Blacklist. Alyson Noel
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Coast accent was a fake. And while the childhood she recounted in interviews might have been true for the latter part of her life, if the pic and diary entry were anything to go by, Madison’s earlier years were markedly different from the story she told. Her life as she’d described it was no more than an ingenious work of fiction.
Clearly Madison had worked hard to bury her secrets, leaving Tommy to wonder if those same secrets were somehow responsible for what happened to her.
Had the truth of her past come back to haunt her?
“So . . . what do you think?” Layla leaned toward him. “It’s Madison, right?”
Tommy swallowed. Not trusting his voice, he cleared his throat before he attempted to speak. “It’s definitely her.” He shook his head. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely, and yet, it made perfect sense. Their time together had been brief, but it left a lasting impression. And one thing was sure, the way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, and the way she’d let her accent slip left no doubt in his mind that there was more to Madison Brooks than there seemed. “Kind of creepy, though.” He glanced at Layla, who nodded in a way that encouraged him to go on. “I mean, she’s so cold and calculating the way she manipulated that Dalton kid into keeping her secret.” He shook his head and swiped a hand through his hair. “I mean, she was only fourteen and she was already trading sex for favors—or implied sex anyway.”
“Never mind that part about how she’s always acting—can never stop acting.” Layla frowned. “I mean, if her whole life is make-believe, does that mean her disappearance is fake too?”
Tommy took a moment to consider the question, though he had no good way to respond. “Who sent this?” He forced his gaze away from the pic and back on Layla.
She shrugged. “My guardian angel, I guess.”
Tommy held Layla’s gaze. “What about Ira?” He’d warned her about Ira before, or more accurately, his suspicions regarding Ira. Ira had played Layla all through the contest, always pretending to be this close to firing her and yet never quite managing to go through with it. Tommy was convinced it was all an act. Layla was never really in danger of being fired, not until the very end anyway, and for that, she had her blog to thank. The sensationalistic, gossip-fueled stories she posted on Beautiful Idols were good for Ira’s clubs, made them a bigger draw than they already were. At the time, Layla wouldn’t even consider Tommy’s theory. But after watching the way Ira reacted toward Aster’s arrest, how he failed to display the slightest hint of emotion when he plucked the prizewinning check from her hands, he wondered if she’d finally woken up to see what was so glaringly obvious to him.
Ira Redman was not to be trusted.
Just because Ira happened to be Tommy’s biological dad, and just because Tommy was eager to clinch the sort of success that would allow him to confidently reveal their connection, didn’t mean Tommy liked him.
“Ira’s more of a fallen angel than a guardian angel.” Layla reached for a raw sugar packet, inspected both sides, then returned it to where it came from. “Besides, why would he bother?”
So you’ll blog about it, he thought, but refrained from actually saying it. Mostly because he wasn’t exactly sure what Ira could possibly gain from that, other than more exposure for his clubs, which seemed motivating enough, but still he just said, “I guess I thought maybe, since you and your dad are both working for him—”
Layla cut him off before he could finish. “My dad and I haven’t seen much of each other. He’s mostly holed up at the Vesper all day working on the mural Ira hired him to paint. You probably see him more than me.”
Tommy shrugged. “The new VIP room is strictly off-limits. Apparently the artist doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Believe me, it’s the same policy when he’s working at home.” Layla fell into silence as they both nursed their drinks.
The sight of a pensive Layla sitting before him left Tommy with a primal longing to swoop her into his arms and protect her—that and so many other things he might do once he had her securely pressed up against him. . . .
“We need to do something.”
The sound of her voice shook him out of his reverie. And when his eyes met hers, it was clear Layla wasn’t looking to be rescued, or anything else.
“I’m tired of sitting around doing nothing while Aster’s in jail. I think we should make a list of evidence, things we need to follow up on. Between the picture, the diary entry, and Aster’s video, we have enough to start our own investigation.”
Tommy wiped a hand across his mouth and placed the empty bottle before him. “I have a gig.” He fielded Layla’s quizzical look with a shrug.
“I thought you wanted to help.” Her brow knotted as her gaze narrowed on his. “I mean, why else are you here?”
Tommy sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and glanced toward the bar, suddenly regretting his decision to meet. Aster was the only daughter of wealthy parents with unlimited resources. There was nothing he and Layla could possibly offer that Aster’s family and some white-shoe law firm couldn’t. Despite what Layla thought, they lacked resources and know-how, not to mention any worthwhile evidence. So what if Madison wasn’t always named Madison? She’d hardly be the first in Hollywood to create a fictional past for herself.
The only reason Tommy was sitting in that booth was because he’d wanted to see Layla again. It didn’t make sense; she wasn’t his usual type, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about her pretty much all the time. But clearly Layla saw him only as a potential Scooby Gang member. And the way she was glaring at him left no doubt that his feelings for her would forever go unrequited.
It was time he distanced himself from Layla and the whole Madison mess she was dragging him into. He was tired of always looking over his shoulder. Tired of always being hounded by paparazzi. Tired of complete strangers tweeting so much shit about him.
He’d arrived in LA with a dream, and it was time he started taking meaningful steps toward making it real.
“Have you ever considered that maybe Aster is guilty?” he said.
Layla balked. He’d rendered her speechless. A victory of sorts, though it hardly felt worth celebrating.
“You did not just say that,” she snapped.
Tommy had meant exactly that and more. In the days since Aster’s arrest, he’d had plenty of time to contemplate the evidence leveled against her, and he was no longer so convinced of her innocence. “She was dating Madison’s boyfriend,” he said. “They found Madison’s blood on her dress. Not to mention how Aster’s alibi for that night just doesn’t add up. She doesn’t remember? Really? Don’t you think that’s a stretch?”
“You can’t be serious.”
Layla was in shock—angry, and in shock. But someone needed to say it. Might as well be him. The evidence piling up against Aster made it increasingly difficult to believe in her.
Besides, how well did he actually know her? Not well at all. His experience with Aster was mostly limited to the contest, and even that revealed Aster as cutthroat, focused, and willing to play dirty and do whatever was necessary to secure the win.
Didn’t matter that the same could be said of him. He wasn’t guilty of harming Madison, whereas he couldn’t definitively say the same of Aster.
“I’m out.” He slid an envelope across the table toward Layla, watching as she blinked but wouldn’t so much as touch it. “Madison’s keys,” he explained. He should’ve turned them over to the police right from the start. But with Detective Larsen always breathing down his neck, Tommy had hung on to them, convinced Larsen would only use them against him. “Wiped clean of my prints, I might add.” He exhaled long and deep, relieved to finally be rid of them. “Seriously, I want nothing to do with this.” In an instant he was up, pulling a sizable handful of bills from his wallet and tossing