Infamous: the page-turning thriller from New York Times bestselling author Alyson Noël
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Madison shrank beneath his touch. It was the most she’d spoken at once in a very long while, and it left her feeling exhausted and spent.
Thanks to her injuries and overall traumatized state, Paul had kept her on a steady stream of pain pills that left her heavily sedated. Most of the time it felt like her brain had turned to mush. Madison was just starting to realize the huge toll that had taken. “I don’t understand what this is all about,” she finally said, her voice little more than a whisper. “What do they want from me?”
Paul shot her a sobering look. “It’s about destroying you and everything you’ve worked so hard to build.”
Madison was jolted by his words. It was the first time he’d said anything like that. Or at least that she could recall. She rubbed her eyes, forced herself to think, to try to capture remnants of past conversations they’d had. But from the moment that bullet whizzed past her face and into that creep’s head, everything had been a muted, blood-spattered, medicated blur. And yet she was sure this was the first time Paul had ever said such a thing.
Did Paul actually know more than he was letting on?
Had he been holding out on her all along?
“But who would do that?” She spoke slowly, as though carefully handpicking each word. When really, she just wanted to prolong the conversation so she could better observe him. “Who would be so jealous and spiteful and bent on revenge?” She tried to see Paul without bias, as though it was the first time they’d met.
Was he involved?
Was there a clue she might’ve missed?
When he trained his focus on her, she immediately shifted her gaze toward the far side of the room. She couldn’t risk him capturing even a twinge of doubt on her face.
The silence stretched between them, broken when he said, “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He rose to his feet and pushed the plate toward her. “Now eat.” His tone was paternal, but Madison was on edge. “We need to leave soon. It’s just a matter of time before someone stops by, and we can’t afford to leave any trace of us behind.”
Dutifully, Madison picked at her food as Paul expertly wiped down the room. She spied the gasoline can he’d left near the door. He’d probably use it to douse the place, then light a match and drive away. They’d watch the flames from the rearview mirror as he took her to one of the many safe houses he kept.
It was the same MO he’d used when he burned down her childhood home. It was only now she was beginning to think maybe that hadn’t worked out quite as well as he’d led her to believe.
“Where are you taking me?” She watched through lowered lids as he approached with yet another pain pill and a tall glass of water. Briefly, she considered trying to refuse, but she was in no position to fight. For the time being at least, it was better to play along.
Paul stood over her, watching as she placed the pill on her tongue and pretended to wash it down. “The less you know, the better,” he said.
Satisfied, he carried the glass to the sink and washed it clean of prints. After drying it in a way that left it glistening and smudge free, he smashed it hard against the wall and stared as it shattered into tiny, glittering bits.
With his back turned, Madison spit the pill onto her palm and mashed it between her fingers until it morphed into a thin, grainy paste she wiped onto the sheets. She was surprised it had taken her so long to question Paul’s motives. Especially considering how hard it was for her to trust anyone. She’d learned from a young age that when it came right down to it, she had only herself to rely on. And yet, for the better part of her life, she’d depended on Paul with no questions asked. But now she couldn’t help but wonder if that had been a mistake.
There was something off about him. Something he was purposely holding back. While she couldn’t quite put her finger on it—the drugs had left her brain too cloudy for that—Madison had always relied on her instincts, and at that moment, every cell in her body was telling her it was time to take back control of her life.
“Did you find an ID for that man who attacked me?” Madison watched Paul’s shoulders stiffen before he slowly turned to face her. “Do you know who he was?”
Paul held her gaze. “No,” he finally said. “Just a bum. An opportunist, I guess.”
Madison debated whether to mention that the man’s voice had been familiar. One she still couldn’t quite place but definitely recognized.
Instead, she simply nodded as though she believed him. Then she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, knowing it was what Paul wanted to see.
Someone was out to harm her, and while she had no idea if Paul was involved, she was sure he was lying.
Whether his lies were meant to protect her or harm her, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that as soon as she built up her strength and cleared her head, she’d track down whoever had done this to her and show them just how badly they’d underestimated her.
Madison had killed before.
If it came down to it, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger again.
