As the car service limo sped along Topanga Canyon Boulevard, Angie watched scrubby grasses and trees pass by her window in a blur. She’d slept late and didn’t call for the car until early afternoon but still felt exhausted. She rested her head against the back of the seat and considered closing her eyes for a few minutes. But no, she had to be getting close to Scarlett’s house, which was nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains just fifteen or so miles from her hotel. To Angie it felt a world away.
Scott had suggested they sell the house right after Scarlett’s death. But Gerry refused to listen to anything that would bring them in contact with LA. Ellen was stuck in the middle trying to keep the peace. And Angie was so paralyzed by grief she was on autopilot, barely functioning, checking off the days as they went by.
So the house had sat empty for the past year but was still being maintained. Scarlett’s estate paid the property manager who paid the mortgage, property taxes, utilities, and the upkeep—the cleaner, the gardener, and the pool man. There weren’t any practical reasons for Angie to check on the house, but she thought she might stumble across something that would shed light on what had made Scarlett so desperate—or even what was behind the mysterious note she’d gotten in New York.
The driver slowed and turned, and the surroundings started to look familiar. He took another turn at the end of that street, and then another down a craggier road that came to a dead end.
“Here you go,” he said when he brought his car to a stop.
Angie recognized the stone address plaque that faced the street. She’d been dreading this moment ever since arriving in LA. “Thanks.” She climbed out of the car and watched the limo pull away then turned to face the Craftsman-style bungalow that sat twenty or so yards back. It had been a happy time when she was last there. Scarlett had just bought the place, wanting a retreat, a place to escape into anonymity and silence.
Angie started toward the house, struck by the stillness and the sense of peace. She didn’t even know if she was still in LA.
She remembered the landscaping and stone walkway, palm trees offering scant shade. Security cameras surveyed the lawn, both front and back. She approached the door, a bougainvillea-draped pergola looming over it. A tan mat with Bienvenue! in swirly cursive welcomed all comers. Angie still had the key Scarlett had given her the last time she had visited. Letting herself in, she held her breath while it seemed the house exhaled.
The inside was cool, all wood and shadows. Gleaming tile floors added to the crispness in the air. Scarlett’s taste in art had a warm quality to it, pieces found on some of her travels adorning shelves and walls. The furniture was comfortable and heavy. Books occupied a shelf in the living room opposite a fireplace. Angie could picture herself curled up with a novel on the overstuffed taupe couch, just across from an abstract painting of flowers that took up most of the wall. Sliding glass doors led to a yard thick with grapefruit and lemon trees, palms towering above the centerpiece—a fifty-foot solar-heated rectangular pool.
Heavy copper pots still hung from a ceiling rack in the brightly mosaiced Spanish-style kitchen. An island that occupied the center of the room. Angie remembered preparing a dinner of squid-ink pasta with those pots and those spices. Scarlett had regaled her with inside stories of co-stars’ drunken escapades and on-set temper tantrums. Inset in one wall of the kitchen was a small bank of video cameras highlighting all corners of the grounds so that Scarlett would be aware if there was an intruder. Being so far away from the city, and on her own now in the house with everything so quiet, Angie began to understand.
After a quick look around the ground floor, she climbed the curved staircase that led upstairs. On the right, she peeked into Scarlett’s bedroom, with its enormous windows and walls the color of sunflowers. Angie stood at the threshold. She felt tired, and sad. Are you here, Scar?
She took a few small steps into the room and stopped, closing her eyes. She took a deep breath, two, three, four, then opened her eyes again and took a few more steps and, little by little, began to look around. Slowly, she moved to the bed and ran her hand along the soft white duvet. She went to the dresser and lifted the lid on a carved wooden box that held Scarlett’s jewelry. She didn’t have much, especially for an actress who was consistently required to show up on red carpets and talk shows, but what she had was solid and classic. Angie entered the walk-in closet where Scarlett’s patterned blouses and silky dresses hung on a long rail, and her jeans and T-shirts were neatly folded and stacked on a shelf. She didn’t cry. She told herself she had a mission—to see if anything stood out that could provide a clue to Scarlett’s last days. She picked up a pair of her sister’s strappy sandals, tried on a straw hat.
