A small, white-haired woman wearing a floor-length navy dress perches on the edge of a cushy armchair. Knobby fingers twirl the pearls that dangle to her lap.

“And that, my dear, is when I knew that Connor Windell was behind the murder of Devon Lim.” Genevieve Aspen leans forward, crossing bony elbows on her knee. Her bright blue eyes are hypnotizing, her speech persuasive.

The interviewer gasps. “Genevieve, that is quite the accusation.”

The widow Aspen scoffs. “Only to those without the temerity to speak the truth. The police will sort out the details in due time. I’m just cutting to the chase in advance.”

“Wow. Connor should really use her PI.” With a quick tap, I turn off the TV in the corner of my office. My reflection in my hard-earned window view offers a mirthless smile. Connor has crossed a few lines in my book. But he doesn’t deserve to be smeared across the national daytime circuit. And while Genevieve Aspen has made only one appearance so far, on this afternoon’s news segment, I saw that she’s slated to be featured on two other talk shows next week. It’s only a matter of time before public opinion begins to question Connor’s innocence, regardless of the facts.

It might be his comeuppance, considering his contributions to that Variety article. Though I’m used to the heat at this point, Peter was not pleased when the edition published over a week ago. He’s taken to calling me daily now, to “check in” and see how Velvet’s campaign is coming along. Micromanagement that I don’t need.

The internet has likewise continued providing screenshots and links to articles naming Phinneas and Ovid Blackwell in the same sentence. Despite their variations on the same information, the police still have no leads. Or none that they’re sharing. Which means that after Fashion Week concludes in mere days and my work with Velvet is complete, I’ll still be on the equivalent of PR bedrest. A fate worse than not making partner, being restricted from doing my job with existing and new clients means I’m off the radar—which means, if I’m gone long enough, clients could stop requesting me, stop trusting me. I could lose my job if this continues. And starting over at another firm—to begin my career anew—is not an option.

Since Connor left me to Uber home from the Beverly Hilton—we haven’t spoken. Not that I had the time to set Connor straight, with a packed schedule the last week and a half doing final prep with Velvet. The live interview she did on Good Morning LA went exactly as I planned, along with the three recorded interviews for national news segments.

The flurry of activity has been exactly what I needed. I’ve only gone to bed before midnight once this week, and then I stared at my phone too long before climbing beneath my thousand-count Egyptian cotton. Debating. Forming the text message in my head: How could you, Connor? After everything that’s happened between us, knowing how hard it is for me to—

But I didn’t send it. Didn’t even type it out. And, instead, I chose sleep, recharging and waking up the next day to dominate. No sidekick necessary.

Tonight, Fashion Week begins at the Art Ex, a massive warehouse amphitheater on Sunset Boulevard, where Velvet will make her red carpet debut in approximately one hour. I need to get moving.

A quick pout in the mirror beside my office door affirms my makeup could be featured on the runway later—smoky eye, glossy lips, contouring. After a few meetings with colleagues, but mostly confirming with media representatives that they would feature Velvet’s line according to my messaging, I draw the blinds and change into my designer ensemble. Black satin blouse with black trousers. Velvet will arrive at the opening ceremony of Fashion Week in the luxury Escalade I arranged to pick her up from her home, where a team of individuals has been whipping her eau de mid-fifties brothel madam into Chanel No. 55.

“Showtime.”

With my cell phone in my roomy front pocket and my usual red carpet emergency supply tote in hand, I stride into the lobby.

Ovid Blackwell’s signature entry music, low jazz, is replaced with an upbeat party mix; everyone will be in the Sunset Boulevard exhibition building for the Fashion Week kickoff shortly. I ignore the receptionist who says hello to me, then stop short on the polished tile. A man blocks the elevator doors—FBI Agent Jonas, wearing a black suit and a tie bearing the image of a writing quill. Peter stands beside him wearing an unknowable expression.

“Agent. How nice to see you in my place of business again,” I say, simpering. “You look different here than under the airport’s fluorescent lighting. Even less astute, somehow.”

“Addison, we need to talk,” Peter says, ever the Tin Man. “This way, please.”

I follow the pair of them to a conference room midway down this floor. It’s nearly empty; most of the finance drones have disappeared to a red carpet party. Ovid Blackwell boasts a grand number of designers in this year’s display of creativity, and an internal memo this week reminded employees to show up in force.

Peter stands at the head of the table but doesn’t sit. I stand next to him, opposite Agent Jonas.

“What is this all about?” I ask. “If you haven’t heard, there’s an important event tonight, for the company and for my client.”

