“We aren’t going to release this information to the public,” Detective Sutherland said, “but I thought the two of you should know that Mr. Banks cut Georgia’s name into his chest before he died. Based on his self-mutilation and where his body was found, we believe guilt drove him to take his own life.”
They thought Alden had carved up himself. They didn’t suspect us. I couldn’t speak.
Sutherland took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I want to apologize on behalf of the entire Los Angeles Police Department that we weren’t able to bring charges against Alden for Georgia’s death. It’s clear to me, now more than ever, that he killed her. I’m sorry your sister’s story didn’t end with justice.”
“But it did,” Scout said quietly. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. “In its own way.”
The detective dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “I’ll leave you to your night. You should be safe—I don’t think the media or others will bother you. But call if anything worries you, and I’ll send an officer. It’s the least we can do.”
Sutherland wanted to protect us. The irony.
After I closed the door behind him, locking the dead bolt, silence reigned in the apartment. I turned slowly and pressed my back against the door.
For a while, Scout and I just stared at each other. We were supposed to be on our way to jail right now. We stood in uncharted territory. Emotions warred inside me, battling for dominance. I had an instinct that whatever we said next, how we reacted in this pivotal moment, would come to define us.
After a long time, I raised my chin—partly so the tears in my eyes didn’t spill down my cheeks. “You and I both know he killed himself because of what we did. It’s our fault.” Guilt had won, flooding and claiming me.
But Scout’s dry eyes were steely. There was not a trace of guilt on her face. “Good,” she said. “I hope you’re right.”
Only five years ago, many had given up on the idea of collective action, the hope that people might stand up for one another when times called for it. Cultural critics said we were too online, too atomized, too passive and dependent on Amazon/DoorDash convenience. But Our Ladies of the Dark got people off their couches and into the streets. Why them, out of all who tried? Was it because, in this case, the action felt more like fandom? What about their story lit the match?
—Frances Vogel, “Our Ladies of the Dark: A History,” PhD dissertation presented to the UCLA Department of History
Chapter 11Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
Juliet Stone knew the women had arrived when the volume in the club spiked, then went eerily quiet, like a collective inhaled breath. After a moment, the pulsing music crashed back down and the bodies on the dance floor resumed writhing, but a moment was enough. Only celebrities—people with faces that made others hush, or blink too fast, or double back for a second look—had that kind of sonic signature. In the four years that Juliet had called Los Angeles home, she’d learned to recognize it.
The pattern allowed her to track the women even though the Serpent Room was dark and crowded. All she had to do was follow the wave of silence and noise, like a tall, gangly bat, echolocating through the nightclub. That was how she found the hidden VIP section, with the Serpent’s signature jade-green velvet curtains and ropes, a seductive barrier shielding the elites from the regulars.
A year ago, it would’ve crushed Juliet to acknowledge that despite all of her best efforts—fourAMcall times, sixteen-hour days, taking no pay on jobs in exchange for exposure, dealing with creepy/handsy/condescending photographers—she remained on the ordinary side of the rope. But these days, she was over it. Battle-weary. It felt like she’d spent several lifetimes trying to get her modeling career off the ground, and for all her trouble, she was probably worse off than when she’d started. No, not probably—she was definitely worse off.
Which was why she’d come to the Serpent Room alone on a Friday night, waiting for an hour in the never-ending line outside, ready to risk humiliation, blacklisting, and maybe even a restraining orderfor one last moon shot at help. The truth was, if tonight didn’t work, she wasn’t sure her life was worth continuing.
The crowd was thickest in front of the VIP section. The lucky few dancing close to the ropes had an unfettered view and would go home tonight bragging that they’d breathed the same air as celebrities, even if those “celebs” were reality TV stars or YouTubers. Over the dancers’ heads—and at nearly six feet tall, Juliet soared over most people’s heads—she could see a bouncer leading the women she’d come for up a flight of stairs to a large oval table on a raised platform. It was the least hidden table in the VIP section, for which Juliet thanked her lucky stars.
A tiny woman with long dark hair and olive skin proceeded first, sliding around the table while her watchful eyes scanned the room. The woman was beautiful, but Juliet didn’t recognize her. She had the cool, assessing air Juliet had come to identify with Hollywood’s business class, the small army of agents and managers that stood behind the talent and siphoned away their money.
Cybele Laurent came next, a towering presence, her dark skin set aglow by a neon-orange minidress. Juliet drew in a breath. The French Algerian model was a rising star, snagging enough editorial campaigns last season to ensure jealous gossip. Despite hearing about her, Juliet had never gotten this close. To say she and Cybele existed in separate worlds was a vast understatement.
Cybele was holding the hand of a pretty brunette in a feather-trimmed top, who wore a charmingly gap-toothed smile. Juliet recognized her as Miranda Preston, an up-and-coming British fashion designer whose line had just gotten picked up at Harvey Nichols. Juliet would’ve happily given a year of her life to headline a Miranda Preston campaign, but small-time models like her, repped by crappy, no-name agencies, didn’t stand a chance.
Her heart climbed into her throat as the next woman floated up the stairs. Scout Sage looked exactly like she did in her music videos—tall, porcelain skin, full upper lip, long blond hair styled in gentle waves. A group of sleek, beautiful women in tiny dresses trailed her, but Juliet only had eyes for Scout. Scout wasn’t particularly famous—maybeinfamouswas the right word, at least in Juliet’scircles—but the woman practically shone in the dim club. For a moment, Juliet wondered if there was actually such a thing as star power, and it revealed itself as a luminosity that lived under the skin.
She shook herself out of it. That was her hope talking—she was getting carried away. She needed to focus if she was going to make it past that velvet rope.
It wasn’t pretty, but Juliet managed to push her way through the dancers, despite a number of people who seemed ready to fight. When she finally grasped hold of the velvet rope and hauled herself forward, it felt like a lifeline cast into a roiling sea. And there it was: the VIP table. Salvation, just a few feet away.
She cupped her hands and yelled, “Cybele!”
None of the women turned.
It was messy and desperate, what she’d planned. But at this point, Juliet was both of those things. She tried again: “Cybele,please!”
Instead of Cybele, she caught the attention of the bouncer. All six foot, four inches of him lumbered in her direction.
“Scout!” She raised her voice. If she was going to get caught, she might as well throw it all on the table. “Please, I just want to talk!”