Is there something here, Scar? What am I supposed to see?
Angie wandered out of the bedroom and across the hall into the room Scarlett had used as a home office and a space for self-tape auditions. She scanned the bookcases holding contemporary fiction, plays, and binders of screenplays. On the wall were photos, including one of Scarlett and Patricia, grinning as they hung off the sides of a golf cart on what looked like a studio lot. The man driving the cart looked vaguely familiar. Angie realized it was Kevin Li, the man Nicole had said was DreamWeaver’s production head and Charles Weaver’s best friend. His hair was short in the photo, and he wore a polo shirt and glasses, but it was him. Maybe they were friends. Maybe . . . more?
She sat at Scarlett’s desk. There was an organizer holding pens, pencils, highlighters, Post-it notes, tape, and scissors; a green desk lamp; a box of tissues; and a diffuser with a few bottles of essential oils.
The top drawer was slightly ajar. Angie tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried to slide her hand in, but the opening was too narrow. She got on her hands and knees to look under the desk. In between the back of the drawer and the wall was the corner of some sort of book. She grabbed it and tried to tug it out, but it was wedged in place. She tugged again, this time pulling on the drawer at the same time, and freed a pink leather-bound book tied with raffia. She untied the cord and opened the slender volume. Scarlett’s handwriting—it was her journal. Is this what I’m looking for, Scar? Angie’s heart was beating fast. She realized she was scared. I could just put it back in the drawer. It’s so personal. I don’t have to read it. But as she ran her fingers along the outlines of the lotus flowers embossed on the cover, she knew that wasn’t an option. Not if she really wanted to know more about what happened to her sister.
So she went back to Scarlett’s bedroom and sat on the bed, wind rustling in the palms outside, opened the journal, and started reading. Judging from the dated entries, Scarlett had started it a little more than a year before she died.
1/14
So great to see Ange. She was here for two weeks. God, I miss her. She’s still at Rita’s after all these years. But she looked good. She visited the set with me and seemed mesmerized. Glad she came out. I don’t see her enough.
1/28
Went out with Patricia last night. Saved her from the walk of shame. She almost went home with Ben G. from Tricolor. Yuck. I brought her home with me. She’s still sleeping but later, I’m making paella and Sangria. Tanya coming by for dinner.
2/2
Groundhog Day but nobody worries about six more weeks of winter in L.A. LOL. Jeremy wants to have dinner. I don’t know, we tried this once before and it didn’t work but we didn’t have much time for each other either. It seemed easier when I was younger. There were categories. Family. Friends. Boyfriends. Out here the lines are blurrier.
3/10
We had dinner & it was great! We both seem more centered than when we first met. We went up to Malibu. We were recognized, but he knew a pretty out-of-the-way place, so it wasn’t crazy. They say fame is fleeting. I wish! I shouldn’t say that. I have nothing to bitch and whine about. But it would be nice for us to go out sometime and be anonymous.
3/24
Jeremy & I are doing well. He’s grown and I don’t feel insecure this time. I’m happy to relax & see where it goes. He’ll be out of town on a shoot for a few weeks, but I need some time anyway. Feeling a little burned out. The series wraps soon. Sucks that my character won’t recur next season but it’s been a career-changer. Catapult doesn’t start shooting for a while, but I should begin research anyway. Chloe will take all I have and then some.
4/9
Had video conference with Catapult director David Frobisher Jones. I’ve never met him before, but he came across as true to his reputation of being professional and demanding but fair and not a lunatic. And he’s not known as a creep. That’s all to the good! I’m REALLY, REALLY stoked. It’s the part of a lifetime. A little nervous, too. I hope I can pull off Chloe, not make her a cliche.
5/22
Jer & I were in Mexico & we got into a fight over DreamWeaver. He knows I could never turn down a part like Chloe, but he hates Charles’s guts and is worried C. will make my life a living hell on set because he’s so volatile and controlling. And he’s a womanizer. Trying not to worry. C. won’t cross David FJ, not if he wants a good movie, and David will support his cast, I’m sure of it.
