She clicked on the all-important link below Dr. Roitfeld’s words, which led to an archived educational site called Blackboard, a site Rosie was familiar with from her own college days. Roitfeld’s Intro to Anthropology students—including one Georgia Sage—had used it to submit weekly video journal entries. The professor had given Rosie access to all eight of Georgia’s videos, and while they were mostly reflections on that week’s readings, the eighth—the last one Georgia had recorded before the end of the semester—was different.
She played the video. Georgia’s face filled the screen, beautiful like her older sister’s, but most of all, soyoung. Rosie had almost forgotten how young eighteen was; baby fat still rounded Georgia’s cheeks. There was an impish brightness to her eyes and an air of naivete that was at odds with the way she held herself, making it clear to Rosie’s reporter eyes that the girl had thought she was much more grown-up than she actually was.
Rosie got a thrill every time she thought about the fact that no one else in the world had seen this footage—not Scout, not the LAPD. Only the professors and her.
But soon, with the publication of her second story, everyone would watch.
“I can’t stop thinking about this week’s reading on the role of taboos in culture,” Georgia said, her eyes drifting away from the camera. “I never thought about how important taboos are as a means of social control. I mean, making something illicit can regulate a person’s behavior even without the need for laws. That soft power is so interesting to me. Some taboos obviously serve an evolutionary purpose—the taboo against incest, like the reading said, helps maintain a healthy gene pool.”
Georgia looked back at the camera, and Rosie was riveted by the dead girl’s face, no matter how many times she’d watched the recording. “But some taboos are just about control. Like stigmas in certain societies against women showing off their shoulders or knees, or initiating marriage proposals, or…” She paused for a moment, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Taboos against relationships between people of different ages.”
Georgia laughed self-consciously. The next words rolled out like she was talking to a friend. “My older sister is the queen of breakingrules. So my whole life, I’ve done the opposite. I know it’s classic sibling stuff, trying to play the role not filled—and Iknowthat’s not an established science, so please don’t ding me, Professor—but I always felt like I had to balance her out. She skipped class and made our parents angry, so I was on the honor roll. She ran off to Hollywood, so I got a scholarship to college. She wanted the spotlight, so I stayed in the background. I love my sister, but it’s like I became a person in reaction to her.”
Georgia sighed. “Lately, though, I’ve been trying things her way. Doing what I want and not caring so much about what other people think. I’ll be honest, it feels good. Grown up. And I’m pretty sure I’ve done something that beats Scout on the taboos front. It might be something most people wouldn’t approve of, but it’s what I want. And isn’t that empowerment, women doing what they want no matter what society says?” She laughed, burying her face in her hands. “This has gone completely off the rails. Professor Roitfeld, if you’re seeing this, it’s only because my art history final kicked my ass so hard I ran out of time to record another entry. And I’m sorry! I promise—”
A sudden knock sounded at Rosie’s front door, making her jump. She paused Georgia’s video, wondering what food she’d ordered and forgotten about. When she swung open her door, she expected to find the same pizza delivery man who’d been keeping her alive the past week.
But the person waiting in the dimly lit hallway of her apartment complex made her go numb with surprise.
“Rosie Wright. Do you know who I am?”
“Of course,” Rosie stuttered. “I’m surprised you know me. And my address.”
“I’ve been following your work for quite a while, actually. So imagine my surprise when I got your request for an interview about a new story. Which means you’ve found me.”
Rosie tried to smile as she clutched her door. “You could’ve just called back. Much easier than battling LA traffic.”
“I prefer to talk in person.”
Rosie cast a gaze at her apartment and suppressed a wince. “Well.” She opened the door wider. “As long as you don’t mind a mess, come on in.”
Chapter 20Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
“Show us the back!” yelled a photographer. Sandwiched between Miranda and Cybele, Juliet watched how they turned to wink at the wall of paparazzi over their shoulders, their makeup flawless, teeth blindingly white, gliding through the chaos of the red carpet like swans, then did her best to follow their lead. She lifted her chin and turned her head to give the photographers the best view of her cheekbones, chest aflutter with nervous butterflies.
“Remember,” Cybele whispered through gritted teeth. “Big smiles! We’re Scout’s friends and we’ve got nothing to hide.”
Juliet turned up the wattage on her grin.
Compared to her last four years writhing in no-name model hell, it was amazing how fast Juliet’s Hollywood dreams were coming true. This was her first red carpet, and it was at the Beverly Hilton no less, the famous hotel that hosted the Grammys. Over her shoulders, a huge step-and-repeat announced Scout Sage’sI Want No Less Than the World Tourin skyscraper letters. Juliet had been thrilled to get the invitation to the party, with a texted note from Cybele—who now had her phone number—telling her Scout’s label had decided to throw the bash last minute, on account of the sudden surge in record sales.Come dressed to kill, Cybele had texted, without even a winky face to reassure Juliet she was being ironic. Juliet had logged into Rent the Runway immediately.
She tried to take an elegant step forward like Miranda, but her stiletto caught on the delicate fabric of her rented dress, and the next thing she knew, she was windmilling her arms, on the verge of falling.
“Steady!” said Miranda, laughing, hands flying out to catch Juliet and set her right.
“Oh my god. I’m so embarrassed.” Juliet’s cheeks heated. “There’s so many voices and flashing lights.”
“Relax. Just pretend you’re on a shoot.” Cybele’s slight French accent smoothed the edges of her words. “Block it out.” She smirked at the photographers in front of them. “Guys, say hello to the newest IMG model. Remember the name Juliet Stone. She’s going to behuge.”
Juliet’s blush deepened as the photographers started calling for her to pose for solo shots, like she was someone important. Thankfully, before she could turn completely red, a commotion erupted at the far end of the carpet.
Scout had arrived.
“Make room,” Miranda called, and Juliet was happy to scamper away and watch Scout take center stage.
She strode with an impressive runway walk and stopped in the middle of the step-and-repeat, beaming at the cameras like her life was perfect and neither the LAPD norThe New York Timeswere waging war against her. Scout’s stylist had dressed her in an angelic Chanel number, floor-length, white, and airy, her blond hair wrapped in a halo of braids atop her head, diamonds dangling from her ears. The message was barely even subliminal:I am totally, one hundred percent innocent.
