You want some more?” Len said.
Kelly was sitting in his Trans Am, snorting cocaine off this crazy mirror of his—a big, pink plastic thing that looked like it belonged in a 1950s beauty parlor. “Where did you get this mirror anyway?” Kelly said.
“It’s my mom’s.”
Kelly laughed. Len wasn’t so bad. With Vee having run off somewhere, Jimmy still in rehab, and Bellamy spending close to 100 percent of her time with Steve Stevens, Kelly had been easing her loneliness with Len, whom she’d run into a week ago when she was eating a burger at Tommy’s. “I know you, don’t I?” said this skinny guy, still with the same pencilly mustache, the same rattlesnake belt buckle he’d been wearing the day she’d gone to Bellamy’s house for the first time. He’d been her first kiss, her first everything, and he barely remembered her. That was okay. She’d never learned his last name.
Len had offered her a ride back to Jimmy’s, where she had been staying alone these days. It had been so hot out lately, the air thick and pressing like bad breath. Kelly couldn’t stop sweating whenever she went outside, and so they’d gone into Jimmy’s bedroom, which was the only room in the house with air-conditioning. They’d shared a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and then Len spent the night.
The rest was history, though it wasn’t a boyfriend thing. The day of the screen test had done strange things to Kelly’s head. She didn’t want a boyfriend anymore. She was too angry for a boyfriend.
“So do you want to come as my date or what?” Kelly said, after snorting another line.
“To some movie wrap party?” He chuckled, showing long horsey teeth. “No way. Those things are bouge.”
“Bellamy’s going to be there,” Kelly said. “And Steve Stevens.”
“Steve who?”
“Some actor.” Len didn’t know who anybody was. She liked that. “Do you have any weed?”
THREE HOURS LATER, LEN AND KELLY WERE DRIVING THROUGH JOHN McFadden’s open gate, parking the Trans Am behind Rollses and Bentleys and Jags, both of them tumbling out, smoke all around them. Kelly pressed up against him. His Black Sabbath T-shirt was wet with sweat. “I hate John McFadden,” she whispered in Len’s ear, licking his neck as she did it. “He killed my sister.”
“He what? Wait. You don’t have a sister.”
She put her hands on his face, tried to make it stand still. “You are very cute,” she said, words slurring. “But you are too dumb to live.”
SHE WANDERED THROUGH THE HOUSE—LUXURIOUS, AIR-CONDITIONED rooms moving in and out of focus. More high than I thought I was. A familiar-looking actor walked by—an older man in a velvet suit. He looked Kelly up and down, but not in a complimentary way. She was aware of her denim shorts, the orange Hang Ten T-shirt she’d pulled out of Jimmy’s closet, the sweat in her hair. Probably should have dressed for this thing.
She hoped she didn’t stand out too much—she had purposely worn this outfit so she could run quickly, but she hadn’t thought much about how it looked. The goal was to break things. That had always been the goal. If she couldn’t sue John McFadden or get him arrested, Kelly was going to break every expensive thing in his house and run away before he saw who did it. Len would drive the getaway car. If she could find him. Where had he gone? She passed a group of mile-high models in vintage miniskirts, go-go boots sparkling on their long legs. Kelly couldn’t figure out whether they were cast members or paid entertainment, but they had that look to them, like they were startled by their own beauty. In Kelly’s state of mind, they looked otherworldly, spectacular.
At the other end of the room, she saw Bellamy, in a red silk dress that played up her black hair. She reminded Kelly of a princess. Snow White? No. Rose Red. A tall, blond guy stood next to her—Steve Stevens, probably. Kelly watched her for a while, the way she laughed, her head thrown back, as though the conversation was something delicious, something to be savored. How could she look so happy in John McFadden’s house? How could she act as though she didn’t care what he had done to Catherine? She raised a hand and waved. But Bellamy looked right through her. Did she not see her? Kelly started to head toward her when she felt a hand on her arm, grabbing. She figured it was Len, but when she turned around she saw Vee’s face, dirty and wild-eyed. “Oh my God, Vee—”
“Ssssh.” He put a finger over his lips. He kept his head down. She followed him through more rooms, past more beautiful people, everything shimmering around the edges, the two of them ghosts.