6/16
Two auditions this week, and another next week. One is for a TV pilot, one is for an Amazon Prime movie, and one is for a blockbuster superhero gig. Don makes sure I keep getting seen for good projects. An agent who believes in you is so important. My star is rising. For now.
8/25
Just signed another contract for another big role with DreamWeaver! OMG! Supposed to start shooting late next year around when Catapult comes out. Don made sure I was seen for it and was so excited when they wanted me. Gotta get the goods while I can.
11/19
Table read for C., and we all went over David’s vision for the story. If I nail Chloe, Don says I can expect to be called in or even offered a lot of great parts in really good projects. But what if I don’t nail it? What if I just embarrass myself? Why am I so nervous about this? I have to be careful not to psyche myself out, that will undermine my work.
12/1
Started shooting! C. welcomed all of us but boy, the minute he showed up on set, the entire mood shifted. Everyone stops talking, focuses on their jobs, no joking unless of course he makes a joke, then everybody laughs too loudly. Jeez. Really? Charles made a special point of personally greeting me and telling me how happy he is that I’m starring in the film. He was nice but something about him keeps you on your guard. He’s like an unpredictable animal. You don’t want to make a false move.
12/10
C. watched the dailies and apparently hated the lighting. And the pacing. We have to redo half a dozen scenes. Then he comes up to me on set. “So, Scarlett, let’s pick up the energy today? Even if your character is having a quiet moment, don’t lose the intensity. I’ve talked to David already about the shape the film is taking, so I want to see some more life in this thing. You’re great, you know that?” What could I say? I just said, “Sure Charles, whatever you need.” David was standing a few feet behind him and looking at me during this entire exchange. He looked pissed. Charles needs to give his directors their freedom, it’s ridiculous.
12/14
Had to show my face at a DW party over the weekend but it was suffocating. Everybody pretending to be collegial, supportive. Charles comes over, all warm with that huge hug of his where it’s like you can feel every part of him pressed against your body. You have to show your face at these things if you want to get cast. Patricia gets blackballed because everyone thinks she’s a bitch and too hard to work with but, as soon as she makes a hit, the offers start pouring in again. Because she makes them money. Being “difficult” in Hollywood means you don’t take shit, or you won’t sleep with every sleazy producer with an ego the size of the Bowl because they’re old, paunchy, bald, and on Viagra. So, I do what I can to not get blacklisted. Don says to show up at the parties – still important.
12/17
Weird night. Wrapped at 6. Went to my trailer to get a few things and change and was about to get a car home when Kristy knocked. Says Charles wants to see me. I ask if it can wait. She looks at me kind of apologetic but I know, of course, it can’t wait. It’s Charles. I get my stuff so I can leave right after talking to him. He’s waiting for me in a makeshift office on the set. Really friendly. “Scarlett,” he says, “I wanted to tell you that the dailies are looking really good, you’re really bringing your A game, all that energy, I knew it was in there.” He offers me a drink. I say I gotta get home. “Sure, you’re doing great work, I understand, it’s exhausting. Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m happy with how everything’s going, Scarlett. And let’s have that drink one day. Ok?” So, I leave. And I can’t figure out what that’s about. Maybe he feels badly for those days he’s been such an asshole on set? Jeremy’s working in Canada. I’m too tired to call anybody anyway. Came home, had a bite. I’m so tired.
12/23
Nice to be home, see the family this year for Christmas, but so tired. It’s hard, always acting like everything is great, everything is fine. I take naps all the time. I tell Mom & Dad I have headaches & am worn out from the shoot. They ask if I’m okay. I don’t know. Am I okay? No, not really, I’m not okay but I can push through. I could talk to Ange, but she doesn’t need my problems. Depression is hard enough without the rest of your family piling on. Scotty’s always busy. I love him but we don’t talk about anything real. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. What should I say? Jeremy’s worried about me. I told him I can handle everything, the pressure on set.
