“Any idea what it could mean in this context?” Brooks asked.
She shook her head. I frowned at the photo. “Do you still think the messages are meant for Scout, not the victim?”
“It’s one theory,” he said. “We need a hell of a lot more information, though, which is why you’re here.” He flipped to the next picture. “Rosie’s colleagues said she wrote on a laptop, but we couldn’t locate one in the apartment. There’s a chance the killer took it. We’re waiting for permission to access her cloud storage, but in the meantime, we collected her notebooks and planner. I took pictures of as much as I could. Obviously, I can’t smuggle out the evidence, because I’d go to prison. Pictures will have to do.”
“It’s great,” I assured him. “We’re grateful.”
“She was writing about you,” he said, “so look for names you recognize, possible threats, anything that could suggest why someone would kill her.”
It was a painstaking process, poring over each picture. Brooks had managed to take over a hundred snapshots of Rosie’s notebook andplanner pages, and the problem wasn’t that we couldn’t find things we recognized in her notes—it was that we recognized everything. Before she died, Rosie Wright had developed one hell of an obsession—with us.
“This is insane,” I said, scanning a page of her neat, careful handwriting. “It’s like reading about fictional characters, but it’s us.”
“This woman stalked us,” Scout said. “Everyone’s in here—Cybele, Miranda, Cara, that girl I had coffee with that one time who wanted us to—” Scout cut herself off, glancing at Brooks. “Anyway, it’s creepy. She tracked us like a hunter.”
“Some of this stuff dates really far back, too.”
“She was thorough.” Brooks sounded almost admiring. “A good reporter. No offense,” he added, after Scout gave him an indignant look. “From what I can tell, her notes divide into two stories. One was on Gabriel Knox, that politician who just announced he’s running for president.”
Scout jabbed at the notes she was taking. “Did you see she got the scoop on that announcement but chose not to publish it? Apparently, when it came to some subjects shewascapable of discretion.”
“It seems like she hated Knox almost as much as she hated Scout,” I added. “That journal page a few minutes back was one long rant about all the crazy shit she thinks he’ll do if he’s elected.”
“She said he’s friends with Easton Banks and Reese Griffin,” Scout said. “I wonder if he was there the night of the Christmas party.”
Brooks spoke quietly, as if testing the subject. “It’s strange to think we were in the same room with Reese Griffin, after everything that came out about him.”
“Remember how badly we wanted to meet him?” I shivered. “Thank god we didn’t.”
Scout crossed her arms tight over her chest. “The Rat Pack. That’s what Dakota called them.”
For a moment we sat in silence, lost in memories of a night we seemed destined to never escape.
“Which brings us to the other story Rosie was obsessed with,” Brooks said finally. “Alden’s death.” He swiped to another photo. “Look at this.”
“Not a single source I’ve encountered,” I read aloud from her notes, “including the police report, witness accounts, and Alden’s USCfriends—” I paused. “What USC friends? Georgia was the only person who liked him.”
“Convinces me that Alden killed Georgia,” Scout finished reading. She snorted. “Well, Rosie got that ass-backward.” She swiped violently to the next photo.
I went to zoom in and my fingers brushed Brooks’s. Electricity zinged between us. He dropped the phone on the table.
“Look at these character notes,” said Scout, ignoring us and scooping up the phone. “Cybele Laurent: source from her French management company claims she was abused by a photog when she was young—motive for joining Murder Club? Source not willing to go on record. By all accounts, CL’s a bitch on wheels.” Scout grinned. “Okay, that last part’s pretty accurate.Scout Sage.Oh, here we go.Nice-girl performance masks true ruthlessness. In some pap photos the mask slips, you can see her real self. Multiple personalities—one a cunt. Could definitely kill.Now that’s just rude.”
“Look, she did me, too,” I said. “Isabel Cruz: a mystery. Why so…”My voice faltered. “Meek. Why give up her own dreams to…”I stopped reading. “Never mind. This is stupid.”
Why give up her own dreams to play servant to Scout? Am I missing something? Does Scout have something on her?
I made the mistake of glancing at Brooks. He was watching me, the expression on his face searing, as if he were on the verge of asking something we’d both regret.
“Enough with Rosie’s stupid notes,” Scout said, saving me once again. “Show us her planner.”
For a moment, Brooks didn’t respond. I could feel his desire to press me. Then, with effort, he schooled his expression and navigated to Rosie’s calendar. “It starts in January of this year. Have at it.” He slid the phone toward us, and leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
Scout and I scanned from week to week, zooming in to read Rosie’s jotted appointments. It was bizarrely intimate, seeing her doctor appointments and scheduled calls with her mom. Was this what Rosie had felt, studying us?
“Well, that was pointless,” Scout announced, slumping back in her seat. “We got all the way to the day she died, and there’s nothing interesting.”
Brooks sank his face into his hands. “I was really hoping.”
