Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
D ella huddled on the couch in the streaming room and tried to pretend nothing bad had happened, but it was impossible. She was surrounded by security people and police and flashing lights and reminders that something was mind numbingly wrong.
Her bedroom was a crime scene. A literal crime scene.
The second she’d seen the photos on her bed, everything had felt distorted and distant. Like a dream.
No.
A nightmare.
She wanted out of this no-longer-safe house, but they wouldn’t let her leave. She was a witness. She had to give a statement. She had to go over and over and over it. Every step she’d taken. Everything she’d touched. Everything she knew about the photos and Scott and the party and…it was a blur. All of it.
The only thing that reached through the haze was the blazing truth that a man she barely knew had been beaten almost to death and it was her fault.
She felt lost.
Alone.
She desperately wanted to throw herself into Lizzie’s arms. The urge to run home was so overwhelming it almost made her dizzy, but it would put her sister at risk.
Her pregnant sister.
She refused to let that happen.
“I think we’re done here,” Ward said as he strode into the room. “The police will leave a patrol in the neighborhood for a few hours while we clear out. The team will stay here to give the illusion that you’re still in the house.”
Della stood. Her legs felt wobbly and numb, but she forced herself to walk like this was the most important stage she’d ever been on, and pushed air into her lungs to keep her voice steady. “You still haven’t said where we’re going.”
“I’ll tell you once we’re on the road.”
A flare of irritation settled in the middle of her forehead. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Because I’m not taking the chance that we’ll be overheard.” He took out his phone and started tapping on it.
She wondered who he was messaging. His expression wasn’t irritated or commanding. It was…reluctant?
“Okay, Della. Come with me,” Annie said from the doorway. She held a black duffel bag in one hand and a dining room chair in the other.
Della followed her, relieved to finally have something to do that didn’t involve endless questions from the police or furtive glances from just about everyone. “Who’s he texting? He looks like a kid being forced to eat a vegetable.”
Annie snort-laughed as she bypassed her now off-limits bedroom in favor of the guest room on the opposite side. “That’s exactly what he’s doing.”
Della paused. “Hey, what are we doing? I thought we were going to pack a go bag.”
“Not to worry. I’ve already done that. All you have to do is get changed.” Annie tilted her head toward the guest room.
“Changed?” Della glanced down. They’d let her get out of her stage costume and into shorts and a T-shirt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing. It’s just, well, you .” Annie maneuvered the bag and chair through the doorway with what looked like well-practiced ease. “You need to transition from the stage to the street. That means clothes you wouldn’t normally choose. Different makeup. New hair.”
Annie positioned the chair in front of the vanity and put the bag on the counter.
Della eyed it with suspicion. “What do you mean ‘new hair’?”
Annie pulled a box out of the bag and held it up with a gameshow smile. It featured a woman with deep auburn hair. “Red. The perfect color for blending in.”
Della had been blonde her entire life. When she and her sisters posed for pictures, it was always brunettes on the outside, blondes in the middle. She and Mattie had been blessed with Mama’s honey curls, and Piper and Lizzie had gotten Daddy’s straight chestnut hair. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit.” Annie set gloves, a cape, and a makeup kit on the counter. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to dye your hair. There’s no way that honey-blonde is natural.”
“Yes, it is.” Della ran a hand over her hair. It was a tangled mess. “Mostly.”
Annie gave a disbelieving snort. “You’re talking to a model here. I know processed hair when I see it.”
Della’s cheeks flushed. “It’s highlighted. That’s all. Just a few streaks.”
More than a few, if she were honest. The last time she’d had her hair done, her head had been covered in enough foil to qualify her for Conspiracy of the Month club.
“Hmm.” Annie eyed her with professional skepticism. “Don’t get me wrong. I love that color on you. It’s perfect for Della Bellamy, pop star. But we need to leave that behind and make it a little easier for you to blend in with the crowd.”
“And you think red is going to do that?” Della watched Annie arrange things on the counter like a surgeon about to operate.
“Yes.” Annie put a comb and a pair of scissors next to the gloves. “Trust me. People will notice your pretty red hair so much they’ll forget to look at your face. By the time I’m done, they won’t even recognize you.”