1/10
Shooting, shooting. Film looks like it will be great. So excited. This could be my best role yet. I didn’t know the rest of the cast, some I’d never met, some I knew in passing, but we are really connecting in our scenes. I hope this is as great as I think it is.
2/18
I’ve made myself very very clear. Why can’t I make myself heard? Jesus, does no one listen? Just shut up and take me at my word. Seriously. Back the fuck off.
2/23
Stress, stress, stress. C. had another temper tantrum yesterday. It wasn’t only directed at me, mercifully. I hope David doesn’t quit. If he does, I’ll walk, I swear. He’s the only buffer between Charles’s bullying & me and the other actors. I don’t know how Tanya who works closely with him every day can take it. Of course, Patricia warned me. And how am I gonna make it through the NEXT movie for Charles when I’ll be lucky if I survive this one? I have to hang on. On set I am someone else. On set, there are no worries, I’m tough and positive. I go over the scenes we’re shooting the next day, over and over. Then I go over them some more. They are part of me. No, not part of me. They are me. It’s in my head, my blood, my skin. My old skin is gone. I’m shedding myself. I’m someone else. That’s good.
2/25
Need a break. Need this movie to wrap. Soon. Jeremy came in for the weekend, he’s been in New York, but we fought. I was so happy to see him, but he said I looked thin and had dark circles under my eyes. WTF. Yeah, I’m wrapping a major role for a hugely influential studio and the head of it is driving us all insane. Christ, of course I’m stressed, what do you think? Tired of having men dictate how I feel and what I do. Need some space.
2/28
I want to go on summer vacation. There was no school and we just swam and had fun all day. I loved that. You don’t get that when you grow up. They take it away. Charles keeps telling me he’s talked with David and they agree that I’m not quite doing the role how they want it. I see the ocean from my bedroom window. And the sky. The blue sky. I think about monsters. I never was afraid of fantastical beasts and things like that when I was little. Not like other kids. But now I look up and wonder if monsters fell out of the sky, parachuted into the ocean, and came ashore, would I know? What would they look like? Maybe they look like us. Maybe they wear disguises. Maybe.
3/1
Been throwing up for two days on set but had to keep working. Finally the weekend. Patricia came. She gets it. I can’t move. Can’t walk. So sick. Want to die. Patricia made her doctor come over. I wasn’t up to talking. She did an exam. Gave me pills to help me sleep. Took blood. Patricia’s been there, plenty of times, sick, stressed, and still have to get to set. She says everything will be okay. I’ll get better, I’ll feel better. I’m not sure I believe her. I didn’t tell her everything. Called Jeremy. Couldn’t stop crying.
3/5
If the world was gonna end, would we get a warning? If I knew I could hide, I could wrap myself up and lay in a ditch. I could dig it in the sand far away enough so I wouldn’t be swept out by the tide. Then if a meteor crashed into the Earth, maybe I would survive. There would be a lot to do. You couldn’t rest. You’d have to stay busy. To survive.
3/7
You wait in your trailer until it’s time for your scene. There are 417 white tiles in my bathroom. There are gray tiles too. 127. I remember Long Island. Mom, Dad, Ange, Scotty, Barry, our beagle. I loved him. High school. We are dumb. No idea how things work. It makes me angry. I can’t remember things. Boys I liked. I remember names. But I can’t picture them. Their faces are fuzzy. Like someone smudged them in my head with an eraser. 417 white tiles. One night I drank wine and walked outside. Shoot days are long. But it’s hard to sleep. If you lie on the ground and look up, you can see a few stars. I count them. Below are ants. Too many of those to count. We can’t even feel them. Even though they have these big cities just underneath our feet. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the ground under me softening and me sinking lower and lower and lower, being enveloped by the soft, sweet earth until I arrived in the valley of the ants. I was in their world then. There are 417 white tiles in my bathroom.
