With an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach—one that had nothing to do with last night’s alcohol—I stepped out at the first floor. In the corridor, I passed two guests who reacted to me just as strangely, eyes widening before they quickly looked away, as if the sight of me was unbearable.
“Is that her?” the woman asked as they passed.
“I think so,” the man replied.
The hairs on my arms stood on end. What was going on? I quickened my pace, hurrying to the safety of my room. I was determined to figure out what was happening. Once inside, I rushed to the bedside table and plugged in my phone. Tapping my footimpatiently, I waited for it to charge enough to turn on. After what felt like an eternity, the display lit up. I had several missed calls and messages from Grace.
Grace:
Oh my god. Have you seen it yet?
Grace:
Is it true what he’s saying?
Grace:
Kate, are you there?
Grace:
Call me!!!
Grace:
How are you doing?
Grace:
Kate???
My heart did a somersault. What was Grace talking about?
Me:
What’s happened?
Grace:
Finally! Have you seen it?
Me:
What?
Grace sent me a link—a dreadedINsiderURL. My stomach clenched. It could only mean that yet another sensational headline about Henry was making the rounds. I clicked on the link, but instead of an article, a video loaded. I froze, and an icy chill spread through me. It wasn’t about Henry—it was about me. The thumbnail alone confirmed I was about to see something terrible: It showed the one person I had hoped never to see again—Randell Barker. The headline read,
The Truth About Henry Darlington’s New Girlfriend!
“No, no, no, no...” I murmured. This couldn’t be happening. I leapt from my bed, too panicked to sit still. As I paced the room, I tried to summon the courage to play the video. I didn’t want to hear whatever “truth” Randell had told about me, but I had to know. There was no way around it.
I took a deep breath and pressed play.
“Hello, Randell. It’s great to have you here with us today,” William Hunt said.
“It’s good to be here,” Randell replied.
The two men sat opposite each other on a studio set. The makeup team had done a remarkable job on Randell—he looked considerably less greasy and, as a result, healthier than usual. His white shirt lent him an air of trustworthiness. When he smiled at the camera, though, I saw that they hadn’t been able to fix his teeth—they were crooked, and yellowed from years of heavy smoking.