Peter fidgets with a pen. He clicks the top in and out. Click-click. Click-click. “We’re just waiting on—Ah. Here she is.”

Aarin Williams slides into the room, her natural dark curls bouncing at her shoulders. Ovid Blackwell’s general counsel. “Am I late?”

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

“Thanks, everyone.” Agent Jonas scans our PR trio. “As you know, the FBI has been working with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s office, as well as cross-referencing information with the French and Monégasque police abroad, as we try to nail down who is behind Phinneas Redwood’s death—and now Devon Lim’s death.”

My skin prickles. “You told this to me at LAX.”

“Right. Only now we’ve examined both crime scenes, reviewed security footage where available, and come to a conclusion.”

“Which is?”

Agent Jonas smiles, and a sinking feeling squeezes my gut. “We had to talk to a few people first, though. And you’ve been busy since you returned stateside. But Hashim Swartz and his venture capitalist firm were accommodating, and so was Posey Delacruz over at Seven Wells Wellness Resort. Even Deputy Chief Mike Wadsworth was happy to chat with a federal agent over in Chicago and tell us how you claimed to know who killed Mr. Redwood.”

“I never claimed that. I said I was—”

“That you had an anonymous source who was going to reveal all soon. How miraculous, if you yourself aren’t the killer.”

Agent Jonas pauses long enough for reality to sink its taloned claws into me, eliciting my fight-or-flight response. I shoot Aarin a look, trying to gauge how bad all this is. She shakes her head an inch, and I have my answer: banished-to-Anaheim bad.

“Addison Stern,” he resumes. “We are formally naming you a person of interest in the deaths of Redwood and Lim. All that stands between you and a new title of ‘suspect’ is the analysis we’re running on Mr. Redwood’s computer files. Although that’s probably not the promotion you’d hope for.”

I reach for bravado. “You want to throw in the kitchen sink there, too? Why limit yourself to my clients—why not Annalise Meier’s death as well?”

Jonas lifts one eyebrow. “We never publicly named Meier. Interesting that you know the victim’s full name.”

Damn. A misstep.

“Is it?” I ask. “Or is it more interesting that you’ve been eyeing me as a suspect for weeks, yet have only succeeded in calling me a person of interest?”

“We would have named you for the death of Meier, but she’s not an American citizen and is out of our jurisdiction. The Monaco police, however, may be contacting you soon.”

“So I’m not under arrest.”

“No, not yet. The sheriff will provide updates later today on our progress in a press conference. Then it will be public knowledge that you are being investigated as part of these homicides.”

“Which means one thing for us, Addison,” Peter begins. “You’re on unpaid leave, effective immediately.” He casts me an apologetic look as the proverbial ax lands across my neck. “I’m sorry. This is not the outcome anyone wanted, and definitely not during Fashion Week.”

I turn to Aarin. “Is this—all of this—legal? Isn’t there something we can do to stop me from being publicly identified?”

Aarin’s eyebrows plunge together. “It’s all aboveboard. But”—she glances at Agent Jonas—“if you’re named an official suspect in these deaths, then I’ll have more to say. For now, my counsel is to sit tight.”

I scowl at my sad sack of a VP. “Peter, I have done everything possible to get Velvet Eastman ready for her Fashion Week debut. Do not sideline me here.”

Enough emotion fuels my words that my eyes glisten for a moment in a convincing crescendo. I worked my ass off to launch this chapter of Velvet’s career, all while trying to find Phinneas’s killer—the only one-two punch I had to convince Ovid Blackwell I was ready to resume care of my elite clientele. But I wasn’t—Connor wasn’t—successful. And now I know Connor was never on my side, either.

Peter’s eyebrows pinch together. “Addison, I wish there was another way. But it’s company policy that any formal involvement in a criminal investigation by an employee will result in suspension until further notice. We all want to find out what happened to one of our oldest clients.”

Peter shifts his attention to Agent Jonas. “I sincerely hope this is the right way to do it. And not another means of sabotaging my innocent employee. Because harassment is not something we take lightly.”

“Neither does the FBI take dual murders, Mr. Huxton.” Agent Jonas nods to me. “We sent a notice to your Lancaster address, requesting that you come into the FBI office in Downtown LA. I’ll see you then.”

“Lancaster? That’s my mother’s house. I haven’t lived there in over fifteen years.”

Agent Jonas shrugs. “Then you might provide an accurate address on your taxes this year. The notice has all the information you need. We’ll be in touch.”

“Addison,” Peter calls out as I storm from the conference room. But I don’t answer.