3/9
Sometimes you’re out of time and place, the place is all wrong, maybe you are from outside? From the clouds? But then you get stuck inside somewhere and it’s on fire, you can’t breathe, you are a person who can’t stay inside. You hold your hands up to your temples, but it doesn’t help, it’s so hot, it’s so hot, why the hell doesn’t someone fix it? stop stop stop stop stop stop but it doesn’t stop it won’t stop it won’t stop and it’s so hot you have to find the door to outside, but I don’t know what the door looks like I don’t know
3/19
I have to go. Maybe the ants can all get underneath me and lift me high and carry me away, so I’m gone forever. Or I can float up, up, up, up, and then when I reach the stars, I’ll see all the beautiful things below, and I’ll see things like they’re supposed to be. It’s prettier from high up. You don’t see ugly things. You don’t see cracks and scabs and blood and bad breath and foul ugly ugly smelly gross things. Mean things. Things that hurt. You just see stars and sky and below are lights and then the forever ocean. Soon I could be gone. But in the movies, you can see me. You can always see me. Unless someone takes all the movies I’ve ever been in and burns them to a crisp you can see me there even when I go. I’ll go up up, floating up
Angie sat looking at the final entry. The next day, Scarlett killed herself.
She closed the journal. Jesus, what the hell was going on? The last entries didn’t even make sense. Scarlett was falling apart, having a nervous breakdown. Are all movie shoots that hard? It’s not possible. No one would survive.
Angie considered what she’d found out. First off, charming Charles Weaver was a control freak. With a temper. Who pushed people hard. But Scarlett finished the movie. She didn’t quit and didn’t get fired. How did you get through it, Scar? Did you just compartmentalize it all?
Angie flipped back through the entries. Jeremy had to be Jeremy Banker, a handsome model-turned-actor Scarlett had dated some time ago. Angie remembered him but didn’t know they’d gotten back together. She didn’t tell me. Did she tell Mom?
Or maybe she never talked about it because she had more on her mind than her latest boyfriend. And when were you ever insecure? About anything? You always seemed so nonchalant and self-assured. And Jeremy Banker hated Charles Weaver. Sounds like he had good reason. Why were you sick, Scar? Stress? Flu? And who wouldn’t back off?
The last entries were the saddest, and tears slowly rolled down Angie’s face as she re-read them. Rambling, incoherent, not the musings of a lucid mind. But they also made a sort of tragic sense because Angie had never been able to reconcile the sister she knew with the one who took her life. Now she understood that Scarlett wasn’t Scarlett at the end.
She stood, wiped her eyes, and grabbed her phone. She dialed Patricia’s number.
***
When Angie arrived at the restaurant on Melrose Avenue that afternoon, Patricia Bartlett was already buzzed, an all-but-empty bottle of pinot noir on her table. She was graciously signing autographs and posing for selfies with fans. Angie held back, studied her. Patricia was a real beauty, but she could see a bit of the scrappy farmgirl she’d read about in some magazine or newspaper feature. And as lively and lovely as she was, there was something dark in her eyes. She looked worn out, like she was slogging through her life, glamorous though it was.
When the sycophants scattered, Angie slid into the seat across from her. “Hey, thanks for meeting me.”
“Well, here’s our little New York literary light. Glad you found the place.” Patricia flagged down a waiter. “Bring us some calamari and get my girlfriend here a nice chardonnay.”
“Just iced tea,” Angie told the waiter.
“Iced tea and chardonnay,” Patricia insisted.
The waiter looked at Angie, who gave a nod.
“So big bad LA hasn’t scared you off yet?” Patricia asked. “I suppose that’s a good sign. Or a bad one.” She took a slug of wine. “Seriously, this was Scarlett’s world, a piece of it, anyway. What’s your impression?”
Patricia was testing her, and Angie was weighing how much to say. “Everything is beautiful, and everybody has money and nice houses and gorgeous clothes, and the movie business seems terribly exciting, but . . .”
“But it seems fake? And fucked up? Right on all counts!” Patricia raised her wineglass.
Patricia was certainly successful, but it was apparent to Angie how bitter she was underneath the party persona.
“Did you talk to my sister before she . . . before her death?” Angie asked. “I mean, like in the days before, or that week?”
