Juliet couldn’t help but stare in awe at Scout’s performance. Two weeks had passed since she’d been brought in for questioning. At first, witnessing the news spread like wildfire over the internet, Juliet had thought to herself,I’m not tied to these women; it’s not too late to run. She’d devoured every article about Elizabeth Drake’s murder, about Scout—and then, when theNew York Timesarticle hit, Juliet must’ve read the whole thing a hundred times.
She knew theTimespiece was supposed to be a takedown, a brutal indictment of not only Scout, but all the women gathered around her at this very moment—the actresses, singers, models, artists, and NFL wives shouting cheeky things at Scout as she posed, trying to make her laugh. According to theTimes, these were terrifying womenwho schemed and manipulated, who were just as bad as the cabal of men they were aiming to replace. Women the article, and now the public, were calling the Hot Girl Murder Club, a name both vicious and degrading.
And yet, as she’d sat alone to read the nitty-gritty for herself, all Juliet could see in her mind’s eye were the women who’d saved her. Who’d helped her and her roommates escape their four-girls-to-a-room, roach-ridden apartment, who’d referred Juliet to IMG, asking nothing in return.The New York Timesmight’ve intended for her to feel appalled by the lengths they’d go to in order to punish the people who’d slighted them—and okay, maybe Juliethadbeen appalled the moment Scout pulled out her gun—but truthfully? All she felt was pride.
Juliet would’ve thought there was something wrong with her, except she wasn’t alone. Over the last two weeks, she’d taken to scrolling into the wee hours of the night, transfixed by all the TikTok videos and comments calling Scout and her friends modern-day heroes. Most of them were hyperbolic—she’d read one post that said, “If you wouldn’t hang a man for your sister, can you even call yourself a girls’ girl?” But Juliet had been born and raised in the internet age, so she knew that there was always a kernel of truth in the internet’s hyperbole—sometimes, that was where the truth was sharpest.
So she’d decided to lean in, not run.
Now she turned to Cybele and lowered her voice. “How come no one’s asking about the Murder Club?” In the bubble of the red carpet, it was like everyone had agreed to pretend the headlines didn’t exist, like the accusations and intense interest in Scout they’d stoked weren’t the entire reason they were here. A particular miracle, given so many women named in theTimespiece were assembled together in broad daylight.
“They’re under a gag order,” announced a tall woman as she walked up, wearing an angular bob and an even more angular pantsuit—Scout’s agent Haley. “We told them if they made Scout uncomfortable, we’d kick them out. Turns out these fuckers want photos of her badly enough to play ball.”
“I didn’t know you could make demands.” Juliet gazed aroundwith a new appreciation, taking in the celebrities the label had invited, but more importantly, the little teams of people trailing after them like ducklings, dressed like Haley in non-scene-stealing black. No one would ever guess those were the people truly calling the shots.
Beyond the photographers, a crowd of fans stood behind a barricade, their phones held aloft. Scout, done posing, beelined toward them.
“Oh no,” said Haley, lurching to stop her. But Isabel appeared and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“She always signs autographs. It would look strange if she didn’t.” Juliet hadn’t even seen Isabel arrive. Maybe it was because she wore plain black, too, making herself as invisible as the other assistants.
Haley sighed. “You know I can’t control what they say to her.”
“We’ll go,” Juliet offered, wanting to be helpful. “We’ve got her back.”
As she wound past the milling photographers, Cybele and Miranda in tow, Juliet felt someone tug her elbow. She turned, and an older woman holding a bulky DSLR leaned in. “Just wanted to say thanks for what you girls are doing,” she whispered in a hoarse, cigarette-scarred voice. Her eyes darted around before she continued. “I’ve witnessed too much go unanswered in my time. I’m glad somebody’s finally answering it.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and melted back into the throng.
Juliet stood stock-still. Miranda squeezed her hand. She must’ve heard, too. Their gazes met.
Juliet had spent so many hours scouring the internet, wading into the depths of public opinion, that she’d realized something: Most people didn’t think what Scout had done was wrong, even at its most extreme. It had given her an idea.
By the time they made it to the barricade, Scout was posing for selfies with two teen girls, one of whom was crying.
“Thank you,” said the girl when they’d finished. “I don’t care what anyone says. You’re my favorite artist.”
Scout didn’t even blink. “Thanks for listening, it means the world.”
“Scout!” more fans screamed. They weren’t scared of her at all—the crowd was swellingtowardher, everyone reaching out to touchher, like she was holy. She reached back, squeezing as many hands as she could, a priestess with her acolytes.
“‘Midnight Mass’ is my new favorite song,” a girl shouted as Scout signed an autograph for her friend. “We eat traitors for breakfast!”
“I bought tickets to your tour!”
“You’re changing lives, Scout! You’re protecting women!”
“Fuck the LAPD!”
Once again, Miranda and Juliet locked eyes. “Let’s do it now,” Miranda whispered. A chill swept down Juliet’s spine.
She turned to Cybele and touched her forehead, then the hollow of her chest, then each of her shoulders. Cybele raised her brows, but turned and repeated it, and soon, women all over the Beverly Hilton were making the sign, a sweeping wave, signaling Juliet’s belonging, her newfound power.
“What’s going on?”Scout sounded out of breath as she and Isabel shut the heavy door on the conference room. “Who called a meeting in the middle of a party?”
All twenty women who formed the circle turned to face Juliet. She was still learning their names—the girl in Alexander McQueen, with ice-blue hair, was Cara, a fine-art painter whose uncle had helped Juliet secure her new apartment. The woman with silky black hair down to her hips was Reiko, Scout’s tour opener. Beyond that, their faces swarmed, Juliet’s nerves threatening to get the better of her, whispering that she was too new to be doing this, too inexperienced, that she didn’t know what she was talking about. But Miranda stood firmly beside her, like the older sister Juliet had never had, and squeezed her hand.
“I figured—” She cleared her throat. “Wefigured—that since we were all here in one place, celebrating your tour, it would be a good time to talk about how to deal with the cops and the press.” Juliet took a deep breath. Time to be brave. “I’ve been glued to the internet ever since the case broke—”
Scout flinched.