Rippling with anger, I march back through the lobby with its grating pop music and into the elevator. Someone says, “See you at Art Ex, Addison?” and I bite back the urge to scream.

Five floors down, I reach my Benz in a fury. My car door echoes in the garage as I yank it shut. Pulling onto Sunset and away from the opening night of Fashion Week.

After the last six weeks and all my efforts to get Velvet’s talking points perfected—her interviews engaging but deflecting—I can’t believe I would allow this to happen. I knew Phinneas better than most, and I thought I would uncover The Clue to find his murderer well before this date arrived. Mike Wadsworth, the turncoat, also reaches out to me via text asking for an update from my “anonymous source,” but I mute him.

When I awoke this morning, I had the whole week planned out. My client has events and interviews each day requiring my attention and expertise. But I didn’t anticipate the FBI declaring open season on me this afternoon. I should have, considering the desperation Agent Jonas has projected each time I’ve seen his weathered mien—but didn’t.

Traffic is light on my way into West Hollywood. I pass my condo, unwilling to relegate myself to its professionally designed interior, and continue onto Santa Monica Boulevard. The usual bumper-to-bumper traffic at three o’clock has diminished, barely a soul on the road in this part of the city. Everyone who’s anyone is getting ready for opening night.

An oversize donut teeters dangerously above an intersection I pass. My thoughts flash to Connor and his theories that Jamie Mendez is behind my professional chokehold. Why are the police not looking into that guy? If Mendez was angry with Phinneas—that the money he invested in Thrive, Inc. was taking a slow nosedive—why are the police not naming the seedy politician as a person of interest?

Is that why I’m being followed—targeted by these deaths? Mendez holds me responsible, too, as the publicist that didn’t rein Phinneas in?

Irritation makes my foot heavy, and I accelerate the car. Agent Jonas didn’t share when the news conference would take place, but I’d bet my gifted MAC makeup collection that he wouldn’t provide a large buffer of time. The update will be broadcast soon.

A sharp pang of frustration—no, regret?—hits me at the thought of Connor storming away from me at the hotel. We each said things that were hurtful—that crossed a line. I would never deign to chase after him, of course, but I wonder if there is something I could have or should have done differently—whether I was making a mistake, allowing a PI to set me loose when suspicion continued to linger on me like on a department store perfume sample stick.

Whoever killed Phinneas, then Devon, would have known that I would be eyed in some degree as their publicist, or that it was a happy possibility. Who could want that blame to land on my toned shoulders?

To my left, the Hollywood sign is visible, jutting from the mountainside that separates Tinseltown from the San Fernando Valley…and my childhood home.

I hit my blinker, then turn onto the 101 freeway. A dark blue two-seater darts past a string of cars to coast in the middle lane behind me. Forty-five minutes elapse, during which I drive in near silence. Horns and squeaky brakes are the only soundtrack to my route to Lancaster.

When I spot the weathered green freeway sign announcing I made it to the city center, for the first time in ten years, the dark blue car appears in my rearview. I exit at the off-ramp. A streak of color zips forward, continuing on the freeway, faster than it has moved in nearly an hour. Was that car following me all this time? Or am I teetering toward paranoia now?

Shopping centers and boutique shops from the eighties line the main road and bring with them a rush of memories, most of them bad: the trailer park where I spent the first two years of my life until my mom’s then-boyfriend bought us a modest two-bedroom house; the free lunches I received at my elementary school, then my high school; getting caught shoplifting at Maia’s Threads when I was fourteen, and subsequently convincing the owner to gift me the ripped jeans so that I could be Maia’s very own walking billboard at school and beyond. I smile to myself as I turn down Hartwood Street. Not all the memories are bad.

Cramped one-story houses fill the block, with desert-friendly plants and wildflowers decorating the walkways. Set apart from the rich neighborhood across town, front yards, though small, seem nonetheless curated by caring hands, the small patches of green grass vibrant and the rock gardens raked with precision. I note a thriving cactus beside a front door painted yellow. Lots of people know that image, presentation, and reputation count.

Just not Dinah Stern.

As I pause at the intersection before my mother’s house, the beater car from my adolescence backs out of her driveway. A jolt passes through me as I recognize my mother at the wheel.

Although I drove an hour to my childhood home and haven’t seen or spoken to her in a decade, the FBI’s erroneously delivered notice was calling me—not any desire to see Dinah. I idle at the empty intersection until the faded red sedan disappears in the opposite direction. Then I park at the curb of a square one-story with a dilapidated porch and exit my Benz.

Two quick raps on the door, beneath the peekaboo window, go unanswered.

