Whowerethese women? There was something bigger going on here than even the rumors had captured. Juliet would admit it: She’d been frightened of Scout and Cybele after Scout pulled the gun. But the longer she sat with what happened, the more her fear siphoned out, replaced by awe. Scout and Cybele had been powerful in every sense of the word—soft power, yes, the kind women were allowed, wielding influence and desire, but in that momentthey held hard power, too, the kind women almost never got, their boots on Danny’s neck.
“It’s one of our go-tos,” Miranda confirmed. “It’s a light lift.”
A light lift. Danny had held the chains around Juliet for years, and they’d dispatched him like it was just another pre-margarita afternoon. She wanted that confidence and control, wanted to evolve from prey to predator.
Isabel was still watching Scout as she chose her tarot cards on the other side of the deck. “What plays do you run besides the bait-and-switch?” Juliet asked, suddenly hungry to know everything, to hold all of their secrets.
Cybele actually reached out and tapped Juliet on the nose, as if she were a kitten. “You’ll find out,” she said enigmatically. “You’re sticking around, right?”
Scout flipped a card and groaned. “The Ten of Swords? You’ve got to be kidding.” On the card’s face, a man hung suspended in the air, body pierced by swords from every angle. “The persecution card.”
It was irrational—maybe she was still spooked—but Juliet’s stomach dropped. She swallowed. “Of course. If you’ll have me.”
“We should toast,” said Miranda. “To Mississippi’s freedom.”
“And let’s get a séance going,” added Cybele. “A little ‘light as a feather, stiff as a board.’ We can stick our pins into Danny’s doll, too. Cast some curses.” She glanced at Juliet and could no longer hold in her laughter. “Oh my god, you should see your face.”
Juliet didn’t need to see—she could feel how wide her eyes had grown.
“I’ll get the wine.” Isabel pointed a warning finger at Cybele. “You stop teasing her. She’s going to think we’re the bitches fromThe Craft.”
“Wine fridge in the back room, not the kitchen,” Cybele called.
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
Isabel waved over her shoulder as she made her way inside. “I’ll get it!”
“I swear, Cara can never remember the door code.” Cybele rolled her eyes. “I hate to make a blond joke—”
“Scout?” Isabel’s voice pierced through the music. “You need to come here right now.”
The music stopped. Everyone turned to Scout, who shrugged and rose.
“If that’s Danny coming back—” Cybele charged after her. Juliet followed, and soon everyone was pouring through the house to the foyer, where Isabel stood holding the door, fear carving her face into a stark mask.
A cop stood outside in a navy uniform, his hand hovering over his sidearm. In front of him, a blond woman in a pale pink suit stood ramrod straight, her eyes zeroing in on Scout’s face among the girls. She looked familiar.
“Thebottle servicegirl?” The words burst from Cybele. “What are you doing here?”
Itwasthe bottle service girl from the Serpent Room. Seeing her in business clothes, in the presence of a cop, had thrown Juliet, but now she recognized her. She’d known something was strange about that woman.
The woman in question raised a silver-and-gold badge engraved with the shield of the Los Angeles Police Department. “Scout Sage, I’m Detective Grey Holloway.” Her face betrayed no emotion, the opposite of the bubbly woman who’d served them champagne. “I need you to come with me. You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Elizabeth Drake.”
Chapter 17Rosie, the Journalist
ONE YEAR EARLIER, PASADENA
“I’ve always considered myself a champion of women, even before it was in vogue,” announced Deirdre Cole, shaking vegan parm like snowfall over her slice of veggie pizza. “Which is why I agreed to meet with you. But nothing goes on the record. It’s hard enough finding directing jobs in this economy without having a reputation as a snitch.”
“Of course,” Rosie assured her, though inwardly she thought that if Deirdre Cole was struggling to land directing jobs, it probably had more to do with the fact that her résumé was full of mediocre teen sitcoms that were last popular a decade ago, the kind that dealt in lazy tropes like mean-girl cheerleaders pitted against shy, sensitive heroines. Plus, she was a pill. “Everything you say will be on background.”
It had been a week since the partners at Gerson PR had dropped their delicious lead about the Hot Girl Murder Club. In that short amount of time, Rosie had managed to dig up so much dirt on the group she was stunned no one had beaten her to the story.
In addition to the possibility that Scout and her network had tipped off the IRS to a Sony executive’s tax fraud—the Dalton Preston versus Miranda Preston case—there was evidence they were behind leaked text messages that revealed an actor’s racist rants against his female costar; anonymous funding that helped an up-and-coming musician file a sexual harassment lawsuit against a famous music video director; and now-viral footage of an NFL tight end committing domestic abuse in the hallway of a hotel.
On and on it went, spanning years. Scout seemed to collect womenin trouble. The appearance she and her coterie gave was of beautiful, coquettish starlets with nothing on their minds but industry ascension, and yet underneath, to a T, they were wronged, vulnerable women who’d grown sharp teeth and sharper ambitions. Like picking up a soft rabbit only to discover it bore fangs. Rosie almost had to admire the game. Act smart, play dumb, reap the rewards. But how had they managed to pull it off for so many years? And how had the whole ruse gotten started?
Since Scout was the linchpin, starting with her had been a no-brainer. Rosie had managed to get in touch with Scout’s first boss in Hollywood, a woman who’d known her way back when she was young. Unfortunately, Deirdre Cole lived out in Pasadena and refused to meet Rosie halfway for an interview, which had meant trekking two hours in Los Angeles traffic. Deirdre had also expected Rosie to pick up the tab for lunch at her favorite vegan restaurant, whose prices made Rosie’s eyes water. (What were these vegetables made of,gold?) Though Rosie would have to skimp on groceries this month, and maybe even run into the bathroom to smuggle out a few rolls of toilet paper, she was hoping Deirdre would make all the trouble worth it.