“That sounds…horrifying, actually.”
Annie flashed her an understanding look. “I bet it does. But don’t worry. It’s all temporary.”
Della looked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked down a street without being noticed or followed or recorded. “If nobody recognizes me then who am I?”
“You’re a woman who owns every stage, no matter how small.” Annie patted the back of the chair. “Hair and makeup and clothes are just window dressing. It’s loads of fun to play with, but it doesn’t change who you are. Nothing and nobody can do that but you.”
Della dutifully sat.
Annie combed her fingers through Della’s hair with a thoughtful, considering look. “You have beautiful hair. I love the wave. Mine doesn’t do that without a lot of hair spray.” She pulled it up until it was just under Della’s chin. “You’ll look stunning in a retro bob. It’ll bring out your cheekbones, and the auburn will make your blue eyes really pop.”
“Wait. You want to cut my hair? As in…actually cut?” Della’s voice squeaked up. “You want to chop it off to my ears?”
“Yes,” Annie said definitively. “It’ll look adorable.”
Della popped out of the chair and backed away until her legs hit the toilet. “No. No, no, no.” Panic made her throat tight and her voice an octave higher than it should be. “I’ve never had it short. Ever. Especially not that short. I mean, I know it’s silly and shallow, but I love having long hair. I like flipping it around when I sing, and I adore the way it feels when someone runs their fingers through it.”
“They can still play with your hair with it short. It can actually be a lot more fun if their fingers don’t get tangled. Believe me,” Annie said in a gentle yet firm tone. “We need to do this because your stalker will be looking for California-blonde, long-haired Della, not short, red, curly Della. It’s the first step to getting you out of his reach.”
“He’s the bad guy, but I ’ m the one paying the price.” Fear and righteous indignation made her stubborn streak puff up like an insulted cat.
“It sucks. I know. Believe me. I’ve been there and done that and it’s not fair.” Annie leaned against the counter. “Here’s the thing. Fair or not, you still have to deal with the fact that someone is determined to screw with you. He’s not going away until we make him. So that’s what we’re going to do.”
Della thought about the flowers in her dressing room, the photos on her bed, and Scott. “How? How can you find him when he can get in here even with everything? How can you keep someone like that from doing it again? Or worse?”
Annie’s gaze was steady and confident. “First, we hide you. If you’re not in front of his face, he’ll get frustrated and make mistakes.”
“Hide.” She ran her hands through her hair. Tangles caught her fingers, driving home the fact that she hadn’t brushed it since the show. “I thought we were already doing that.”
“Hanging out in your sister’s house isn’t hiding. I think you know that.”
“So you’re taking me to a different prison. Somewhere remote? Like one of those movies where they hide out in a cabin in the woods, but I still can’t go outside in case someone notices me? Do you really think cutting my hair will stop people from figuring out who I am?”
“Fair point. I’ll admit hiding you in plain sight won’t be easy. You’re Della Bellamy. You’re recognized no matter where you go, and people document your every move. I’m looking forward to the challenge, actually. I’ll get to brush off all of my tricks from my model days.”
“Won’t people wonder if I just…vanish? Won’t they miss me?” She hated the way her voice sounded. “Jesus, listen to me. I sound ridiculous. It’s funny, right? Famous Della Bellamy is worried about being forgotten?” Tears prickled her eyes, and she glanced away.
“It’s not ridiculous or funny. At all.” Annie put a light hand on her shoulder. “And it’s up to you. All of this is your choice. We can’t make you go anywhere, and we can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. We wouldn’t even try. We need your buy-in for this to work. Otherwise, we’re all wasting our time and energy. But if you let me work my magic, and if you let Ward do his thing, we can stop working so hard to keep you safe and we can focus our efforts on finding this asshole.”
Della remembered the video of Scott’s attack and imagined Lizzie in his place. Della would do anything to make sure that didn’t happen. Anything.
She sniffed and pushed her self-pity party to the back of her mind. “You’re right. It’s the smart thing to do. Don’t mind me. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Actually, at the moment, I can’t think of a single person in my personal life besides my sisters who would even look for me. I’m on break. Nobody will even notice.”
That realization stung a lot more than she was ready to deal with. Especially today.