TWO
NOTORIOUS
Layla Harrison clutched the plastic bag stuffed with her belongings and quietly shuffled past the door her dad held open. She paused a few beats, adjusting to the punishing light, while fingering the tender bracelets of flesh that circled both wrists. The wounds served as a lingering reminder of the too-tight handcuffs that had been placed there a few days before. Back when she’d been arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder—a crime she wasn’t convinced had actually happened until she’d stumbled upon the decomposing corpse.
“You okay?” Her father shot her a look of concern.
She took in his paint-splattered T-shirt, the soft, worn look of his jeans, which now sagged so low on his hips it seemed as though he’d borrowed them from a much bigger man. He’d lost weight. Weight he couldn’t afford to lose. And Layla knew his weary, gaunt appearance was entirely due to her.
It hurt to see him this way, and yet, when she finally did meet his gaze, she was greeted with so much love and compassion, she clamped her lips tightly and quickly turned away.
In jail, she’d been caught in a constant cycle of utter defiance and absolute despair. One moment she was outraged, pacing her cell and shaking the bars of her cage, demanding justice to anyone close enough to hear. But eventually, like water left to boil too long, her rage desiccated to a silent, scorched anguish. Who was she kidding? No one was interested in proving her innocence. The whole world was rooting against her. Detective Larsen had a high-profile case he was eager to close, the media had a juicy story to breathlessly report, and fans of Madison Brooks were looking for a target at which to direct all their hate. It was an inferno of accusation she couldn’t possibly penetrate.
“Sorry it’s a bit of a hike.” Her dad squinted into the distance. “Couldn’t find a closer spot.”
“It’s okay,” she said, suddenly realizing the truth of her words. It really was okay. In fact, it was absolutely okay. Maybe not for the long term (God knows, just thinking about what the future might hold put her on the verge of hyperventilating), but at that very moment her complaints were few. After several days in captivity, she’d been released. And though she had no idea how long her freedom would last, she intended to cherish each and every glorious second.
She walked alongside her dad, listening to the dull rhythm of her boots scuffling over the asphalt, the tiny black pebbles rolling and crunching beneath every step. She couldn’t help but marvel at how much she’d changed inside over the course of the last few days, and yet the outside world was just the same as she’d left it. The sun was shining. A long strand of birds perched in tight bunches on the telephone wire strung taut overhead. Their incessant chirping seemed to promise that the world would continue to hum and churn despite what happened to her.
There was no place for regret. And though Layla wasn’t one for spiritual leanings, she firmly believed every life had a mission, a driving impulse toward a greater destiny. That wasn’t to say that everyone made good on their mission, or even acknowledged its existence. But for Layla, her desire for truth and justice had thrummed through her veins for as long as she could remember.
It was the only explanation for why she’d put her own life at risk in order to help a girl who’d gone out of her way to act like a total bitch the first time they’d met. And yet, so much had happened since then, and Layla was done holding grudges. Aster had been set up. She was innocent of every crime leveled against her. And because of it, Layla felt compelled to help prove her innocence. Even if she’d been given a peek into the future that warned how she’d only end up implicated alongside Aster, Layla wouldn’t have chosen any differently.
“Here, I almost forgot.” Her dad pulled a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses from the pocket of his hoodie and thrust them into her palm.
Layla gratefully slid them onto her face, then tucked her chin to her chest and continued trudging alongside him.
She was exhausted. Hadn’t slept for days. And her mind was in torment, refusing to allow even a moment’s rest. Every time she closed her eyes, a reel of horrifying scenarios unspooled in her head.
Aside from her father and a handful of friends, no one seemed willing to give her a chance. And as someone who’d dreamed of being a serious journalist for most of her life, she was horrified to find herself the subject of countless sordid headlines. The media had portrayed her as a hateful person bent on revenge, and soon her fate would rest in the hands of twelve jurors who’d probably already made up their minds well before opening arguments were over.
If the verdict was guilty, she’d spend the bulk (if not all) of her life trapped behind bars. Her dreams would never be fulfilled, and the close relationship she’d once shared with her father would be reduced to awkward, guilt-laden visits, where Layla would watch helplessly from behind a smudged Plexiglas window as her father aged and withered before her.
