Jesus Christ, do you hear yourself?she thinks. But she’s here now, has to try. Do whatever it takes to get in front of “Harlow.” See if she really is her sister.
The guard raises a mocking eyebrow, shaking his head as he continues to pull her toward the front gate. Returning from this angle, she can now see the small outhouse tucked into the treeline, a black Range Rover parked outside.
As they cross the driveway, the gates open. Naomi freezes, heart racing with excitement before pounding in alarm. The suited figure storming toward her isn’t her sister.
It’s Sam Brixton.
And she is completely fucked.
*
Sam stares at Naomi with pure disdain as their eyes meet. “Take her over here,” he orders the guard, pointing to the wooden building nestled into a fortress of evergreens.
Once inside, he gestures for her to take a seat on a plastic chair in the middle of the small, brightly lit room. The air is musty and she coughs.
“You can leave us, Jack,” he says to the guard.
“Arite, let me know if you need me.” Jack closes the door behind him.
Sam sighs as he takes a seat across from Naomi. He clasps his hands in front of him as he assesses her with his beady black eyes, shaking his head.
“Wow.” He leans back, letting out a hearty laugh. “Didn’t I already talk to you about this? We thought you were some rabid fan or psycho stalker… I mean, maybe you are, you clearly aren’t all there, are you?”
She rolls her eyes at the insult but a part of her worries it’s true.
“Wanna explain what the fuck you’re doing here?” He cocks his head to the side, his usual cheesy on-camera smile pulled into a thin line as he waits for an answer.
She chews on the inside of her cheek as she considers her reply, studying him carefully. She doesn’t trust him, nor does she know how involved he was with the murders. But as one of the only people still working with Harlow after all these years, she has to surmise he knows the truth. About Harlow and Faye, at the very least.
If Harlow is Faye, a voice corrects her.
Her eyes are heavy from lack of sleep. She’s tired. So tired of it all. She doesn’t care if she’s crazy. She just wants the truth. So she decides to risk it and tell him her theory. She didn’t come all this way to back down now. She came here for answers and she’s sure as hell not going to get them by hiding what she knows.
“I came to see my sister.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“Your… sister?” His cold expression turns confused and she wonders if he’s a good actor or if he genuinely doesn’t know. She notices him shift in his seat.
“Cut the bullshit,” Naomi spits, hoping she sounds more confident than she feels. She knows what she’s saying seems delusional. Insane. But she needs to come across as unwavering if she’s going to make him crack. “I know she’s not Harlow. I know she’s Faye.”
He laughs, shaking his head, which only angers her. “Wait, wait… a couple days ago, you were slandering Harlow, my client, in your ‘article’—if you can even call it that—claiming she should never have been released and she was some serial killer…” His expression turns angry again. “Now you think she’s your… sister?”
Her face flushes red, embarrassed, heart pounding as the thought crosses her mind once again that maybe she’s wrong. But then she thinks of everything she’s discovered since writing that article. All the clues, first pointing to Harlow being an imposter—the reinvention of her persona, the drastic change in her appearance and style, her haunting new sound and lyrics, photos placing her in Maine and LA at the same time, the Beatles references, all the hints… Addia S. Howler… Harlow is dead. Then she thinks of her sister’s grave and the hidden inscription:Here lies Harlow Hayes.All the signs that were right in front of Naomi’s face this entire time. The hidden messages for Naomi in the lyrics, like her sister was screaming “It’s me!”from her gilded cage.
“I originally thought Faye was a victim, yes, but now I know the truth,” she says, standing her ground. “I know the real Harlow is dead.”
She holds his icy gaze as she says it. He laughs again, a deep chuckle. But forced. “Oh that’s good. That’s really good. And uh, what else do you think you know?”
“I know everything,” she says. She swallows hard, throat stinging as if there’s a rope around it. As if she’s not about to hang herself on what anyone else would think is a wild conspiracy.
“Please humor me.” He smiles, but it doesn’t match his intensity.
Naomi takes a breath, ignoring the voice in her head telling her to shut her mouth. But she can’t control herself, her impulses taking over. She says everything she’s been thinking, piecing together over the last couple weeks, slotting the final pieces of her deranged theory into place on the drive to Maine.
“I think Jade died while she was with Colton and Harlow the night of the VMAs party at your house. I think Colton is a sick fuck and he strangled her to death during sex, potentially in front of Harlow.” As she says it, the realization finally hits her. If her theory is true, then Sam must have been involved. “And I think you helped them cover it all up…”
His face doesn’t give anything away, but he looks like he’s holding his breath.
“Couldn’t have your superstars in jail,” Naomi continues. “But Harlow couldn’t handle the guilt, which is when you started to worry about her and the future. Your future. Because when the guilt eventually got too much for her, she became unreliable. Unpredictable. And you couldn’t have that. Especially after the mishap at the VMAs, then the failure of ‘Endless Summers.’ So smart, one-step-ahead Sam started looking for body doubles to fill in for her here or there. At first, just for promos and small appearances so Harlow could rest and reset. But then you hit the jackpot. You met Faye.”
