Trena Moretti sipped her red wine and reviewed the video of her interview with Aster for what she guessed to be the seventh time, or possibly even the tenth—she’d lost count after five. The first two viewings had been mostly celebratory in nature, with Trena grinning the entire time, reveling in the fact that she was headed for prime-time TV. Each subsequent viewing was watched with an eye toward critiquing her performance—the areas where she could stand to improve, openings she might have missed due to her nervousness.
When it came to her performance, Trena was merciless, tougher than most critics would ever venture to be, though her brutality served a purpose. Once she cataloged her mistakes and committed them to memory, she rarely, if ever, repeated them.
For the most part, she had to admit that the interview had gone well. Aster proved to be a much more challenging subject than Trena had expected, which would only help to increase the ratings. Trena saw herself as a storyteller, a narrator, and like any good story, the protagonist was only as good as the antagonist pitted against her. Aster’s feistiness and refusal to fold ensured that Trena stayed sharp, focused, and on top of her game. It was just a matter of time before the interview went viral and earned itself the hashtag of #mustsee status.
Early word from the network chiefs proved they were pleased, which Trena hoped would lead to more TV opportunities. Now that she’d gotten a taste of life before the camera, the idea of returning solely to print journalism seemed inconceivable.
It was time she set her sights higher, forged a plan to move up in the world. And there was no doubt in her mind that the Madison disappearance was her first-class ticket to permanent prime-time.
Thanks to her good luck in meeting Layla early on, Trena had been uniquely positioned to break the story in a way all the other competing journalists lacked. It didn’t hurt that Layla had looked up to her and viewed Trena as a mentor. Hell, there was no denying the girl had been totally starstruck, and Trena had willingly embraced her new role as a sort of journalism guru.
But lately, Layla had been acting slippery and elusive, making it nearly impossible to pin the girl down. And with the trial date set, Trena’s source at the LAPD claiming there was nothing new to relay, and Priya, her new assistant, so far unable to uncover anything meaty enough to be of any use, Trena found herself in the unenviable position of having to chase after Layla in the way Layla had once chased after her.
While the Madison scandal wouldn’t be fading from public consciousness anytime soon, Trena was far too competitive, and way too ambitious, to lose the momentum she’d worked so hard to gain. Meeting Layla at the quietly elegant Palmers, with its faux suede booths and large sepia-toned photos of wild mustangs lining the walls, was her first major step toward remedying that.
She checked her watch and frowned. Layla was eighteen minutes late, which was something the once eager-to-please girl never would’ve chanced before. Clearly she was aware of the shift in power, and she was playing the moment for all it was worth.
“She’s here.”
Trena removed her earpiece and squinted in the direction Priya was looking. “I don’t see her.”
“She’s talking to the hostess.” Priya nodded in that direction.
“How’d you recognize her—have you met?”
“I do my research.” Priya started to gather her things. “They’re heading over now.”
For a moment, Trena considered letting her stay, then quickly decided against it. Layla was more prone to talk if it was just the two of them.
Priya had just slid away from the table when Layla arrived. The two paused, stared briefly at each other, before Priya moved on and Layla claimed her side of the booth.
Trena studied her carefully. Layla seemed upset, more tightly wound than usual. The way she ran a hand through her hair and looked all around as though she was rethinking her decision to meet left Trena uneasy.
“It’s been a while,” Layla said, visibly calming as her gaze finally met Trena’s.
“I assumed you’ve been busy.” Trena took a small sip of her wine and settled her fingers at the base of the stem. It was better to proceed slowly and let Layla lead.
“Everyone’s busy in LA.” Layla rolled her eyes. “Our social status is entirely dependent on our ability to keep the appearance of a jam-packed schedule.”
Trena grinned. Slowly, the ice was starting to crack.
“Aster says the interview went well.”
Trena lifted her shoulders and, in a display of false modesty, said, “It airs tonight, so we’ll see.”
“You haven’t watched it?”
“Haven’t had time.” Trena tapped her fingers on the base of her glass. No point in alerting Layla to just how much she had riding on this and whatever information she might or might not choose to divulge. “Have you seen a lot of Aster?”
“She just got out.” Layla’s gaze drifted toward the door, which was not a good sign.
“I meant that in relative terms.”
“Compared to her family, yeah, I guess I’ve seen her a lot.” She fidgeted in her seat, picked at the edge of her woven place mat.
“She still hasn’t met with her family?”
Layla’s features sharpened. “That’s a complicated situation, though it’s not really my place to discuss it.”
Damn. Trena had played that poorly by sounding too eager, and now she was forced to pull back and switch gears if she had any hope of moving forward again. “Should we order?” She motioned toward the menus placed on top of the square glass chargers. “They’re known for their perfectly aged grass-fed steaks, but trust me, the kale salad is not to be missed.”
Layla shook her head. Acting like she hadn’t even heard Trena, she said, “Who’s that girl?”
Trena met Layla’s questioning look with one of her own.
“The one you were sitting with.”
“You mean my assistant?”
“Assistant or bodyguard?”
Trena followed Layla’s gaze all the way to where Priya was seated at the bar with a clear view of their table.
“She didn’t want to disturb us,” Trena said, though in truth Trena was just as surprised to find Priya watching as Layla was. She’d thought for sure she’d moved on.
“I know her.” Layla’s brows pinched together as though she was trying to place her.