It was the worst outcome imaginable, and the scary thing was, it was entirely possible.
“Layla! Hey, Layla—over here! Where’s Madison? Tell us what you did to her?”
Great. Just what I need. Paparazzi.
Layla hiked the plastic bag high to cover her face as her father slung a protective arm around her and pulled her in close.
“Don’t look. Ignore them.” He pressed the words into her hair and rushed her toward his waiting car.
Layla leaned into him, allowing his momentum to carry her along, all the while fighting the impulse to cry at the sheer frustration of it all. With so many cameras centered on her, she couldn’t afford to give in to tears. The press thrived on capturing vulnerable moments. They were all in pursuit of the same thing—the rare instant when the mask dropped and the celeb inadvertently revealed an alarming humanity. Beyoncé had a pimple once, and the internet nearly exploded.
While Layla’s popular celebrity-bashing blog, Beautiful Idols, had fueled her financial independence and helped lessen the burden from her struggling artist father, she had no doubt that what was happening to her now was karmic payback for once being a player in the very industry that now stalked her.
She swallowed hard and burrowed deeper into her father’s side. She felt shaky, oversensitive, but she couldn’t afford to show any weakness. The breakdown would have to wait until later.
“Hey, H.D.! Over here! Are you standing by your daughter even though she’s a murderer?”
Layla’s father grew tense—a sure sign that the primal fight instinct had kicked in. Layla would prefer he chose flight.
Dad, she started to say, don’t, it’s not worth it.
But before she could get to the words, he was already turning away and securing her inside the car.
“Tell us whose body it is!” another pap screamed, his voice muted when her dad shut the door, shielding her from the onslaught.
“What’s he talking about?” Layla watched her dad settle in.
“It wasn’t Madison.”
It took a moment to process the words. She repeated them back to him just to make sure.
“Wasn’t her.” He shook his head and slowly maneuvered through the retreating throng. “That’s why they released you. I’m sorry, I assumed they would’ve told you.” He turned his focus back to the road.
Layla gnawed the inside of her cheek, trying to decide what the news meant. “I figured you’d posted bail.”
Her dad pressed his lips together and gripped the wheel hard. “No bail. They refused it.”
Layla screwed her eyes shut and allowed the good news to sink in. Her chest loosened, her breath flowed with less restriction, as the eternal flame of optimism began to burn through what had come to seem like an impenetrable fog of despair.
If the body wasn’t Madison’s, then the LAPD could no longer charge her with murder.
The fact that they’d let her go probably meant they’d deemed her entirely innocent.
She rolled the thoughts around in her head until they gathered enough strength to edge the darker ones out.
“Did they ID the body?” She studied her dad, realizing that while it might not be Madison, there was still a dead body. “Was it Paul Banks?” The body had been found on his property, so it was entirely possible. Maybe she wasn’t in the clear, after all.
“It’s an adult male. That’s all so far.”
“And the others—Aster, Ryan, and Tommy—are they out too?”
Her dad shrugged. “I got the call to come get you, that’s all.”
Layla slid her fingers beneath her sunglasses and rubbed the delicate skin around her eyes. The good news—it wasn’t Madison—was delivered in potentially bad news—it could still be Paul, who was connected to Madison—and Layla had no idea how to read it. All she knew for sure was that for the moment she was free. She just hoped it would last.
The rest of the ride home was spent in silence. H.D. had never been one to dodge the important conversations, but for now, Layla figured he was giving her space. The talk would come later.
Her dad pulled into the driveway and waited for the garage door to roll open as Layla nervously scanned the street, searching for signs of paparazzi. Deeming it clear, she seized the moment to slip free of the car and tilt her face directly into the sunlight.
“What’re you doing?” Her dad’s worried tone prompted her to laugh.
“Making good on my promise,” she said. “I’ll never take my freedom for granted again.”
She lowered her gaze to meet his. The beginnings of a smile were lifting her lips when her phone chimed from inside the plastic bag she carried, and the latest text, in a long stream of them, popped onto her screen.