“I talked to Scarlett a lot right up until the end.” Patricia turned serious. “Look, it’s clear you don’t know much of what she was going through. Before she died, Scarlett was a mess. I mean, the girl wasn’t herself. She was either not sleeping at all, or sleeping all the time, and she’d call me and go on about things that had happened, obsessing. She couldn’t let go of anything and it made her crazy.”
“What couldn’t she let go of? I found her journal. She seemed incredibly stressed and talked a lot about how hard things were on the Catapult set.”
“Look, it’s a tough, tough industry and you have to learn to roll with things or you will get crushed. Scarlett was getting crushed.”
“Did you do anything? I mean to try and reach her or . . . ? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound—”
“Like I didn’t intervene and should have? The first time she did a film with DreamWeaver—it was a small role—I warned her about how things work and she just said, ‘Not me.’ I believed her. I knew better but I still believed her.” Patricia eyes became distant before she came back to Angie. “It’s nothing I don’t ask myself. Scarlett was a good friend. But she couldn’t handle it here. Not when it came right down to it, even though she had a great career going.”
“How do you mean? I know she was busy and wanted parts she thought were, I don’t know, more meaningful or challenging than the typical blockbuster stuff.”
“That blockbuster stuff makes a shit ton of money and allows you to do the other stuff, but you’re right. She wanted to hold out for roles that would get her noticed. And it cost her.”
The waiter brought Angie’s wine and tea and a fresh glass of pinot for Patricia. “And bring us two chopped salads with dressing on the side,” Patricia said, then eyed Angie. “Okay, New York?”
Angie nodded. “What do you mean, it cost her?” she asked when the waiter had departed. “Cost her what?”
“Cost her everything. I mean, she was making a name for herself as someone to be taken seriously. Scarlett didn’t take crap but you can’t just tell certain people to fuck off if you want a career in the industry. She doubled down and worked harder when things got tough. And that would wear anyone down.”
Angie nodded again, urging her to go on.
“Look, your sister didn’t draw a line, she didn’t walk away, she just took it all on until . . . until she just couldn’t anymore. And, out here, there’s a lot riding on these projects. Money, reputations, everyone wants something from you . . .” She took a big sip of her wine as if as punctuation.
Angie wondered if she was talking about Scarlett or herself. When Patricia didn’t continue, she considered. Do I go there? Now? She lunged ahead before she lost her nerve. “I got a weird delivery before I left New York. A messenger dropped off an envelope in the middle of the night.”
“How noir.”
“It said something about Scarlett deserving better and had a police report number. I went to the police station, and they didn’t have any record with that number. The cop said it didn’t exist.”
“Of course, it doesn’t exist,” Patricia said quietly. “Doesn’t mean it never existed.”
“What do you mean? Like, someone . . . erased it? Why? I mean, it was a suicide, not a murder investigation.”
Patricia gave Angie a penetrating gaze. “Yes, it was a suicide. I told you. Scarlett just couldn’t handle things anymore. So she took an exit. And you won’t be able to handle things either if you keep asking questions.”
“What? What can’t I handle?” She felt heart start to pound. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. But I’ve heard twice now that Scarlett didn’t deserve what she got, and I don’t know what that means. Were people surprised she was depressed? She wrote a lot about how hard it was working on the movie, and how difficult Charles Weaver was. She said if the director walked, she would, too. It just sounds like the stress of that job really got to her. But why would—”
“Listen to me. I’m only saying this once.” Patricia cut her off and leaned in so she and Angie were eye to eye. “Your sister was a sweetheart, and I loved her. I get it. I do. And everyone knows how hard some of these assholes like Charles can be to work for. But that’s the deal. You make a movie with a place like DreamWeaver, and you get everything that comes with that. Hollywood is full of people with money and power, and they love it. They know how to get people to do exactly what they want.” The words dripped tartly off her tongue. “And no one in this town has the balls to go after them. If these people can get an NYPD report to vanish, what do you think they would do to you, poking around in the death of your sister? Huh?”
“I don’t understand what anyone has to lose by telling me why Scarlett became so horribly depressed,” Angie returned. “I’m not here to cast blame. But something weird is going on.”
