I’d expected the news of Georgia’s death and the Bankses’ involvement to be everywhere, but I’d seen nothing on TV, let alone the trades. Even Ridley Reed hadn’t posted about it onHollywood Anonymous. It was surreal. Every day, I woke up praying the eerie silence surrounding Georgia’s death would break.
Scout and I exchanged glances. “Stay here,” I whispered to Brooks, then she and I hurried after her parents. We found the Sages huddled on the other side of their Suburban.
“I’ve got you on speakerphone,” said Mrs. Sage.
“Right. Good.” I recognized Detective Sutherland’s voice. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’ve spent all morning in the deputy district attorney’s office, and there simply isn’t enough evidence to charge anyone with Georgia’s murder.”
The world flipped on its head.
“But Alden,” I blurted. “What about Alden Banks?”
“I understand there’s circumstantial evidence pointing to an unhealthy attachment Alden had to your daughter,” said the detective, mistaking me for Scout’s mom. “But the DDA doesn’t feel we meet the evidentiary bar necessary for homicide or even manslaughter.”
“Then gogetthe evidence,” I snapped, but Mrs. Sage was already talking over me.
“There must be something more you can do,” she said. “Anything.”
A wailing came from the grave site, unmistakably the history teacher. Mrs. Sage winced, but Mr. Sage ignored the sound, grabbing the phone and pulling it close to his mouth. “Our daughter waskilled.” His face was splotchy. “You can’t be telling us that whoever did this will simply walk free.”
“We’re not closing the case.” I expected Sutherland to sound ashamed, but there was no emotion in his voice. “I know you were expecting swift charges, but we just don’t have what we need yet. Now again, I’m very sorry. I’ll call you the minute anything changes.”
The detective might’ve said goodbye—I was no longer aware of much, except for the fact that they weren’t going to punish Alden for killing Georgia. That was like saying it didn’t matter she was dead. Georgia was friendship bracelets and whispered secrets and the phone clutched to my ear giggling, complaining about my parents, gossiping about boys. First crushes and first periods and the first sip of Mike’s Hard Lemonade at a party. She was my girlhood, sacred, as close to me as my own skin. Ending her life was the same, on some level, as ending mine. And apparently, we were of no consequence.
Horrified silence gripped the Sage family.
Tears slid down my face. “Who are we supposed to ask for help now?”
Scout clenched her jaw but said nothing.
“Come on, girls.” Mrs. Sage motioned us away from the car. “We have to go back. They’re waiting for us. Someone has to show your sister the respect she deserves.”
Every eye was on us as we walked back to the grave site. Once we were standing in our designated places, the pastor began to speak again. Brooks frowned as he took my hand, his eyes searching my face. I shook my head, and his frown deepened.
“And at this late hour,” intoned the pastor, “we take comfort that at least our darling Georgia is in a better place.”
Scout’s eyes moved to her sister’s coffin. As if to say,No, she’s right here, alone and starting to rot.
The history teacher lowered herself to her knees. Murmurs broke out. I watched, repulsed and fascinated, as she touched her fingertips to her forehead, then her heart, then each of her shoulders, making the sign of the cross. I hadn’t grown up Catholic like my extendedfamily in Mexico, but I knew it was a gesture of prayer. Actually, I knew it best from horror movies, where grim-faced nuns made the sign to ward off evil. The Sages were stone-faced at Georgia’s grave, but this woman was emoting enough for all of us.
“What’s wrong with her?” Mrs. Sage hissed. “She wasourdaughter. This isn’t how you behave.”
Scout watched the teacher with a detached curiosity. And when she finally spoke, her words were cold as the snow. “There are no rules, Mom. It turns out there never were.”
A week later,we flew back to Burbank to turn in our production badges. I was numb to it. There had been no question we were quittingThe Weird World of Wenda Word. ABS and Freeverse belonged to Easton Banks, and, by extension, Alden, which meant they belonged to Georgia’s killer.
In my mind, all of Los Angeles did. It didn’t matter how fervently I’d nurtured my acting dreams, or for how many years: Hollywood was now enemy territory. Those dreams were blown, dandelion seeds floating in the wind. Scout and I were going to pack up our apartment and move home, and then I’d never return out West, never cross the invisible line that marked the state that had stolen her.
But an hour after we got back from the lot, Scout disappeared. At first, I thought she’d gone to get some air. But as time rolled by and she didn’t answer her phone, panic crept in. I paced in our living room as darkness fell outside the windows. Should I call the police? Scout’s parents? Brooks, to help me search?
My phone rang on the coffee table, and I leapt to it, flooded with relief at the sight of Scout’s name.
“Jesus Christ, where are you? Why weren’t you answering? Don’t you understand how PTSD works?”
“Iz, I need you to come meet me.” Her voice was muffled. “Bring the handcuffs you bought for Brooks.”
I frowned. “The fuzzy ones?”
“Actually, bring the lingerie, too—the set with the ties. And your bathrobe.”
