Chapter 37
Pieces of the puzzle shift, rearranging themselves to form a new picture. The whole picture. And finally, Naomi sees it.
She falls to her knees, unable to keep them from buckling at the shock. The ground is cold and damp, the wetness seeping through her jeans. It isn’t the first time she’s ignored the signs. The clues that have been in front of her all along.
Like the time Faye cried to her over the phone, upset at yet another rejection, telling her that even though she was talented, she wasn’t unique enough to sign as an artist. She was too much like Harlow Hayes.
Naomi remembers telling her sister to not give up.
To try something different. Sing different songs.
She remembers her sister agreeing. And then things seemed to completely turn around for her.
Faye seemed brighter, had a new lease of life.
She was finally making money—claimed she sold a song.
But then she became uncharacteristically secretive and private, stopped posting on social.
And now Naomi knows why. She purses her lips, annoyed at herself for not seeing through her sister’s lies sooner.
Naomi doesn’t know what to do, so she just takes a photo of the plaque, clutches her phone—flashlight on—and dashes toward the car. She puts it in drive, heading back to the city as her thoughts spiral, recalling all the things in front of her face all this time, like lyrics she overlooked before.
“The yellow door,” Naomi whispers, thinking of the song from Legacy: “If You Ever Get Lonely (Yellow Door).”
The line instantly brings back a memory. Of the marigold fairy door in the woods behind their house. Their spot. Their safe haven.
Naomi hadn’t connected the lyrics until now because she hadn’t been focused on Harlow’s love songs.
She’d been focused on her songs about death and violence.
Not ones like this. So she continues to drive, letting all the clues align with her memories.
Letting her thoughts go round and round on a carousel of disbelief and desperation.
She remembers the unsettling feeling she got when she saw Harlow at the courthouse that first time.
The shivers that crept over her when she listened to her recent albums. And the uneasiness she got when she studied recent photos of “Harlow.” Then there’s the trail of clues inspired by the Beatles.
The band their mother loved. Music that was so inextricably bound to their childhood…
No, you’re crazy, she thinks. You’re crazy. You’re crazy. You’re crazy. You were wrong about Harlow murdering Faye, you’re wrong about this too. You have to be. It’s impossible.
But she wasn’t completely wrong about Faye being involved, was she? Naomi just never imagined it was on this scale. That her sister would be harboring a secret as explosive as this. Keeping this from her. Her chest tightens as her throat stings with anguish.
How could she not have noticed all these years?
Regardless of all the plastic surgery, makeup, and weight loss, surely she would’ve seen it in her face?
Heard it in her voice? She supposes it’s because Harlow had always reminded her of Faye, even when she was alive.
She just assumed Harlow made her uneasy because she missed Faye—because you don’t just assume your dead sister is impersonating one of the world’s most famous pop stars.
Naomi scoffs, slamming her hand down on the wheel, crying out.
Everything is a lie. A fucking lie.
She swerves the wheel, realizing she drifted into the other lane. Anyone watching probably thinks she’s drunk driving. She might as well be; she feels drunk. Head spinning, stomach churning.
She pulls over, the nausea and overwhelming anxiety too much to bear, and flings the door open just in time, spewing her dinner over the black asphalt.
The action helps clear her mind. And as she sits back in her seat, forcing herself to breathe, she starts to accept the possibility that Faye never overdosed in a drug den that went up in flames. That she isn’t buried in that grave; she’s alive.
And that it’s possible that she is the imposter. She is Harlow Hayes.