Harlow
Three Months Before the Murder
Yawning, I scrolled through Instagram as I waited for the interview to begin. I should’ve been excited to be in Paris, but it was five in the morning and I was jetlagged as hell. Not that I could remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep.
From my feed I could see Sam was celebrating his wife’s birthday in LA, Kamryn Hart was recording a new music video, and Colton…
well, I didn’t follow him anymore. The thought made me feel weak and powerful at the same time.
Weak that I still thought of him, but powerful that I’d managed to stay away for so long.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in months and felt like I was finally moving on.
Not that I forgot about what happened. No, that’s what truly kept me up at night, even after all this time.
I had good and bad days, but I really felt like I finally had a handle on things.
In the past two weeks, I hadn’t missed one work function, recording session, or event.
Charlie was still annoyed at me, I knew that, but Sam seemed pleased.
He could tell I was trying. And I was. I was going to fix it. I was good now.
But just when I felt I had it under control, a news story brought me back down. These algorithms were annoyingly good, keeping track on things they knew I was the most interested in, even though I didn’t want to be.
I fumbled in my bag and popped two pills into my mouth.
One Xanax to help me relax and one Adderall for focus and energy, drowned with champagne to help me forget.
I’d mastered my prescription cocktail years ago and knew what worked well together and what didn’t.
For example, a beta-blocker like propranolol or sedative like Xanax worked great to calm my nerves, but would make me drowsy.
When combined with an amphetamine like Adderall, however, the drowsiness was counteracted and I could sing and dance for hours on end.
This was my usual cocktail for days like today, finding it worked much better than cocaine or ecstasy—which I saved only for parties or festivals I was attending for fun.
I wasn’t an addict, but I probably should have tried to rein it in. Now wasn’t the time, though.
“Ready?” the host asked, crossing one long leg over the other. She had short, curly, blonde hair and wore a bright-blue pantsuit that clashed against the green screen behind us.
I nodded, ready to get it over with, and held out my bag for Rebecca to take.
Once Rebecca was out of shot, the woman nodded at the cameraman, who counted down from three to one with his fingers.
*
After filming for the interview wrapped, I went straight back to my hotel, popped a few more pills, and slept for hours.
It seemed the only time I could sleep was in the daytime; something about the nights unsettled me too much to switch off.
My heart pounded as I woke from my nap, anxious that I fucked the interview up, worried Sam and Charlie would be able to tell I was on something.
It didn’t help that everything I’d taken in the morning had worn off by now.
You have to get your shit together, I chided myself as I reached for more pills. You’re so close.
I walked out of my suite’s bedroom and opened the balcony doors, inhaling the Parisian air.
It had a sweetness to it I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Bread? Flowers? Perfume? The scent mingled with the bitter stench of fuel being released into the air from the taxis and mopeds buzzing through the street below.
From my balcony, I could see the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, reminding me of the first time I’d seen them.
With Colton. I was only twenty at the time; a naive child in the blissful newlywed phase of our tumultuous relationship.
Completely oblivious to the darkness ahead of us.
A car horn blared, ruining the solace I’d been searching for.
The high-pitched sound brought me back to the present, fixating my mind on the commotion of the city, amplifying everything from sirens wailing to engines revving to people shouting and laughing.
I returned inside, instantly relaxing when I shut the doors and muffled the noise.
I’d just started drawing a bath in the elegant clawfoot tub when there was a knock at the door.
I groaned, expecting it to be Rebecca with a soul-sucking request like filming an Instagram endorsement for some brand desperate to appeal to a younger audience.
I tried to think of my excuses to get out of it, surprised when the knocking continued, louder and more urgent this time.
Boom. Boom. Boom. My heartbeat echoed the banging on the door as I apprehensively walked toward it.
Maybe it’s not Rebecca, I thought, disconcerted. Maybe it’s the police…
Fear flooded my body as I stared through the peephole and saw it wasn’t either of them.
It was worse.
Even through the thick wooden door, I could feel the magnetic pull between us, feel the hum of electricity in the air. That connection used to be filled with love and longing, but now it sparked with something rotten.
“Har, let me in,” Colton said. “We need to talk.”
Present Day
I’d been so close to getting away with it. So very close. But then he tried to ruin it all, tried to back me into a corner. And I couldn’t have that. He gave me no choice.
Thankfully, he mistook my cunning for compliance, not realizing I was sharpening my claws behind my back, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.