I reach under a ceramic angel that rests on a dirt-covered wooden table, then grasp a familiar pointed shape: the house key, same place as always. “Dinah, Dinah. What if someone wanted to break in?”

Feeling the acute irony after Connor’s B and E of my condo, I step inside. The front room is exactly as I last saw it. Dusty afghans cover a worn sofa, magazines piled high atop the two end tables, and the unmistakable sting of antibacterial sanitizer lingers in the air. Ghosts surface with each step forward, reminding me why I avoided this place as long as I did. Echoes of my mother’s drunken tirades return as clearly as if she were still sitting on the couch in her pajamas at four in the afternoon. Always, always, with what a victim she is. How bad her feet—no, her back—no, her sciatica aches. With zero desire to change the narrative.

I head straight to my room, although it no longer belongs to me after fifteen years away. And especially not in a two-bedroom, where each square foot counts. Dinah turned it into a shrine to herself. Images of her from when she was a star cheerleader and then gymnast while in high school are framed and hung along the wall. Interviews she gave to the Idaho newspaper in the town where she grew up are highlighted and cut to form a collage of her name in headlines: DINAH STERN CINCHES FIRST PLACE; LOCAL TALENT DINAH STERN SCOUTED BY COLLEGES; DINAH STERN PERFORMS AT HOMECOMING.

On the writing desk that occupies the corner, an official-looking letter on a pile of mail displays my name. TIME SENSITIVE is stamped across the front. The FBI’s notice that I’ve been labeled a person of interest and a summons to visit their office.

Plucking the letter between two fingers, I turn to leave. If Dinah remembers to look for this envelope later, she’ll probably assume she lost it in the pile of magazines and mail stifling the front room. No sense in lingering in this graveyard.

What would have happened to Dinah Stern, had she not broken her foot her senior year of high school? Would she have excelled in her sport to keep her college scholarships and never known the cutting joy of receiving others’ sympathy? Would she have thrived on achievement rather than developing acute, diagnosed hypochondria and Munchausen syndrome? Who knows. As easily as I can envision a life where Dinah Stern was a functioning member of society, I picture a young Addison reaching out for a hug from her mother and having her five-year-old hands smacked away and called dirty.

No matter. I learned at a tender age that trusting others only leaves you vulnerable—and underachieving. It was the shortcut I needed. No gap year necessary to “find myself.” That lesson got me through school, out of Lancaster, and into a big pond where I could more fully prey upon smaller fish to reach the apex of the public relations pyramid.

I pass into the hallway, nearly skipping along the worn carpet. Being here, noting the framed photos of me that were put up for show, I feel strangely confident. Certain. At peace. I’ve moved past this shithole and the woman my mother wanted me to be—her mini me. Her assistant and first sympathizer. Instead, I’ve taken life by the balls and turned her failures into my successes.

On my way back to Highway 14, I pass the main street of downtown Lancaster. Sandwich boards along the sidewalk advertise upcoming holiday sales, requisite for this time of year. Above limp efforts to attract new customers, one sign visually towers above the rest: a large high-heeled shoe illuminated by vanity bulbs that flicker in a bouncing cadence. Maia’s Threads has gotten a facelift.

Curiosity—though definitely not nostalgia—gets the better of my desire to hightail it home to a bottle of ’94 Bordeaux. After all, now there’s nothing for me to do there except scroll. Though I had planned to be out until the early-morning hours—first accompanying Velvet at this evening’s kickoff event, then to the after-parties and the after-after parties—I called Velvet during the drive and shared that my assistant would be handling things in my absence. Rather than admit the FBI is investigating me and that I got suspended from Ovid Blackwell, I said I was fighting the flu that’s going around. Livid is an understatement of Velvet’s reaction, but I assured her that I wasn’t done. Just because I wouldn’t physically be present tonight didn’t mean the debut of her line this Friday, the last day of Fashion Week, wouldn’t be a raging success. I won’t be on the red carpet, but I’m not finished pulling the strings.

Nineties grunge music plays from a speaker outside the record store that I park beside, the soundtrack of my birth year. A bookstore advertising an all-secondhand inventory, a vegan grocery store, a hardware store, and a custom bridal shop are the only brick-and-mortar survivors on this block, standing strong against the online marketplace.

As a teen living in a borrowed house owned by yet another boyfriend of my mother’s, I got out of there whenever I could—and went five-finger shopping in each of these storefronts. Once or twice I was caught—reprimanded by a store owner or sales clerk—but the police were never called, nor my mother. Every time, my crime was written off as an innocent mistake—because I insisted it was, and the person in charge agreed. Rather than instill in me the self-assurance that I could continue to swipe retail goods, to maybe amplify my habit at a department store with a bigger payoff, I became enthralled with persuading people to believe what I wanted, what I decided was the truth.