Patricia’s expression grew darker. She was obviously losing patience. “Go home, Angie. These people . . . Go back to New York and forget all about this.”
Angie started to feel angry. “I can tell you know more than you’re saying.”
“Go home,” Patricia hissed. “Look at yourself. You come out to LA, you get all dressed up and make a big speech about your sister and depression. You think you can take on DreamWeaver? You’re nuts. You’re worse than nuts. You’re pathetic.” She stood suddenly, steadied herself, and threw a bunch of cash on the table. “You’re nothing. Get out of here. And don’t come back.”
Angie watched her stumble out of the restaurant, but continued to sit at the table, shocked and hurt. And confused. Patricia’s rancor had come out of nowhere, cutting her off at the knees.
Suddenly there was a loud screech followed by a commotion outside. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look. Waiters ran for the entrance and Angie followed, several other patrons on her heels. A small group crowded on the sidewalk and at first Angie couldn’t see anything, but there were gasps. Some people in front of her pulled out phones to make calls, others to take video, and finally they moved enough for Angie to make out what was going on.
Patricia lay in the street, her face bloodied and bruised, her left arm was angled unnaturally beneath her back. Oddly she still held the stem of the wineglass she had fled the restaurant with, the remainder of it sparkling in shards in the sun beside her.
Angie heard a click! and turned to find a young man in a white T-shirt and jeans snapping photos. He sheepishly explained, “Tabloids. They pay big money for pics, especially for a huge star like Patricia Bartlett.”
Angie was sickened by the depravity. She’d had enough of Los Angeles.
It was time to go home.
***
As she packed that night, she let the TV drone in the background. “One of Hollywood’s biggest names cut down in a hit-and-run,” one anchor breathlessly reported in her blue suit and perfectly shiny and cemented blond hair as she fixated on the camera lens. “We’ll have exclusive coverage and an update on Patricia Bartlett’s condition coming up.” The developing story was that Patricia had been drunk and stumbled into traffic. She was expected to pull through, but it was going to be a long road to recovery.
Angie knew there would be no getting near her again. She’d be guarded against any media or other intrusions.
She texted Nicole, thanking her again for her kindness, and made a mental note to keep in touch with her. She had thanked the stylists who had glammed her up, and Candace, who did not respond. Then she carefully packed Scarlett’s journal and Oscar and went down to the lobby to await her limo to the airport.
***
Scott was still in Taipei, so Angie went to see her parents that Saturday on her own. Her father was chilly, as she knew he would be, but her mother gushed over how beautiful Angie had looked and wanted all the details about the Zac Posen dress and the celebrities and all the perks and parties.
“I had more than a few rough moments, but there were nice parts too,” Angie told her over bagels in the kitchen. “It’s beautiful there, and I was treated to this very luxurious spa, which I’d never be able to afford on my own. The lunches were fancy, and getting my hair and makeup done and wearing that beautiful dress, and the jewelry from Tiffany . . . I mean, it was nice, but it wasn’t really me.”
Ellen beamed. “You looked wonderful, honey, so lovely. And those things you said about your own depression and about Scarlett and whatever . . . she was fighting . . .” She choked up. “Well, you were just wonderful. I’m so proud of you. Not just for what you said but that you went out and faced all those people on your own. That’s really something.” She took Angie’s hand, tears in her eyes. “You really made Scarlett proud.”
Angie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It meant a lot to hear that from her mother. Unable to embrace the moment, she made a joke. “The lights were in my eyes when I got up there—couldn’t see a thing. That helped.”
They both laughed and Ellen turned to pop a bagel into the toaster.
“The thing is,” Angie went on, “it’s clear a lot of people loved Scar. They made remarks about her deserving better, and about how hard it is in Hollywood. I think there’s more to her story, to what made her . . . do what she did. I just don’t know what. Not yet, anyway.”
“Your sister was playing in a very powerful league. She was smart and savvy and could handle herself.”
Angie gaped at her mother, dumbfounded and suddenly angry. “Obviously, that’s not true, Mom. Turns out she couldn’t handle it at all.”
