But she wouldn’t be hasty again, not like last time. If she wants to save what’s left of her journalistic credibility, she’ll need to do things properly. Get evidence, real proof, before she publishes anything. Which leads her straight back to the woman at the center of it all—the only one with answers.
Harlow Hayes.
Harlow
One Month Before the Murder
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, thumping them against the couch as I waited in the colorful seating area surrounded by patchwork cushions and blankets. Inhaling the warm, woody incense burning nearby, I admired the familiar surrealist art on the wall. Every time I sat here, I saw something different. Today, the paint strokes showed me a woman, but with two faces, one smiling, one screaming. I looked away, feeling uneasy.
It had been two months since Colton showed up at my hotel room in Paris, furious. He’d come to confront me, claiming I had some sort of vendetta against him.
I recoiled as I remembered the fight that had ensued. Him stalking toward me, clamping a hand around my mouth when I’d said something he hadn’t liked.
“Remember, if I go down, so do you.”
I remembered struggling beneath his grip, lashing out before he eventually let me go, satisfied with himself. I remembered his disgusting smirk. Me throwing a bottle of champagne against the wall, glass shattering around him. Him throwing my bottle of pills at me, calling me crazy. Him leaving, delivering his final threat.
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid, Har. I’ll know if you do.”
I jumped as the door to my left opened and Dr. Grayson called my name, pulling me out of the traumatic memory. Sunlight spilled in through the window behind her, framing her in a golden aura like a saint.
“How have you been?” she said as I entered her office. She motioned for me to take a seat on the cream sofa.
I sat with my palms under my legs, trying to wipe off the sweat. “I’ve been okay, thanks. You?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Dr. Grayson took a seat in her swivel chair across from me. Dressed in her classic style of a beige-toned neutral sweater and matching slacks, she wore her gray-blonde hair as she usually did, in a neat, low bun.
“Can you elaborate on ‘okay’ for me?” she asked. “What does that mean for you?”
“Um… well, you know, the usual ups and downs,” I replied. “But I’ve been good this week in terms of the pills—managed to not take any again.”
After my fight with Colton, I’d been so distraught that I ended up downing an entire bottle. I’d thrown them up almost immediately after, panicking at what I’d done. But it’d shocked me into realizing that I really did need help. That I couldn’t continue on this path of self-destruction. I knew if I truly wanted to sever any sort of connection with Colton, any sort of control he had over me, I had to first sort myself out. And Dr. Grayson had been there for me every step of the way, helping me see that Colton was just as toxic as the pills.
Dr. Grayson eyed her notes and then looked up at me, smiling. “That marks two months, Harlow. That’s a huge achievement, you should be very proud of yourself.”
My face flushed at the look of pride on her face. My mother had always been so tough on me growing up, always pointing out my flaws, barely celebrating my wins, that I rarely ever was proud of myself. Pride was reserved for winning awards or performing perfectly. Not for abstaining from drugs, something that isn’t even a challenge for most people. But most people had no idea of the power an addiction could hold over you. How your body begged you for the thing you were trying so hard to avoid, reliant on the poison more than air, more than water. How your mind was a warzone, the logical voice drowned out by the cruel whispers wielding intrusive thoughts and painful memories as weapons to cast you down.
“And how’s everything else going?” Dr. Grayson asked. “I know you mentioned last time that there was something that had upset you with work?”
I pressed my lips together, stiffening at the reminder. “Yeah, there’s been some disagreement over some of the tracks that should feature on the next album,” I said, ignoring the thing that had upset me the most. “I’m meeting with Sam next week to talk about everything, hopefully iron things out.”
It was funny how life worked, how when you felt like you got control back in one area, it slipped in another. Sam and Charlie, my label head, had become increasingly overbearing and controlling of my work recently, even more so than in the past. I understood to an extent—I’d lost focus—but soon everything would be back to normal.
“That’s good. Remember what I told you, about standing up for yourself? If there’s a song you really love, fight for it.”
I nodded. “There is a song I feel really connected to, actually. It’s about being caught between a rock and a hard place, not knowing if what’s best for you is actually the right thing to do. How every option feels wrong, so you just stay silent. Do nothing.”
Dr. Grayson studied me, nodding in understanding. “It’s so great that you have a creative outlet to explore those topics. Do you mind if I ask what inspired that song? Is it something you’d like to discuss, talk through with me too?”
“Um…” I looked down at my nails, surprised by how far my acrylics had grown out, wondering what to say as I thought about the inspiration for the song.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock was nearly as loud as my thumping heart.
“Well,” I mused, ignoring her question. “I guess it would be useful to get your opinion…”
“Of course.”
I cleared my throat. “If you knew someone was… bad, let’s say… but you knew no one would believe you because you didn’t necessarily have evidence, what would you do?”