“I know this is all moving too fast,” Annie said as she led Della back to the chair.
“It’s fine.” She melted onto the chair. “It’s just hair, right? Not a big deal.”
Annie squeezed Della’s shoulders. “Now, I didn’t say that. It’s definitely a big deal, but I really do think you’ll look amazing. Honestly, I love changing up my appearance. I get to be whoever I want with just a wig and sunglasses. And Ward will be with you every step of the way. He’ll get you through this.”
“Really?” Della looked up at the ceiling until the unwanted tears went back into her skull where they belonged. “Because I’m not so sure my warden is interested in helping me through this. All we do is argue. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
Annie returned to the counter to unpack the box of dye. Della didn’t miss the way the woman avoided her gaze. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just frustrated.”
“He thinks I’m useless. He hates music. I’ve seen his face every time I sing anywhere around him. He acts like it’s complete torture. I don’t know why he agreed to take this assignment.”
Annie started mixing the dye in a dark brown bowl. “He’s drawn to protecting people when they can’t protect themselves. Stalker cases get his attention the most.”
“Why?” It was the first hint of a life outside of her case that Della had heard. “Why stalkers?”
Annie hesitated as if choosing her words carefully. “Ask him sometime. It’s his story to tell, not mine. The thing for you to know is that he doesn’t have to like you, and you don’t have to like him. Ignore his Oscar the Grouch act. What counts is that he’ll absolutely, one hundred percent have your back. We all will.”
Annie held up the bowl. “Ready for a new you?”
“Sure. Why not?” Della settled into a more comfortable position. “Red will be fun.”
A couple of hours later, Annie fluffed Della’s new hair with a pleased expression. “I think this is absolutely perfect. Sweet and sassy. I like it. It suits you.”
Della stared at the stranger in the mirror.
Shiny copper hair fell in a riot of curls around her chin. It highlighted her cheekbones. Her eyes seemed bigger, and her neck looked longer.
She pulled her fingers through a few curls. They bounced back into place without any prodding or pulling.
It was the kind of look she’d seen on cover models or girls in the movies. The sultry, sexy ones.
How was she going to pull that off?
Right now, she felt awkward and exposed and vulnerable, not sultry.
Okay, maybe a little sexy.
Maybe.
She rubbed the back of her neck. No hair got in the way now. “It’s…different.”
“Yes.” Annie started to put her instruments of torture back in the duffel bag. “Very.”
Della forced her attention away from her lack of hair to her face.
Her face was naked.
It was somehow worse than having her hair chopped off.
She usually wore heavy eyeliner to bring out the green bits in her eyes because she didn’t like the brown ones. She usually wore bright red lipstick because it played off her pale skin and blonde hair and made her feel powerful.
Plus, it helped her show up onstage. It took a lot of makeup to be seen under spotlights.
She liked being seen.
Now all she wore was a touch of pale pink lip gloss and a bit of mascara. That was it. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a steam room or a facial. Bare. Plain. No color of any kind.
She wore light denim jeans and an off-white tank top with tiny red and blue flowers on it. She was pretty sure Annie had found both in a thrift store. On sale.
She hated plain denim.
Her wardrobe contained a lot of dresses and designer jeans with studs. Almost everything she owned sparkled in some way.
Nothing so much as glimmered now, though her hair did have a certain glow.
Her new look could be summed up as plain. No frills. Boring. “I don’t even recognize myself.”
Annie grinned. “Good. If you don’t recognize yourself, hopefully nobody else will either. That’s the idea, anyway.”
Annie handed her a small crossbody purse in navy blue. There were no embellishments. It was the kind of bag she’d seen in bargain bins. Or trash cans. “I put the lip gloss and mascara in here, along with a new burner phone. There’s only one number programmed. Don’t call it unless it’s a real emergency, and don’t call anybody else. Burner doesn’t mean untraceable, no matter what they say in the movies. It just takes a few extra steps, and we have to assume your stalker is more than willing to do whatever he has to do to find you. So no calls. Of any kind. Okay?”
Della rolled her eyes. “You’ve only said it twenty or thirty times.”
Annie’s stare of disbelief was so similar to Lizzie’s that it almost made Della laugh. “Not your sister, your manager, your next-door neighbor…nobody. Especially not Scott.”
