Chapter 21. Isabel, the Assistant
Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
I burst out of the Beverly Hilton after Scout, charging back into the chaos of cameras and reporters. “Slow down, psycho, these Louboutins are making me want to cut off my own feet.”
“You shouldn’t have worn them,” Scout said with her back turned. “Everyone knows Loubs are lethal.”
“Oh, everyone?” I threw up my hands. “Thanks for sharing, then.”
Scout spun to me with a flushed face. “Can you believe them? Staging a mutiny at my tour party?”
A group of photographers caught sight of Scout and trained their cameras on her. Despite her fury, she snaked an arm around my waist and smiled through gritted teeth.
“It wasn’t a mutiny,” I said quietly. “Juliet’s just young and idealistic. And you know how tenderhearted Miranda’s been since her divorce—she wants to help everyone. Cara’s been a Marxist since art school, for god’s sake. She tries to start a revolution every other week.”
Scout glanced at me, and I wondered if the cameras were capturing this vulnerability, or if I alone could see the tells. “All of this attention,” she whispered. “We’ve wanted it for so long. And now it’s here, but for the most awful reason, and it hurts, Izzy. The girls—”
“They’re proud,” I interrupted. “Of you, and themselves, and the things we’ve done. I promise, it’s not opportunism—they don’t want to be ashamed. They want to stand up and fight, you know? They don’t know you and I are fighting quietly.”
“Should we tell them?” Scout bit her lip. “Brooks rejected us. It might be time to ask for help from other people.”
“Isabel, I want Scout alone for the cameras,” Haley called, waving me out of the way.
I left Scout to pose in her angelic Chanel.
She was good at this. Born for the spotlight.
Sixteen-year-old Scout had been right all those years ago, lying on her bed, eating Twizzlers and pointing at pictures in Us Weekly, telling me she could do that, easy.
It was hard to regret that the attention she deserved was finally coming her way, even if the cost was so high.
Since Georgia’s death, I’d retreated into the shadows, but Scout had thrown herself into life, taking on the challenge of clawing her way to stardom like it was a personal dare from a cruel universe bent on taking things away. It was amazing how the same wound had remade us so differently.
“Take a step back, Isabel. You’re in the shot.
” Haley yanked me back until I was safely invisible.
Sometimes I caught the other girls giving me pitying looks, probably wondering how I could stand being a second-class citizen.
In a world that worshipped attention, they couldn’t fathom the safety of staying invisible.
“I can’t believe you were able to get the label to throw this party last minute,” I told Haley. “In the middle of the scandal.”
Haley surveyed Scout. “I had her crisis comms team conduct opinion research. It turns out traditional media is skeptical of her. Even afraid. News anchors, pundits. But traditional media is dying anyway. The people whose opinion matters—Kaitlin College and Joe Reddit—love her. She might make the C-suite at her label nervous, but it’s the masses who buy concert tickets.
The execs had to choose between money and morals, and they chose right. ”
My gaze drifted to the fans behind the barricade, remembering the encouragement they’d shouted at Scout and wondering if they knew the power of it, when all of a sudden, a familiar face appeared in the crowd.
Brooks Yardley, of all people, pushed his way through the fans. He wore a hoodie pulled low over his face, but I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere. My stomach flipped. Was he here to arrest Scout in the middle of her party, in front of all these cameras?
I locked eyes with him. He really did hate me, to do this in the most humiliating way possible.
Brooks glanced left and right, then mouthed, Come here.
I flew to the barricade and hissed, “What are you doing here?” Most of the crowd ignored me, but some of Scout’s superfans knew me as part of her entourage, so I fixed a smile on my face in case they were watching.
Brooks took out his phone and leaned into me like he was posing for a selfie. “Something happened,” he whispered. “Get Scout. We need to talk.”
Scout stomped through the service exit of the Beverly Hilton and into the narrow alley lined with dumpsters. “Brooks Yardley, if you arrest me at my own party after not saying shit to me for ten years, I swear to god, I will build a time machine, go back, and kill you in your sleep.”
“Scout,” I whispered, struggling to keep up in my goddamn Louboutins. “I said keep quiet.”
Brooks waited for us between two dumpsters.
As we approached, he stepped out of the shadows and pulled his hood down.
It struck me all over again what a beautiful man he’d grown into, even if he was significantly more intimidating.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said tersely. “I’m risking my job to be here.
” He glared at Scout. “Where were you from four to eight last night?”
“Excuse me?” She halted her march. “I was at home, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I was alone—I asked to be. Why?”
Brooks clenched his jaw. “Come on, Scout, help me out. Are there at least any security cameras around your house that could confirm you stayed in?”
She turned to me with a pleading look. “We handed over the footage to the cops last week. I told Faust to keep the cameras off after that. I felt weird about it.”
“Shit,” Brooks swore.
That was enough. I strode past Scout and shoved him in the chest, making him stagger back. “What the hell, Brooks? Why are you interrogating her?”
“Because Rosie Wright was found dead in her apartment this morning.” He scrubbed his face, his eyes darker, stormy. “And the cops think it was Scout.”