Chapter 3
Naomi lands in New York red-eyed and drowsy from the overnight flight.
She hoped to get some rest on the plane, but couldn’t sleep.
So instead, she paid the extra eight bucks for Wi-Fi and dove back into her Harlow research, wanting to learn everything she could about the singer before she spends the next few days covering her arrest.
She didn’t realize how much there was to catch up on, though—Harlow Hayes isn’t the basic pop star Naomi once thought she was.
Now, she’s an iconic enigma, and by the time the plane descended over the foggy dawn of the New York City skyline, Naomi was well and truly down the Harlow Hayes rabbit hole.
After doing the standard Google search and reading a few recent articles, Naomi spent most of her time scrolling through endless #HarlowHayes-related social media posts, reading and watching content ranging from fan edits and tributes sending Harlow “strength,” to commentary from D-list influencers chronicling how they could tell she was a psycho from her “dead eyes.”
It fascinated Naomi to see how obsessed both fans and critics are.
While the harshest critics are celebrating the downfall of Harlow, this person they have never met, super fans—also known as stans—are speaking about her as if they know her personally, referring to her by cute nicknames and defending her with extreme passion, swarming under any post denouncing Harlow with everything from well-intentioned rebuttals to malicious death threats.
These intense reactions don’t stun Naomi, though.
As a journalist, she knows how powerful online fanbases are and how a bad album review can trigger the wrath of millions.
She also knows the disturbing reactions aren’t representative of the fandom as a whole, but rather the loud one percent.
She wonders if someone from that small percentage took it offline.
Took their “devotion” to another level. It doesn’t make sense for a stan to frame their idol, but maybe one of them felt slighted by Harlow.
Or, conversely, decided to kill in her honor…
In the cigarette-scented cab, Naomi scrolls through a Reddit thread for true crime enthusiasts, surprised by how many are already convinced Harlow is guilty.
Citing the copious mentions of blood and death in her more recent lyrics, they make Naomi wonder if she misunderstood the pop star all along.
She recites the pre-chorus of Hayes’ haunting track “Garden of Bones” in her head as she stares out the dirty window.
A garden of bones, watered with tears. Blood-soaked soil, saturated with fear. No one knows I laid her here. Alongside a part of me buried for years…
In comparison to her earlier albums, there’s no denying Harlow’s more recent music is much darker.
But as a writer, Naomi knows to read between the lines, and instead of taking the lyrics as a confession, she interprets them as a poetic, spiritual metaphor about Hayes burying a part of herself.
Plenty of famous musicians make analogies to death and it doesn’t mean a thing.
They don’t stand accused of murder, though.
A car horn blares and Harlow’s eerie song drifts out of Naomi’s mind, replaced by the sounds of squeaky brakes, distant sirens, angry drivers, and more honking. And thoughts of Faye.
Naomi was hoping she could hold off on feeling sorry for herself, but everything about the city reminds her of her sister, from the dirty sidewalks they’d stroll down, coffee and bagel in hand, to the bars they’d frequent—or, thanks to Faye, sometimes get kicked out of.
It was like trying to ignore someone punching her in the gut over and over again. Impossible.
“Here we are,” the driver says, snapping Naomi out of her sad thoughts.
He gets out and pops the trunk of the car to retrieve Naomi’s bag.
After thanking him and quickly tipping him through the app, she takes a moment to breathe in the familiar yet strange scent of New York City wafting through the air—a combination of car fumes, street meat, marijuana, and burnt coffee, topped with a tinge of urine.
It’s a unique odor that instantly evokes a mixed bag of pleasant and painful memories.
Naomi’s eyes drift up the brick exterior of the tall, thin brownstone, unbelieving it could sell for as much as 20 million dollars. As per Angie’s email, she’ll be staying in Joel’s rental apartment on the fourth floor and is to be mindful of his other tenants in the three apartments below.
Naomi marvels at the intricate carved-glass window in the front door as she walks up the brick steps and presses the key into the lock.
The heavy door creaks loudly as she pushes it open and stumbles inside.
Converted from an old home into multiple apartments, the brownstone has no elevator, meaning she’ll have to lug her bags up to the fourth floor herself.
Feeling more exhausted by the minute, she slowly drags her suitcase up the stairs, cringing each time the wheels clank against the wooden slats.
She’s sweating by the time she makes it to the door.
Once inside, she breathes a sigh of relief, dropping her bags and kicking off her shoes.
As expected, the apartment is gorgeous. The living room is light and bright with beige and black furniture that complements the marble fireplace and colorful abstract art pieces throughout.
The same theme is carried through to the guest room, where she’ll be staying.
As she continues to make her way through the apartment, it’s clear Joel—or his property manager—pays special attention to every detail.
Scents of fresh cotton emanate from every plug-in and in every corner, and perfectly kept plants add pops of green all around.
She imagines them drooping and dying during her stay, like every other plant she’s tried to look after.
She’ll have to set reminders for herself to water them.
While anyone from California would think the apartment too small, especially for the price, Naomi appreciates its cozy charm.
It makes her feel more at home than she’s felt in years, in a both comforting and heartbreaking way.
