Harlow One Month Before the Murder
Harlow
One Month Before the Murder
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, thumping them against the couch as I waited in the colorful seating area surrounded by patchwork cushions and blankets.
Inhaling the warm, woody incense burning nearby, I admired the familiar surrealist art on the wall.
Every time I sat here, I saw something different.
Today, the paint strokes showed me a woman, but with two faces, one smiling, one screaming. I looked away, feeling uneasy.
It had been two months since Colton showed up at my hotel room in Paris, furious. He’d come to confront me, claiming I had some sort of vendetta against him.
I recoiled as I remembered the fight that had ensued. Him stalking toward me, clamping a hand around my mouth when I’d said something he hadn’t liked.
“Remember, if I go down, so do you.”
I remembered struggling beneath his grip, lashing out before he eventually let me go, satisfied with himself.
I remembered his disgusting smirk. Me throwing a bottle of champagne against the wall, glass shattering around him.
Him throwing my bottle of pills at me, calling me crazy.
Him leaving, delivering his final threat.
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid, Har. I’ll know if you do.”
I jumped as the door to my left opened and Dr. Grayson called my name, pulling me out of the traumatic memory. Sunlight spilled in through the window behind her, framing her in a golden aura like a saint.
“How have you been?” she said as I entered her office. She motioned for me to take a seat on the cream sofa.
I sat with my palms under my legs, trying to wipe off the sweat. “I’ve been okay, thanks. You?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Dr. Grayson took a seat in her swivel chair across from me. Dressed in her classic style of a beige-toned neutral sweater and matching slacks, she wore her gray-blonde hair as she usually did, in a neat, low bun.
“Can you elaborate on ‘okay’ for me?” she asked. “What does that mean for you?”
“Um… well, you know, the usual ups and downs,” I replied. “But I’ve been good this week in terms of the pills—managed to not take any again.”
After my fight with Colton, I’d been so distraught that I ended up downing an entire bottle.
I’d thrown them up almost immediately after, panicking at what I’d done.
But it’d shocked me into realizing that I really did need help.
That I couldn’t continue on this path of self-destruction.
I knew if I truly wanted to sever any sort of connection with Colton, any sort of control he had over me, I had to first sort myself out.
And Dr. Grayson had been there for me every step of the way, helping me see that Colton was just as toxic as the pills.
Dr. Grayson eyed her notes and then looked up at me, smiling. “That marks two months, Harlow. That’s a huge achievement, you should be very proud of yourself.”
My face flushed at the look of pride on her face.
My mother had always been so tough on me growing up, always pointing out my flaws, barely celebrating my wins, that I rarely ever was proud of myself.
Pride was reserved for winning awards or performing perfectly.
Not for abstaining from drugs, something that isn’t even a challenge for most people.
But most people had no idea of the power an addiction could hold over you.
How your body begged you for the thing you were trying so hard to avoid, reliant on the poison more than air, more than water.
How your mind was a warzone, the logical voice drowned out by the cruel whispers wielding intrusive thoughts and painful memories as weapons to cast you down.
“And how’s everything else going?” Dr. Grayson asked. “I know you mentioned last time that there was something that had upset you with work?”
I pressed my lips together, stiffening at the reminder. “Yeah, there’s been some disagreement over some of the tracks that should feature on the next album,” I said, ignoring the thing that had upset me the most. “I’m meeting with Sam next week to talk about everything, hopefully iron things out.”
It was funny how life worked, how when you felt like you got control back in one area, it slipped in another.
Sam and Charlie, my label head, had become increasingly overbearing and controlling of my work recently, even more so than in the past. I understood to an extent—I’d lost focus—but soon everything would be back to normal.
“That’s good. Remember what I told you, about standing up for yourself? If there’s a song you really love, fight for it.”
I nodded. “There is a song I feel really connected to, actually. It’s about being caught between a rock and a hard place, not knowing if what’s best for you is actually the right thing to do. How every option feels wrong, so you just stay silent. Do nothing.”
Dr. Grayson studied me, nodding in understanding. “It’s so great that you have a creative outlet to explore those topics. Do you mind if I ask what inspired that song? Is it something you’d like to discuss, talk through with me too?”