The street is empty as I cross the two lanes to Maia’s Threads. From the single-level corner space it used to occupy when I was in the ninth grade, Maia relocated to the middle of the block, to the two-level property that was once a hotel.

“Seems we’ve both done well for ourselves.” I tug on the heavy glass door, then step inside. Designer labels cover the floor on artfully dressed mannequins, while the upstairs level promises an expensive, brand-name assortment of women’s luxury shoes.

“Addison?” A woman whose childlike voice I would recognize anywhere straightens where she speaks to a young sales associate. Maia Weller smiles but her expression leaves me cold. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

“How are you, Maia?” I shift my hand onto my hip, accentuating the black ensemble I planned to wear to a red carpet tonight. Without a doubt, I look incredible. “I was just in the area, and I thought I would pay a visit to my very first client.”

Renovations turned the hotel into a first-rate retail experience not evident from the outside. Natural light filters in through long glass windows facing the street, illuminating tablets stored on easel stands so customers can shop designer inventories directly. In the back along a row of espadrilles, a different sales associate in a red floor-length dress models a pair of heels I just saw in Paris to an interested customer sipping a glass of champagne. Midway down the store, beside a sweeping white oak counter and a register, a computer screen the size of a full-length mirror waits to virtually dress shoppers who would prefer a bot do the work for them.

Maia clucks her tongue. “Is that what I am? From what I recall, you were my first criminal to take advantage of my open storefront.”

I bare my teeth. “Memory is so unreliable. It must be quite difficult to afford the rent of this space. Especially with only two customers. Is this the evening rush?”

“Oh, I own it,” Maia says. “Along with several other locations. Santa Monica. San Diego. Temecula. It’s been a good two decades since we last met, Addison. But I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

She steps closer to me with each word. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Why is that?” I ask, standing my ground. Nobody cows me into a retreat. And I’m intrigued—confused—by this woman’s attitude.

“Well, after I caught you stealing those awful bedazzled jeans that were everywhere then, I realized you’d been taking from me whenever you came to shop. Security cameras didn’t see it. You were too practiced at such a young age.”

I hold her stare. Has she been waiting to tell me off all these years?

“Allegedly,” I reply. “If you’re looking for an apology, I’ll have to disappoint you.”

“No, no. No apology. I didn’t ask you for one then, and I won’t now.” Maia brushes the fabric of a pleated skirt worn by a mannequin. Removes some imaginary lint. “As I said, I should thank you. When you suggested that you act as my ‘walking billboard,’ advertising my clothing across your high school campus and elsewhere, I thought it was brilliant. I was grateful to your scheming little mind.”

Story time is getting old, even if what Maia is recounting is accurate. “Well, it’s been nice catching up, but I have somewhere very exclusive to be. Excuse me.”

“I could have turned you in, Addison. Filed a report with the police, but I didn’t. Do you know why?”

I pause while turning back to the entrance.

“Because you were right. I needed a more captivating way to draw customers into my store, and your adolescent pitch was smart. Effective. Sales went up, even as I wrestled with telling you off, to never return.”

“So you kept my…activity a secret because you knew I was right.”

Maia gives me a self-satisfied smile. “You weren’t taking advantage of me. I knew something that you didn’t, even though you correctly said I needed to change my marketing strategy. By allowing myself to lose my inventory to you, and not pressing charges so we could work together—” She waves a hand around the showroom, at framed photos on the wall of what must be the other locations of Maia’s Threads. “I actually won.”

I dip my chin. This woman has obviously waited a long time to give her speech. I respect her promoting her version of the events, however she’s told herself they went down. It’s what I would do.

“My congratulations. It’s good to see I’m not the only Lancaster native thriving—”

“Excuse me.” Maia turns on her heel, back to her sales associate.

The arrogance. The audacity. Reeling from the unfamiliar—to me—dismissal, I move to the exit. As I pass a display of satin blouses, my mind jumps to the myriad ways I can professionally embarrass her and ostracize Maia’s Threads from local economy leaders.

Then I recall that Ovid Blackwell has relegated me to unpaid leave. And the FBI has its poorly paid resources watching me.

Damn.

With nothing left to do or say, I lightly touch the clothes hanger bearing the nearest satin blouse. The fabric shifts, though remains upright, as I exit the designer fashion store. After the day I had, if I must start losing to win—like Maia, apparently—I’m off to a successful start.