“Oh, Angie . . .” Her mother was suddenly flustered. “All I meant was—”
“It’s toxic, all of those people, all of it.” Gerry walked in, having obviously caught part of their conversation. “They’re bad news. Scarlett ruined her life. You will, too, if you keep talking to that crowd out there.”
Why didn’t her parents want to know more? Was it just too painful? “This really isn’t about me, Dad,” Angie protested. “It’s about what happened to Scar. And, honestly, I really can’t believe neither of you is the least bit interested.”
There was silence.
“We are not having this conversation, Angela.” Gerry’s voice was practically shaking. He departed without another word.
Angie turned to her mother. Say something. Anything. But she knew her mother wouldn’t contradict her father. Ellen met Angie’s eye for a moment, then the bagel popped up and she turned away.
***
Monday morning, Angie couldn’t help but compare her small, drab-green workspace to LA’s sunny vibrance. Rita had given her two new manuscripts and she had started one over the weekend, but she was having trouble focusing. She kept replaying the conversations with her parents and thinking about the weird message with the police report and Patricia and the hit-and-run. The news was reporting Patricia was still in serious but stable condition.
Angie phoned Scott once he was home from his trip and filled him in. He listened thoughtfully as always.
“Look, it had to be really hard for you to be out there. So you heard a few things. You’re exhausted. Just let it go. We’ll never know why. You have to accept that.”
“But Patricia was trying to warn—”
“Patricia Bartlett was drunk, you said so yourself. She likely didn’t know what she was talking about. And it’s not that extraordinary that someone who’s drunk would stumble into traffic.”
When he put it that way, it all made sense. Everything can be explained away. But it still didn’t sit well.
“And look,” Scott continued, “even if you were to start investigating, run down every red herring—you’ll just drive yourself even crazier.”
A heavy pause hung in the air.
“Wait, Ange, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . .”
“I know what you meant,” Angie retorted. “You sound just like everyone else. You think I’m exaggerating and that I can’t see clearly what’s in front of me because there’s something wrong with me. You weren’t there. I was.”
She hung up, angry. No one trusts my judgment. They dismiss me as a fragile girl who can’t distinguish truth from fiction. Impressionable. Naïve. Not able to accept what happened to Scarlett. Unequipped for the world. Unable to face reality. But she was a grown woman. Not a girl. She coped with depression and anxiety, yes, but that didn’t make her impressionable and naïve.
She looked around the office. She had been avoiding life, in a way, safe in her tiny space, where all she had to do, for the most part, was read. Hell, even Scarlett had written in her journal that Angie was “still at Rita’s after all these years.”
That was Angie’s world. But it couldn’t be anymore. I have to stop hiding. No matter what anyone thought, no matter what they said, no matter how much people doubted her, it was time to be brave. Scarlett had always taken care of her. At home. At school. At summer camp. There was more to her sister’s suicide. She knew it. And she owed it to Scarlett to find out.
She quickly picked up the phone, before she had a chance to chicken out. She was relieved when the call went to voice mail. She left a message. Then she went down the hall and knocked on Rita’s door.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Rita looked up from the piles of paper stacked on her desk, her glasses propped on her fiery beehive.
“I don’t really know how to say this, but there’s something I have to do. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice, as of today. I’m . . . moving to LA. Maybe I can take an extended leave of absence? I’ve loved it here but—”
“Honey,” Rita cut her off. “I’ve been waiting years for this.” Angie’s jaw dropped, but Rita gave her a knowing smile. “It’s okay. Just go. Go now. I’ll get Joaquin in to help. You know he’s always wanted to be you.”
Angie couldn’t help but laugh.
“And he always needs the money. I’m going to miss you,” Rita continued. “No one can really replace you, you know. But, go. You need to spread your wings beyond that shoebox down the hall.”
Angie shook her head in amazement. She knew how much Rita relied on her, but she had never known how she saw her.
“But do me a favor. When you go, take a couple manuscripts with you—to read on the plane. When you’re done, call me and tell me what you think. Now, get the hell outta here.”