It reminds her of her old apartment in Brooklyn, the one she shared with her sister before moving out to live with her now-ex fiancé.
Naomi sits on the couch and closes her eyes, noting the momentary silence.
Whenever Faye was home, she made her presence known, constantly “banging around,” no matter what she was doing.
She couldn’t even walk quietly. Naomi wishes she could curl up in the plush fur throw blanket, but she doesn’t have time.
She only has a half hour until she has to leave to meet her friend—and source—Amelia Davies.
Naomi met Amelia during freshman year of college, when they were both studying journalism.
Like a lot of their other friends from the course, Amelia pivoted into public relations after graduation, instead of staying in the dying field like Naomi had—not that she regretted it; she’d rather write tabloid fodder any day than be on call 24/7 for demanding clients.
Amelia now works as an account director for one of the city’s top PR firms, representing some of the world’s most famous brands and individuals.
Over the years, Amelia has secretly shared insider information—usually about clients she and her co-workers dislike—with Naomi, who writes up articles for C*Leb and thanks Amelia with dinner or cute little gifts in the mail.
Sam Brixton Talent Management, the agency that represents Harlow Hayes, is just one of the companies Amelia’s firm works with, so Naomi is hoping her friend will have something to spill.
Naomi quickly showers in the marble and subway-tiled bathroom and then reapplies a basic layer of makeup—a flick of black mascara and an extra-thick layer of concealer under her eyes.
She stares back at herself, wondering how she got so thin.
When she lived in New York, she used to be curvier, with more rounded cheeks.
But the rabbit food of LA, coupled with her general loss of appetite, have caused her to lose the extra layer of body fat.
Something she actually misses. She doesn’t like seeing her ribs and her cheekbones jutting out.
It doesn’t suit her. But she doesn’t have time to worry about that now.
She checks the weather app, wondering what to wear.
While the air earlier this morning was surprisingly chilly, the app predicts the temperature will rise to a high of eighty degrees by this afternoon.
Naomi rolls her eyes, but she knows how to dress for this.
With layers. She pulls on a pair of black jeans and pairs it with white Vans, a long gray T-shirt, and her leather jacket.
At least here, her black-and-gray color palette will blend in rather than stand out.
She considers straightening her long, wavy hair, but opts for a side braid—a quicker option that will hold up better in the humidity.
Naomi grabs her phone, keys, wallet, emergency mini umbrella, and notebook and pen, and places them in her over-the-shoulder bag before heading out. Although it’s noticeably warmer than it was earlier, a chill runs through her.
She cranes her neck upward, taking stock of the imposing gray city towering above, like a looming darkness trying to trap her in.
Unlike LA, which tries to hide its darkness beneath bright colors and starry skies, New York is unapologetically intimidating.
She remembers the overwhelming claustrophobia she felt those last few months before she moved.
As if the city was trying to consume her, swallow her whole.
The feeling isn’t overpowering like it was the last time she walked the streets of Manhattan, but it’s still there, quietly lingering in the slight buckle of her legs, in the quickening of her pulse.
She clears her throat and forces herself to take a deep breath.
Focus. You’re here to do a job, she reminds herself, before striding toward the café on the corner.
*
As she’s exiting the coffee shop, two drinks in hand, Naomi’s breath catches in her throat. Heart racing, she squints at the man in the navy-blue suit across the street, sure it’s Matt, her ex-fiancé. But when the man looks up from his phone, she exhales. Not him.
She wonders what Matt is doing now. The last she heard, he got his happily-ever-after. The one she wouldn’t give him. Married with baby number two on the way. Naomi imagines how different her life could have been if she had chosen to stay and get married like they’d planned.
A wave of guilt washes over her as she remembers the argument she had with Faye, when Naomi told her she was going to move in with Matt.
Can’t believe you’re going to ditch me for a guy.
Faye, he’s my fiancé…
Yeah, and I’m your sister.
Naomi will never forget the betrayal in Faye’s face before she stormed out of their apartment.
She wouldn’t meet Naomi’s eyes for days after that, only responding when necessary, with one-word answers.
If anyone could hold a grudge, it was Faye.
Naomi knew she was trying to guilt-trip her, make her change her mind.
But they couldn’t live together forever.
She thought it would be good for Faye to be on her own for a while. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
After she died, Naomi felt an immense sense of guilt.
She also felt lost and confused, suddenly unsure of what she actually wanted in life.
She asked Joel if she could transfer to Los Angeles so she could get away from it all.
Start fresh in a new city. Matt had just started his fancy finance job, and was angry Naomi would even ask him to uproot his life like that.
He wanted to get married and start trying for a baby that year.
“Let’s stick to the plan. It’ll cheer you up,” he said.
And that was when she realized he truly didn’t understand her. Because nothing had terrified Naomi more than the thought of bringing children into this horrible world. Everyone she had ever loved had either left her or died. So why set herself up for the inevitable pain?
Baby, there’s no such thing as happy endings in a world so violent and cruel.
The line from Harlow Hayes’ “Violent Ends” taunts her as she crosses the busy city street.