“She won a Teen Choice Award last year,” offered the cop.
Cliff rolled his eyes. “Good Lord. A teeny-bop-loving murderer.”
“Killers,” Grey quipped. “They’re just like us.” She waved the cop away.
“Well, do you think this is a rich boyfriend’s house?” Cliff asked, once the cop had retreated. “I mean, it’s Bel Air, and Drake’s a young lady without a job. Where’d the money come from if not a sugar daddy?”
Grey pointed at the walls. “A sugar daddy who painted his house millennial pink? Nah, I’m willing to bet this place is Drake’s. We’ll check the property records to make sure, but if something shady’s going on, I’m betting it comes down to her.”
Lots of cops talked about trusting their guts, but to Grey, the gut was where bias lived. Her success had come by doing the opposite, a lesson learned from her father:Leave your feelings at the door and focus on the facts, he’d told her.Never forget the world is infinitely capable of surprising you.
Grey’s father had once been a great detective in his own right. And even though he’d since fallen from grace, the scandal of his screwup yet another reason cops side-eyed her, Grey was convinced he’d died one. Her determination to prove him right and finally close his last case was why she was here.
Now Grey’s skepticism was telling her there was more to Elizabeth Drake’s death than a bitter ex. That word on the wall—traitor. It suggested something bigger than romantic drama.
Cliff scrunched his face in disbelief. “You really think this girl could be part of something crooked?” He cocked his head. “She looks so small and helpless. Poor little thing. Reminds me of my daughter.”
Suddenly, Grey knew exactly why Captain Xie had assigned her to this case. Everyone always wanted to believe that young, pretty women were pure, innocent creatures, especially after they were dead. But Grey, more than anyone, had reason to know better.
Chapter 2Isabel, the Rising Star
TEN YEARS EARLIER, THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
“Stop, pull over!” Scout shouted, and the taxi veered to a screeching halt. At the far end of its imperial driveway, the Banks mansion loomed, massive and imposing even while strung with cheery Christmas lights, a twinkling supernova among the smaller houses of the Hollywood Hills.
“Scout, you psychopath,” hissed Georgia, who’d hit her forehead on the seat in front of her. “You’re going to give us all heart attacks.”
“Why are we stopping?” I asked as Scout scrambled out of the car. “It’s still a mile to the house, and you know I’m in my stilettoes.” I kicked up a leg to display my spiked footwear.
Scout’s head popped into the open door, her blond hair falling over her shoulders. “I don’t want them to see us drinking this.” She pulled a flask out from inside her dress and wiggled it, flashing the pink rhinestone initials.SOS. Scout Octavia Sage.
“Oh.” I turned to Brooks, whom we’d crammed into the back seat, with no consideration for his long legs or broad shoulders. “She has a point.”
“She usually does.” He sighed, struggling to untangle his limbs and pull out his wallet. “Hold on then. Let me pay the man for almost getting us there.”
By the time we’d exited the beat-up cab and sent the driver clanking back into the night, Scout was waiting for us inside a ring of expensive Italian topiaries, every bush my height and sheared into the shape of a reindeer. “Come on.” Scout waved us in. “If we crouch, no one will see.”
“This is humiliating,” Georgia complained, but she stepped inanyway. Side by side, Scout and her younger sister looked nearly identical, from their naturally thick blond hair to their overfull upper lips and the way they hunched at the shoulders, as if trying to shave a few inches off their height. I’d grown up with them as an only child, so the Sage sisters’ physical similarities had long fascinated me.
Scout and I first met when we were eight years old, after we were cast as the leads in our church play back home in New Jersey, her on account of her astounding singing voice, me on account of the fact that I was the only kid small enough to fit into some of the costumes. We’d quickly discovered that we were two hams with a mutual love of the spotlight. Even though Georgia, who was a year younger than us, had no similar taste for performing, she liked tagging along. It had been that way—just the three of us—pretty much ever since.
“Listen, tonight’s a big night,” I told Georgia, squatting and accepting Scout’s flask. “We need the liquid courage.” Even though I knew to brace for the taste—at this point, Scout and I could only afford bottom-shelf whiskey—I gagged on the mouthful anyway.
“Disgusting.” I shivered and handed the flask to Georgia, who dutifully took her swig. She might protest, but Georgia had been our mini-me for over a decade, and in true little sister fashion, wherever we led, she followed. When we fled New Jersey to pursue our dream of being Hollywood actresses, sure enough, Georgia moved cross-country just two days after her own high school graduation and started college at USC.
Brooks wrapped an arm around me, dispelling my whiskey-induced goose bumps. I watched as he shook his dark hair off his forehead, admiring the way he looked in his black tuxedo, even if it was a hand-me-down from his dad and a little too roomy. Boys like Brooks Yardley didn’t exist on the East Coast—certainly not in New Jersey. He was a surfer and a law student, possessing a whip-smart brain and an ocean of chill, a pairing I hadn’t known was even possible.
I’d first spotted Brooks at one of the coffee shops near USC while waiting for Georgia. He’d been studying for an exam, surrounded by textbooks and jamming to something on his headphones. It wasn’t simply that he was handsome—I spent my days in audition roomswith men good-looking enough to believe they had a shot at stardom, so I was used to handsome. It was that, despite being a stranger, Brooks felt familiar. It had driven me crazy until I realized he was the exact type of boy I’d dreamed about back in my suburban New Jersey bedroom, staring up at movie posters: a California boy with wavy hair, a megawatt smile, and ocean-blue eyes.
“Izzy, stop staring at your boyfriend like a lovesick fool,” Scout commanded. “I need your head in the game. And Brooks, remember, you only got invited because you swore you could play a good wingman.”
Scout mostly thought of Brooks as a distraction.
Brooks saluted her. “I’ll be the best damn wingman you’ve ever met.” He punctuated the promise by taking a shot from the flask, then politely handed it back to Scout, who rolled her eyes.
“And you’re callingmethe lovesick one?” I pointed at Georgia, who stood out among the reindeer bushes in her red sequin minidress. “She’s the one who keeps disappearing at all hours to spend time with Alden.”
“I do not,” Georgia gasped.
