written in the same fancy curlicue script.
Hey, Valentine!
In your effort to help your friend get out of jail
Your blog has become a total fail
And while I consider that a real shame
I think we both know, you alone are to blame
If it’s clues that you want
Then trust me, this is no taunt
Inside the box awaits a surprise
I truly believe it will open your eyes
All I ask from you
Is to post it for public view
I hope you take the bait
And don’t make me wait
If this all gives you pause
Then remember this clause:
Curiosity killed the cat—but satisfaction brought
her right back!
Xoxo
Your Secret Admirer
Layla set the card aside and pried open the box, only to groan in dismay as a pile of pink confetti and glitter spilled out all around her. Her heart racing, she slipped a nail under the flap of the slim manila envelope hidden beneath and retrieved a single piece of paper folded neatly in thirds.
The paper was yellowing and worn, its edges curled, the writing dramatic and loopy, with small chubby hearts dotting the i’s and carefully drawn stars and twisting vines of flowers trailing the length of the margins.
Layla began to read, and by the time she reached the end she went right back to the beginning and started again. By the third reading, she was left with more questions than answers, mainly: Who on earth did it belong to and why had someone seen fit to send it to her?
She was just refolding the pages, about to slip them back into the envelope, when a picture she hadn’t noticed tumbled out and landed faceup on her desk.
The girl in the photo was young, probably somewhere around seven or eight, but definitely no older than ten. Her hair was long, tangled, and dark. She had skinny legs and dirty bare feet. The dress she wore was wrinkled, stained, and at least one size too small, while the doll she dangled by her side was missing an eye and a limb and wore a strange, somewhat malevolent, lopsided grin.
But it was the girl’s eyes that held Layla transfixed. They were so intense, so arresting, so startlingly familiar it was nearly impossible to look away.
Hurriedly, she shoved the package into her bag, pushed away from her desk, and darted toward the exit. Aware of Emerson’s gaze burning into the back of her head, she anchored her cell between her shoulder and ear and in a lowered voice said, “We need to meet. I think I’ve just found our first clue.”
THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHER F****R
Aster Amirpour shuffled into the room and took the only chair available to her—the one bolted into the floor. Despite hating every moment of being locked in her cell, she’d come to dread leaving it as well, and for that she had her parents to thank. They meant well, she knew. But every visit from them and her attorneys left her feeling progressively worse, depleted of hope and resenting the freak show her life had become.
It was strange to think how just a few months earlier she’d graduated high school fully convinced she was standing on the precipice of a bright and shiny future, only to end up arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder.
All her life she’d dreamed of being famous—the face on every magazine cover, the name on everyone’s lips. Never once had she imagined she’d achieve all those things in the absolute worst, most inconceivable way.
She’d been in lockup less than a week and she already missed absolutely everything having to do with her former life. She missed her little brother Javen so much it was like a physical ache. She missed the feel of the hot California sun on her skin and spontaneous trips to the beach with her friends. She missed shopping sprees at Barneys, her large collection of designer handbags and shoes, as well as her weekly salon appointments for manis, pedis, and blowouts. And after the revolting, carb-heavy, jail-issued meals she was forced to gag down, she could honestly say she even missed green juice. Basically every aspect of her daily existence she’d once taken for granted she found herself missing with the kind of intensity most people reserved for loved ones or pets. If she was lucky enough to get out, she swore to express a lot more gratitude for the luxurious life she’d been given.
But for the moment, locked behind bars and clothed in an orange jail-issued jumpsuit, there was little to be grateful for. Her parents refused to let Javen visit, claiming they didn’t want Aster to traumatize him any more than she already had. Just when she was sure she’d reached rock bottom, their comment made her realize there were still several more layers of hell left to explore.
Then there were the shackles her jailers insisted she wear on her ankles and wrists, which were not only humiliating but completely unnecessary. Aster wasn’t violent, and she certainly didn’t pose a threat to anyone, but she’d failed to convince them of that.
It was hardly her fault that within minutes of being locked into the overcrowded holding cell she’d been dragged into a brawl. One moment she was eyeballing the filthy exposed toilet set smack in the center of the cell, wondering how long she could hold out before she’d have no choice but to use it, and the next, some crazy chick was whaling on her with both fists, leaving Aster no choice but to use the moves she’d learned in kickboxing class. Even though she’d acted in self-defense, there was no explaining that to the powers that be.
In the end, the incident had gained her a black eye, a split lip, the distrust of her jailers, and her very own cell, which was meant as a punishment but felt more like a win.
She slumped toward the edge of her seat and waited for her attorneys to enter, hoping they’d finally agreed to post bail. Her parents could’ve handled it days ago, but they wanted to teach Aster a lesson. As though the first-degree murder charge she was facing wasn’t lesson enough.
And yet, as desperate as she was to get out—as much as she hated the food, the filthy mattress, the lack of privacy, the disgusting smells, the hideous orange jumpsuit she was forced to wear, and pretty much everything else—the idea of returning home to live with her parents was its own kind of prison. Sure, the environment was incomparably luxurious, but the house rules were just as stringent. Though at the moment, it was the only option she had.
The door swooshed open behind her and Aster