That was the problem with history these days: Other people Franny’s age didn’t seem to care. Actually, it was bigger than that—they didn’t seem to even acknowledge that thousands of years of human history predated them, that the world they’d emerged into came with several millennia of backstory. Like every grad student worth her salt, Franny had read the great theorist of postmodern life, Fredric Jameson, who argued that the twenty-first century could be defined by its obsession with thecurrent, thepresent, thenew; and with that obsession came a tragic disregard for the past. To Franny, the popularity of politicians like Gabriel Knox was proof of that.
Amelia, another friend in her cohort, took one look at Franny’s shining eyes and started cackling. “Look at Franny,” she yelled. “She’s actually crying! Scout Sage hasn’t even come onstage yet!”
Franny wiped her eyes and laughed along with her friends. “What can I say? I love a strong woman behind a microphone.”
Melissa slung an arm over her shoulder. “Wait until you turn in your paper on Scout and the future of celebrity-led movements. Dooney and Carver are going to shit their little tweed pants.”
Franny squeezed her friend’s hand, hoping she was right. She specialized in the history of pop culture, a niche academic discipline that treated gossip and internet discourse as seriously as any other texts. She’d faced stiff opposition to her work from the more traditional professors in their department, but none more than Dr. Dooney and Dr. Carver, both sixty-year-old World War I scholars who didn’t think popular culture was worth rigorous study. A lot of what Franny studied were the ways women talked to each other on casual, unregulated channels, the rhetoric they used, the symbols—so her older professors’ resistance felt a bit sexist and a lot shortsighted. Just look at how many people were here today, wearing bootleg Our Ladies of the Dark T-shirts and whispering about Scout Sage. Women whispering to other women held power. Franny couldn’t wait to get home and write about it.
“The final message I want to send to Gabriel Knox and his cronies,” Luca yelled into the mic, “is don’t think—”
An earth-shattering explosion shook the earth under Franny’s feet, the sound hitting her with a primal roar like a rushing tsunami, the vibrations shaking her off her feet, and a split second later she was thrown back against the metal barricade.
Franny lay dazed on the ground, blinking up at the clouds. Her ears were ringing. She thought about sitting up. Patting down her body. But her hands seemed like they belonged to a person far away, who had only the vaguest relationship to her.
And then her hearing came back—and with it came the screams.
“Get up, Franny!” Melissa crouched in front of her, seizing her shoulders. Far away, in the distance, smoke was rising from the top of a skyscraper. The entire world was soot and screaming. Franny didn’t understand.
“Get up,” Melissa shouted. “We need torun!”
Chapter 41Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
I whipped my gaze between Emmy and Scout, who were staring each other down. “What do you mean, you werethere, Emmy? You saw Georgia die?”
“Saw.” Revulsion transformed Scout’s face. “I’m betting that’s a weak word for what Emmy did.”
Emmy edged closer, skirting past Easton’s body, keeping the dark, unblinking eye of the handgun trained on our heads. Her lips seemed to be curving, as if she were fighting a smile. Her eyes were wide, eager, like what was unfolding was delicious, a scene she’d longed to witness.
When Scout spoke next, her voice was the coldest I’d ever heard it. “What did you do to my sister?”
Emmy stopped, too far away for either Scout or me to snatch the gun. For a moment, her eyes tracked over Scout’s face, studying every detail. Déjà vu hit me. This was how fans looked at Scout now, devouring her from across barricades and security details. It was also how Emmy had looked at Scout, ten years ago, except I hadn’t had the experience to recognize it.
My stomach roiled with dread.
“I never thought about Georgia before that night.” Emmy spoke so softly I had to strain to hear. “But I’ve thought about her so often since. Trying to figure it out.”
I shook my head, but she talked over me. “Georgia wasn’t talented. Not an actress, or a singer, or anyone important. Just a college student. Easton could’ve had anyone, but he cheated with her.” Shecocked her head. “He wouldn’t even look at me for a TV role. Dakota asked. None of them would ever look at me.”
Scout and I glanced at each other. I saw my own confusion mirrored on her face. “What did youdo?” Scout repeated, in a low voice.
Emmy stared back. “I finished what he started, because he was too weak.”
A horrible silence filled the office. She was saying… Easton had hurt Georgia, but Emmy had killed her. The image of Georgia’s face assaulted me: those bruises petal-and-vining their way across her chest and neck. The crater in her head. Easton’s mark on her, then Emmy’s. The fire of passion and then the void of hate.
It was Emmy who’d taken Georgia from us. Another girl.
My legs went numb and I fell back against the desk. “And you…” I looked down at Easton. “You married him, after what you witnessed?”
“After what shedid,” Scout said, with scalpel sharpness. “After cleaning up after Easton, I’m sure she had plenty of conditions. Marriage, money…” She tilted her head, mimicking the strange way Emmy looked at her. “Am I finally seeing you clearly?”
“What…” I stuttered, trying to wrap my head around it. “You killed Georgia… for a leg up?”
The dreaminess dissolved from Emmy’s face. “Like either of you have room to talk. Running around pretending to be vigilantes, getting everyone to talk about you, andworshipyou, when in reality you’re just two bitches who ignored me from the day you showed up on our doorstep. The idea of you two as big feminist darlings? What a joke.”
The pieces snapped together. “It was you,” I gasped. “You’re the one framing Scout.”
