Naomi decides to wear her leather jacket to the airport, but stuffs her waterproof mac and winter coat into her large backpack. The coat makes a hissing noise as she rolls it into a ball and lays on top of it to squeeze the air out. It will come in handy as a makeshift pillow on the flight even if she doesn’t end up wearing it. Then she organizes all of her toiletries—a.m. skincare, makeup, shower stuff, p.m. skincare, dental, haircare—into separate travel bags and then carefully places them on top of her shoes, ranging from sandals to boots. She hopes she won’t be there for longer than a few days, but she likes to be prepared for every scenario.
Naomi makes a list, crossing off everything she’s already packed before analyzing what’s left. She walks over to her dresser and opens her jewelry box to select a few pieces, pausing when she sees the silver bracelet inside.
The Christmas after their mom died, when Naomi was twenty-two and her sister Faye twenty, they gifted each other bracelets. They were mostly identical, made of sterling-silver beads with one dangling heart charm. The only difference was the engraving on the charm. Naomi’s had an “F,” while Faye wore the one with an “N.” The gifts had been an exciting upgrade from the frayed friendship bracelets they traded as kids, acting as a symbol of their bond and marking not only a new chapter of just the two of them, but also a shared achievement: Making it out of their hometown.
Only two years apart, Naomi and Faye had always been close. Their dad left when they were toddlers, and their mom wasn’t around much, either busy working one of her part-time administrative jobs in the daytime or gigging and partying on the evenings and weekends with one of the bands she sang in. Unable to afford extracurricular activities like their friends, the girls had to entertain each other. They played hide-and-seek, wrote and performed their own plays, and even mapped out treasure hunts for each other in the woods behind their house. When they were older, they smoked weed and drank with friends, before a combination of scholarships and student loans allowed them both to eventually escape to university in New York City, like they’d always planned. A new adventure, together.
Naomi went first, choosing to study journalism, then Faye left two years later, for music. They’d both been obsessed with celebrities since they were little, wondering what it must be like to have anything you wanted, to be revered, fawned over. But while Naomi chose a career path that took her behind the scenes, Faye craved the limelight. Like their mother, she dreamed of seeing her name in lights, her face plastered on the covers of the various magazines at the corner store. Faye’s desperation to make it only got stronger after their mom died.
The loss affected Naomi differently, though, which was expected. While Faye admired the ambition of Lucy Marjorie Barnes, the once-beautiful lead singer of a mostly unknown soft rock band, Naomi resented her for it. Sure, she loved her mom and had plenty of happy memories, but their relationship was a complicated one. And she’d never truly forgiven her mom for missing so much of their childhood while chasing a lost hope. For forcing her to lie to Faye in an attempt to shelter her from the truth, telling her sister that their mom missed the talent show because she was off on important music business, when really she was getting drunk and high in the city.
So when the doctors confirmed Lucy had died of a heart attack, most likely from years of alcohol and drug abuse, Naomi accepted it as a long time coming. But Faye rejected their reasoning, convinced it was really a broken heart that had killed her—from not being able to fulfill her dream after trying for so long.
Faye vowed not to end up like Lucy, and for a time Naomi thought she just might do what their mom couldn’t and break through. But her end was even more tragic.
Part of Naomi blamed their mom for Faye’s fate, for encouraging her to “Never, ever give up.” Naomi would’ve thought that so much rejection would’ve jaded their mom, made her salty and pessimistic for her daughter’s future, but instead she pushed Faye. Naomi knew she had meant well, for the most part, but she also felt that, deep down, it was a way for Lucy to ignore any regret she felt for having had children in the first place, that maybe her purpose wasn’t to be a star, but to raise one. Turns out, it was neither.
Sadness pricks at Naomi as she realizes that she writes about people like her mother and sister now: Tragic dream-chasers who fear failure more than death, turning to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain when they slowly start to realize they might not be among the lucky ones.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest, Naomi stares at a polaroid of her and Faye tucked into the top corner of her dresser mirror. Taken with Faye’s retro camera on their annual Thanksgiving road trip down South—a tradition they started following their mom’s death—it had always been one of Naomi’s favorite photos, from a time when they were closer than ever. In it, the sisters have their heads thrown back in laughter, arms wrapped around each other.
Naomi can’t remember the last time she laughed like that.
*
After she finishes packing and running a few last-minute errands, Naomi orders an Uber to LAX. Within ten minutes, her bags are loaded in the trunk and they’re on their way, cruising through streets lined with palm trees and telephone poles. Naomi laughs to herself as they pass a billboard advertising Harlow’s latest album. She thinks about the talented young woman, adored by millions for her sweet personality and catchy pop songs. Could she seriously have killed someone? Theft? Sure. Assault? Maybe. Drugs? Meh. But murder?
As an entertainment reporter, Naomi is naturally up-to-date with the big goings-on in the industry—who’s dating whom, who cheated on whom, who’s feuding, who’s canceled—but these accusations have come as a true shock. No indication Harlow was “troubled” or struggling in any way. No rumors of her beefing with anyone. But perhaps that’s due to Naomi’s own ignorance. She’s purposefully avoided anything Harlow-related for the past couple years because it makes her too sad, reminding her of her sister. She scrolled past any photo of or article about Harlow, tried to tune out when anyone talked about her, and turned off the radio whenever she came on. Maybe this wouldn’t have come as such a shock if she’d been paying closer attention.
Probably not, though, judging by everyone’s reaction in the office this morning.
Naomi sighs, deciding to make up for lost time, and puts her earbuds in before opening Harlow’s Spotify page. She hesitates before pressing play on “James Dean,” Harlow’s debut single. An upbeat pop song that played on the radio constantly when it first came out almost ten years ago, its catchy lyrics still get stuck in Naomi’s head from time to time before she forces them out. But now, she allows herself to feel the rush of bittersweet emotions as the song plays, bringing her straight back to when Faye was alive, a teenager screaming the lyrics from the passenger seat.
I want you like James Dean. Fit into my blue jeans. Get under my skin. I want you like him.
Despite the tears stinging her eyes, Naomi smiles at the memory. She’s unsure if she’ll be able to mentally cope with listening to the whole playlist, but she knows she’ll have to get over it if she’s going to cover this case. She reminds herself why she said yes to Joel in the first place. How it felt like her sister’s ghost was pleading with her to take the story. And how exciting it is to feel close to her again.
She decides that, after she’s uncovered the truth, she’ll visit Faye’s grave upstate, something she hasn’t yet had the courage to do. The thought makes her skin hot, overcome with grief and guilt. The last time she stepped into the cemetery at St. Denis’ Church was for Faye’s funeral, something she barely remembers, aside from that it was a horrific, heart-wrenching, gut-punching fever dream, just like the following days and months. She couldn’t bear to visit the gravesite after that, choosing instead to run away to California. But she’ll go see her sister soon. Bring her an assortment of wildflowers—her favorite—and tell her all about her beloved Harlow Hayes: The pop star, the icon… the murderer.
Or maybe the wrongly accused. A victim herself.
Naomi doesn’t know. Not yet. She’ll find out soon enough, though, start researching at the airport, map out her plan of attack for when she lands. The familiar wave of excitement waters down the guilt she felt a moment ago, eager to learn more.
She cautions herself as her thoughts race, imagining all the possibilities. It’s important she puts aside any preconceived notions she may have, forgets what she thinks she knows, and waits to make any assumptions until she’s done her due diligence. She needs to be focused, unbiased, and logical. Like usual.
But her intuition tells her that might not be so easy this time.
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Harlow Hayes
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