There was an image of a cartoon cat, this one with a deep, jagged gash that stretched across his throat. Just below were the words:
You’re more stubborn than most
And though I don’t like to boast
I meant what I said
And now, because of you, someone is dead
While you were away
I took the liberty of having my say
M’s diary is now live on your site
Just a matter of time before the world sees it and bites
Will they bite you?
I haven’t a clue
Though I can’t take all the glory
Seeing as how I used your own story
But before you feel bad
Or even start to get mad
Don’t forget it’s your refusal to play
That brought you to this day
If you want this to end
Then consider me your best friend
Only I hold the key
So whatever you do, do not disappoint me
Further instructions will come
And I’m warning you to keep mum
If you share any of this with your gang
I promise, someone will hang.
Her heart pounding, Layla scrolled to her blog. An unvoiced cry died in her throat as she skimmed the post she’d written and had been dumb enough to leave in the draft folder instead of deleting.
BEAUTIFUL IDOLS
Through the Looking Glass
By Layla Harrison
Her stomach churned. It was all there, every word. Her gaze fell to the most incriminating part. If it turned out to be a hoax, and the entry wasn’t really pulled from Madison’s childhood diaries, Madison, or even Madison’s estate, could sue her for slander.
But of course, just as she feared, the words were now posted for the whole world to see.
. . . without further ado, I present to you the first installment of Madison Brooks’s journal.
Make of it what you will, but please note that I did not make this up, this is not a work of fiction, and it came to me via a reliable source.
As always, feel free to exit through the comments section on your way out.
October 5, 2012
I’m so over it!!!!
So over absolutely EVERYTHING!
Including my so-called friends, my family, my stupid fake boyfriend, but mostly, this stuffy, boring, stick-up-its-ass town.
Layla could hardly breathe as her gaze skimmed the words.
The Ghost saved me—spared me from a future too horrible to contemplate. . . .
I guess you could say I owe him my life.
Then again, he owes me his too. . . .
If I ever go down, he’s going down with me. Though I’m pretty sure that only works one way. Because if P goes down first, he’ll go down alone. And he’ll take all my secrets with him as well. He already proved it six years ago when he made a choice to save me. Which is why I guess, in a lot of ways, I consider him my real father.
Anyway, tomorrow is the day I board the bus to LA and never look back. . . .
It’s crazy to think how next time I write in here, I’ll be living an entirely different life!
☺☺☺
Layla’s hand flew to her mouth. “Omigod,” she whispered through trembling fingers.
“Everything okay?”
Her dad watched with concern from inside the garage.
“Mmm . . . Yeah. Of course.” She sank her phone into her pocket and followed him inside.
She’d been hacked, that much was clear. And though her first instinct was to delete the post, the chilling text convinced her to leave it untouched.
According to whoever had sent it, her failure to play along before had landed them all in jail, possibly even getting someone killed.
Her dad ushered her down the hall and urged her to get some rest. “Later I’ll make dinner. Or we can order in, up to you. Also, I spoke with Ira. He said not to worry about coming to work. He wants you to take some time—whatever you need.”
Layla gave a distracted nod, headed into her room, and sank onto her bed. Gazing at the portrait her father had painted of her as a child, she wondered if she’d ever be able to smile as genuinely, spontaneously, and unselfconsciously as that again.
At the moment, it seemed inconceivable.
As wound up as she currently felt, sleep seemed inconceivable too. And yet, there were long days ahead, and she knew better than to face them in a state of exhaustion.
After a hot shower, she pulled on an old Stevie Nicks concert T-shirt and slipped beneath the covers.
Briefly, she thought of Tommy and the night they’d spent together. The sex had been amazing, but they’d sworn to each other there would be no strings attached. They were busy pursuing their dreams and couldn’t afford the distraction. That would only amount to a mistake neither of them was willing to make.
At the time, Layla had been willing to agree to just about anything to ensure that Tommy’s lips continued to press against hers.
But now she was glad for the pact. No matter how much she missed him, no matter how much she longed to check in and see how he was doing, the note had sent a clear warning. And in light of everything that had happened, she was done playing stubborn.
When she woke, the mess would still be there, calling her name. But for the moment, she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to claim her.
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