“Um…” I looked down at my nails, surprised by how far my acrylics had grown out, wondering what to say as I thought about the inspiration for the song.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock was nearly as loud as my thumping heart.
“Well,” I mused, ignoring her question. “I guess it would be useful to get your opinion…”
“Of course.”
I cleared my throat. “If you knew someone was… bad, let’s say… but you knew no one would believe you because you didn’t necessarily have evidence, what would you do?”
“Is this about Colton?” she asked. Dr. Grayson had already made clear her dislike for Colton during previous sessions, highlighting his track record of manipulative, coercive behavior based on how I described our relationship over the years, things I had never flagged before.
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid, Har. I’ll know if you do.”
“I’d rather not say,” I replied, feeling unsettled by his threat. What if she’s working for them? I quickly shook the ridiculous thought off, couldn’t let myself spiral like that.
“Well,” Dr. Grayson sighed. “If I thought this person was a danger to other people, I would tell someone. Even if it’s not enough to have someone arrested right away, maybe exposing that person could result in ‘trial by media,’ which could then lead to a criminal investigation, once the professionals have a chance to look into it.
We’ve seen that before, like with the MeToo movement and Weinstein.
So yes, depending on what it is, of course, I’d speak up.
Tell them my story, if I experienced or saw anything first-hand. ”
My mind raced through all the potential consequences of talking.
Colton’s wrath, or, worse, his family’s.
And where that would lead. Ruined career and reputation.
They’ll come for you, I thought, unsure if I was more scared of the Scotts or the public’s reaction for bringing down the nation’s golden boy. Not to mention potential jail time…
“But what if by talking… you incriminate yourself?”
Dr. Grayson frowned, studying me. I swallowed hard, not wanting to imagine what she’d think of me if she knew the truth.
“Well, I’m a big believer in the phrase ‘The truth will set you free.’” She shrugged. “So take from that what you will.”
*
I tossed and turned in bed that night, thinking about what Dr. Grayson had said.
“The truth will set you free.”
Was she right? Was coming clean the only way to truly regain control—over myself and my career? My life? But I couldn’t bear the thought of that. Of the consequences. Not until I explored every other avenue first—see if there was any way to take Colton down without implicating myself.
“If I go down, so do you.”
Unable to sleep, I got up and poured myself a scotch. The bottle, which I’d only bought two days ago, was nearly half gone. I told Dr. Grayson I’d given up pills, which was the truth. I just left out that I’d replaced them with more alcohol.
I stumbled from the kitchen to the window, wincing in pain as my hip bone collided with the edge of the table, sure to leave a bruise.
Looking out across the city skyline from my beautiful glass cage, I thought back to that night in Paris.
To the blind item Colton had showed me, the catalyst for him flying halfway across the world to confront me.
In the anonymous social media post, the user had accused an A-list actor of rape and, as expected, people had jumped into the comments trying to guess the culprit.
The majority of people seemed to be accusing another actor, but a couple also mentioned that Colton fit the description too due to his “Old Money” status.
For some reason, he’d been convinced that I was the reason for this, accusing me of “spreading lies.” At the time, I hadn’t understood why he’d been so angry about online gossip; there was so much shit out there about every celebrity, true or not.
I chalked it up to it being the first time he had read something negative about himself, but even now, months later, my intuition told me that the reason for his intense reaction had been because he was scared someone was onto him.
The thought sent chills up my arms, making me wonder if perhaps there were other things like that out there, more anonymous tips from over the years that could be linked to him.
It was as good a starting point as any—my only lead—so I created a fake email address and anonymously emailed the contact listed on the blind item poster’s Instagram profile, offering money in exchange for tips.
I didn’t explain who I was looking into, though, worried they’d take the info and bring it to the Scotts for an even bigger payout, so I simply asked for any other tips the user had received that were similar to that one—accusations made about famous, beloved actors.
There had to be more out there, it was just a matter of finding things that his family hadn’t already wiped from the face of the earth.
I downed the rest of the scotch, caressing my throat as the liquid burned on its way down.
It was like fuel to a fire, igniting my determination to destroy Colton Scott.