“Priya?” Trena glanced over her shoulder again, watching as Priya spoke furtively into her phone. It wasn’t all that unusual that she and Layla might know each other. After all, they were both young, both interested in journalism.
“I never knew her name, but I could swear she interviewed for the Unrivaled contest.”
Trena watched as Priya, still on her phone, slung her bag over her shoulder and left. It wasn’t until the door swung closed behind her that Trena turned back toward Layla. “Are you sure?” Trena’s mind reeled in reverse. She was positive Priya had never mentioned that, and it seemed like the kind of thing that would be strange to leave out. Especially in light of the Madison story Priya was helping her research.
“Well, I can’t be one hundred percent positive, no.” Layla shrugged. “There were a ton of people there, and we mostly kept to ourselves.”
“So she wasn’t chosen to be one of the contestants?”
Layla shook her head.
“Well, I guess that’s not all that surprising. She doesn’t seem like the nightclub-promoting type,” Trena said, less because she believed it to be true, and more to salvage her faith in her own instincts.
“And I do?” Layla laughed, took a quick glance at the menu, then pushed it away. “Who knows what Ira was thinking when he said no to her and yes to me?” She shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop in and say hey.”
Trena fought to keep herself from groaning. Great. A hit-and-run. Not what she’d envisioned when she’d set up the meeting. Also, the brief mention of food made her realize she really was hungry.
“You seem upset.” She leaned across the table and peered at Layla with a look she hoped passed for concerned. “Is everything okay?”
Layla squared her shoulders as though summoning a strength she was beginning to doubt. “My friend’s on trial for a murder she didn’t commit, and now . . .”
And now WHAT? Trena wanted to shout, but instead she forced herself to sip her wine slowly and pretend as though it didn’t matter in the least whether or not Layla continued.
Layla shook her head in dismissal, and Trena was sure she’d just lost her, when she suddenly blurted, “What do you know about libel?” She pressed her lips into a thin, grim line as her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “As a journalist, I mean. Under what circumstances can someone go after you and sue you for being libelous?”
“Is this about Madison?” Trena sensed it was, but she needed Layla to confirm it.
Layla hesitated, but ultimately conceded a nod.
“Well, Madison’s a public figure, so . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I get that.” Layla waved her hand impatiently. “What I meant was, what if someone posted something like a piece of writing or something they attributed to Madison? But then later, it turned out they’d been tricked and that it wasn’t from Madison at all. Could that be considered libel?”
So this was why she was acting so jumpy when she first arrived—she was haunted, afraid someone was setting her up. After what had happened to Aster, Layla had good reason to be paranoid. Whoever was behind all this had considerable reach.
Trena leaned back in her seat and pretended to put serious thought to the dilemma. “If I knew about your situation, then I might be of more help.”
Layla clamped her lips shut, as though forcing herself to keep from saying something she feared she’d only live to regret. Though the way she pulled her purse onto her lap and toyed with the strap hinted at a deeper desire to reveal whatever she was hiding in there.
Trena sat across from her, silently willing her to hand over the goods, when the next thing she knew, Layla clutched the bag to her chest and shot up from the table.
“I gotta go,” she said, voice edged with panic.
Trena forced herself to remain calm. “Sure you can’t stay?”
Layla shook her head and shifted her weight from foot to foot as though she couldn’t get out of there quickly enough.
“Okay. Well, call me if you need anything.” Trena kept her tone cool and her expression cooler. “You know I’m here for you.”
Layla nodded distractedly, looked all around, and bolted past the hostess stand and out the front door.
A moment later, Trena tossed a handful of bills onto the table and slipped out behind her.
Careful to keep a few car lengths between them, she followed Layla all the way to Aster’s building, where she parked outside and debated what to do.
Layla knew something, something that maybe Trena could use. But at the moment, the girl was too paranoid to confide anything, leaving Trena no choice but to follow Layla and keep her under surveillance until Trena found a way to regain Layla’s trust.
She adjusted her seat and prepared to settle in. There was no telling how long it might take. Lowering her window in search of fresh air, she was instantly slammed by a blast of heat so intense it was like sitting in a dry sauna. She was tempted to put it back up and rely on the air conditioner instead, but with less than a quarter tank of gas to spare, she had no choice but to make peace with the sweat.
But it’s a dry heat! the locals liked to say. All Trena knew was that the thought of sitting in a car for an interminable amount of time on a triple-digit day was a miserable fate either way.
Her belly grumbled, and Trena cursed herself for not grabbing a bite at the restaurant while she’d had the chance. Who knew how long she’d be forced to sit in her car, waiting for Layla to emerge?
She popped open the glove box in search of an energy bar, a bag of M&M’s, something to tide her over so she wouldn’t faint from starvation. Spying an almond biscotti she’d picked up at Starbucks a week earlier, she tore open the wrapper and popped a small broken piece into her mouth. It was stale, and she couldn’t help cringing a little as her teeth crushed against it. She was seriously considering spitting it out when she noticed what looked to be an unmarked police car parked on the opposite side of the street.
Forcing down the biscotti with a sip from the bottle of water she always kept on hand, Trena leaned out the window, lifted her shades, and squinted into the sun. Her gaze widened in surprise when she saw it was Detective Larsen slumped behind the wheel of the unmarked car, his gaze fixed on Aster’s building.