Della held up her hands in surrender. “I got it. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. No parties. No calls. No emails or texts or hookups. Promise.”
“Atta girl.” Annie picked up the bag again and opened the door. “Come on. Let’s show Ward your new style.”
It was almost worth all of the hair-chopping trauma to see the look on Ward’s face when she walked into the streaming room.
His eyebrows rose, and he blinked at her.
Twice.
She managed a timid smile. “What do you think?”
Ward stared at her. Just stared. The tiny muscles along the side of his jaw twitched.
She ran her fingers through her newly shorn hair. “Like it?”
Ward opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut.
Something inside her, worn down by the highs of the concert and the lows of the rest of the night, snapped. “You look great, Ms. Bellamy,” she filled in for him. “You really went the extra mile. Can’t believe you cut your hair off like that. Way to sell the new identity.”
Ward frowned. Was the man’s face broken? Had his vocal cords been damaged?
“You know,” Della said with a huff of frustration, “I think I’m going out of my way to play along with this whole thing. I’ve done everything you said you wanted. I…we…cut my hair and changed my clothes, and I’m ready to go with you even though you haven’t told me a damn thing about where we’re going. The least you could do is say, I don’t know, good work? Job well done? Thank you? Anything?”
Ward jerked his head as if she’d struck a nerve somewhere in his neck. “It’s done, anyway.” He directed a glare at Annie. “I asked for inconspicuous. Not…Lucille Ball goes country.”
Della glanced at her reflection in the decorative mirror on the wall. Lucille Ball. She’d watched all the late-night I Love Lucy reruns after getting in from a party or after a show. It was a great way to wind down. “I don’t think that’s the insult you think it is. Lucille Ball was a badass.”
“Look with your eyes, not your attitude,” Annie said. “She’s exactly like a lot of women her age. They love to make statements with hair and body art. She’ll blend right in, and luckily her tattoo is easily hidden.”
Ward tilted his head at Della. “Tattoo?”
Della lifted her hair so he could see the four bells entwined by a ribbon infinity symbol at her hairline along the back of her neck. “Bellamy Babes Forever. We all have one.”
“Great.” Ward closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“I kept her hair long enough to cover it.” Annie sounded more than a little irritated. “As long as she keeps it styled like this, nobody will ever see it. If it becomes an issue, I’ve also given her makeup to cover it. She’ll pass.”
“I need her to do more than just pass, Annie. I need her invisible. How’s she supposed to be wallpaper looking like that?” Ward waved his hand at Della.
“You want me to be wallpaper?” Della said a little louder than she’d intended. She might as well be with the way Ward ignored her whenever she was in the room. “Why not just dump me in a prison in Mexico? At least you’d be rid of me.”
Ward shot her a look. She wasn’t sure if he was exasperated or maybe a little sorry. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Take her somewhere and test it out if you don’t believe me.” Annie crossed her arms in challenge. “I guarantee nobody will recognize her. Who’s better at going unnoticed, you or me?”
Ward opened his mouth, but Annie cut him off. “Before you answer, let me remind you that she has to look like every other girl on the street because that’s where she’ll be. Where you’re going you can’t keep her behind locked doors. People will notice.”
They stared at each other like they were having an argument in silence.
“Fine.” Ward’s phone buzzed. He jerked it out of his back pocket and glared at it, then started tapping a response to someone. He hit the screen so hard that the phone almost popped out of his hand.
“Hey, I need a name for Della’s new ID,” Spencer said as he walked into the room. He paused just inside the door and looked from Annie to Ward to Della. “Uh, I can come back?”
“No,” Ward and Annie said at the same time.
“Okay…” Spencer drew the word out. “Nice, uh, hair.”
Della tugged at a short curl near her eye. “Thanks.”
Spencer turned to Ward. “I have everything ready to go. Just need a name. So who would you like to be?”
Della looked in the mirror again. “I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to be an Arya. Or maybe Rylee. Yeah, Rylee…Rylee…”
She searched for a last name, but nothing came to mind.
“Not Rylee. Lucy,” Ward said. The corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly. “She’s Lucy Carmichael.”