The picture flashes to a reporter standing outside what I recognize as Lois’s house, talking gravely into a microphone.
“Neighbors confirm that at around midnight last night, an ambulance was summoned to the house, and one witness saw Lois Kellerton being placed in the ambulance, on a gurney. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Lois Kellerton appeared to return to the house and has not been seen since.” The screen shows a fuzzy long-lens picture of a figure covered in a sheet being bundled into the house. “Friends have been worried about the state of mind of the award-winning actress since her apparent exposure as a thief.” The picture flashes to the familiar sight of Lois at the ASAs, crumpling in shock on the stage. “Ms. Kellerton’s spokesman refused to comment on these latest troubling events. Back to the studio.”
“And now to sports …” says a woman in a purple dress, and I switch off. I’m quivering all over. I never thought in a million years anything like this would happen. I never imagined—I never expected—
I mean, it isn’t my fault.
It isn’t. It really isn’t.
Is it?
On impulse, I dial Sage’s number. Of all people, she must know how I feel. In fact, she must feel even worse.
“Sage,” I say, as soon as she answers. “Did you see the news about Lois?”
“Oh.” She sounds unconcerned. “That.”
“Sage, we did that to her!” My voice is trembling. “I can’t believe it’s gone so far. Have you been to see her or called her or anything?”
“See that maniac?” Sage retorts. “You have to be kidding!”
“But shouldn’t we do something? Like … I don’t know. Go and apologize?”
“No,” says Sage flatly. “Not happening.”
“Just, no?”
“This is her problem, Becky. She’ll sort it out. I gotta go.” And she rings off.
Sage sounds so sure of herself. But I can’t feel like that. Doubts are crawling all over me like insects. I can’t bear it. I want to do something. I have to do something. Make amends.
But how can I make amends?
I close my eyes, thinking hard for a moment, then open them and whip out my phone. I still have April Tremont’s number in my phone, and she answers after the second ring.
“Rebecca?”
She doesn’t exactly sound delighted to hear from me.
“Um, hi, April,” I say nervously. “Sorry to bother you. It’s just, I saw the news about Lois. I feel terrible about everything that happened, and I’d really like to apologize to Lois and somehow make amends. Maybe help her. Or something …” I trail off lamely.
“Help her?” April’s voice is so sarcastic, it makes me wince. “You helped enough already, don’t you think?”
“I know you’re her friend,” I say humbly. “You must think I’m an awful person. But you have to know, I never realized it would turn out like this; I never meant to expose her. And I wondered if you could help me get to see her, maybe? To say sorry?”
“Lois isn’t talking to anyone,” says April curtly. “I’ve phoned a million times, but she won’t reply. And even if she were, you’re the last person I’d bring along. Yes, she needs help. She’s needed help for a long time, if you ask me. But not from opportunistic users like you.”
“I’m not an opportunistic user!” I say in horror.
“Don’t tell me you’re not doing nicely from this,” snaps April, and rings off.
I stare at my phone, my cheeks hot, feeling as though I’ve been slapped. As I lift my eyes, I see Jeff’s thick neck ahead of me and feel a fresh twinge of shame. Here’s me, riding along in an SUV with bodyguards and shopping bags, my career transformed. And there’s Lois, being rushed to hospital.
Jeff hasn’t said a word all this time, but I know he’s been listening. And judging me again. I can see it from the muscles in his neck.
“I’m not opportunistic,” I say defensively. “I could have sold the story weeks ago, couldn’t I? But I didn’t. It’s not my fault Sage blabbed. And I’ve wanted to be a Hollywood stylist forever. Can you blame me if I leap at the chance? It doesn’t mean I’m ‘opportunistic.’ ”
Again Jeff is silent. But I know what he’s thinking.
“Well, what can I do now?” I say, almost angrily. “If April won’t take me to see Lois, then it’s impossible! I can’t say sorry, or offer help, or anything. I don’t even know where she—”
I break off. I’m remembering something that April said when we were sitting in her trailer. We’ve both lived on Doheny Road forever.
“Mitchell,” I say, leaning forward. “Change of plan. I want to go to Doheny Road.”
It takes us about thirty minutes to reach Doheny Road, and as soon as we arrive it’s obvious which house is Lois’s. Journalists are camped outside the gates and prowling up and down the street, and I can see two vox pop interviews going on. We pull up some way farther on, outside a mansion that looks like a Greek temple.
“Stay in the car, Rebecca,” says Mitchell. “We need to survey the area.”
“OK.” I try to sound patient as they clunk the car doors shut and head toward Lois’s house, looking conspicuous in their dark suits. All this “surveying” and “securing” is starting to get on my nerves. Once you get over the novelty, having a bodyguard is a real pain.