“Do you want to break things with me?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Come with me.” He took Kelly’s hand and led her through the sunroom, through some other room with a tiger’s head on the wall and a group of men with cigars, laughing, to the same place where they’d run lines together two weeks ago—the Moroccan room. He ushered her in quickly, locked the door behind her. She turned around. “Vee,” she started to say again. But he shushed her. They weren’t alone.
John McFadden stood in the corner with his back to them, rehearsing a speech. “All of you are more than family to me,” he said to the curtains. “We share a bond that’s thicker than blood—and that bond is creation. It is art. Thank you very much. Now enjoy the party!”
Vee clapped, loudly. For the first time, Kelly got a good look at him—dirt-caked jeans, greasy hair. There was a stale smell to him too, as though he hadn’t showered in weeks. Where had he been staying? What had he been doing? And there was his father, in his black expensive suit, practicing what to say in front of a bunch of actors. His own father, who hadn’t even bothered to look for him. “Bravo,” Vee said.
McFadden whirled around. “Where the hell have you been?” He looked at Kelly. “What’s she doing here?”
“You don’t get to ask me those questions,” Vee said. “I’m here because I need answers and you’re going to give them to me.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. My God, you reek.”
“How could you do that to her? She . . . she was a living, breathing person.”
“Who?”
“Cat,” he said. “You took her away from me. From everyone. Why?”
McFadden exhaled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vincent. Now I want you to go upstairs and shower and put on some clean clothes . . .”
Vee pulled something out of his jean jacket pocket—a gun. Same gun they’d taken to the desert all those weeks ago. He aimed it at his father. McFadden froze. Kelly’s mouth went dry. “No,” she said, as calmly as she could. “No, Vee. Don’t.”
Vee said, “You’re not the man I thought you were.” He held the gun straight out in front of him, his hands shaking. “You’re not a man at all.”
McFadden’s face was perfectly still, his whole body motionless. Kelly’s gaze went from Vee to his father, and for a moment, time stopped, the two of them locked like this—Vee with all the power, McFadden waiting to see what he did with it.
Until finally, McFadden shifted. His shoulders relaxed. “Listen, you little drug-addicted piece of shit,” he said. “You put that gun down or I’m calling the police and having you thrown in jail for the rest of your life.”
Vee’s eyes went soft, scared.
“I’ll do it. You know I will.”
“You . . . You took Cat.”
“You’re a big disappointment to me, Vincent,” McFadden said. “It’s no wonder your mother wants nothing to do with you.”
The gun shook in Vee’s hands. “That isn’t true.”
“Ever wonder why we never hear from her anymore? Not even on Christmas?”
“Because . . . because she hates you.”
“Guess again.”
Vee winced, as though someone had slapped him.
“You’re mean,” Kelly whispered.
McFadden didn’t even look at her. “Put that gun down and go to your room,” he said to his son. “I don’t want you around my guests.”
Vee’s arms dropped. He started to cry. McFadden turned around again and began reciting his speech to the ruby curtain, as though Vee and Kelly weren’t in the room with him at all. “I’m sorry,” Vee whispered. He put the gun down on the desk and looked at Kelly. “I’m sorry.”
“I would like to welcome you, my true family,” McFadden said as Vee crumpled up and wept. And within Kelly, something snapped. “The work you have all put in makes me feel like a proud parent . . .”
Kelly picked up the gun. She held it out in front of her, fingers on the trigger, power coursing up through her arms, into her heart. “John McFadden,” she said.
He turned around.
“Are you sorry about Catherine?”
“Oh Jesus. You too?”
Kelly fired at him, twice in the chest.
“Oh my God,” said Vee. “Oh my God, Kelly.” His arm went around her back, the weight of his hand on her shoulder.
McFadden fell to the ground, gazing up at her. What have I done, Kelly thought. His mouth was still moving, trying to form words. “Thicker than blood,” he said, and she realized he was still rehearsing his speech. Kelly raised the gun and shot him between the eyes.