Chapter 100
Maple
I worked with Maple Clark on a photoshoot in Vegas. She was a star, but I remember thinking her mom was a lot; she took more photos than we did. Poor kid. God, I hope she’s okay #findMaple
I gasp. My neck snaps. Pain ricochets around my head. I close my eyes. I want to curl into a ball, wrap my arms around my knees, but I can’t even do that in these chains.
‘Of course Sophie Lyle is real!’ he shouts.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, trying to defuse his anger. I want to hold my cheek. But that means shifting toward him to allow the chain on my arm to reach, and I’m not doing that.
‘Sophie Lyle was very important to me,’ he says, his voice quieter now, but somehow even scarier. ‘She shaped my life.’
‘How?’ I whisper, thinking of the different ways a dead teenager might shape an old man’s life. None of them good.
‘You know, the world talks about social media being fake,’ he says.
‘That we put content on there that makes our lives look perfect, when the reality is completely different. But that’s bullshit.
It’s not just on social media that we do that.
We pretend that we’re happy, that life is wonderful, all the fucking time.
Even as that voice in our head screams at us that we’re worthless, we still smile, act like we’ve got this.
People are so fucking scared of being themselves, of owning up to their own shit. ’
Despite everything he’s done to me, his words kind of land. Because I moan about always having to create more content, to smile for the camera. But I’m not that different when we’re not filming. Still desperate to be liked. By my friends, by Theo and Dylan, my mom and dad.
Brandon must see the understanding on my face, because he smiles like we’re in this together, Coco and Maple reunited. I look away, disgusted with myself.
‘It’s not often that we show our real, true selves, is it?’ he goes on. ‘Mask removed, raw feelings on display. But Sophie showed me hers, and I’ll always be grateful for that.’
Then he pulls my chin around and gives me that weird, gross smile again, part little kid, part senile old man. ‘And now I want to see the real you, every part of you.’
His words crawl over me. ‘Did you do it?’ I whisper, my need to know suddenly urgent. ‘Did you make those pictures of me for the dark web?’
His face tightens. ‘Oh that. No, I made that up.’
‘Huh?’
‘Well, it was all Dylan this, Dylan that,’ he goes on, flicking his hand left and right. ‘How gorgeous he was, what a great team you made. It was gross, babe. Embarrassing. I needed to take the clippers to your ego.’
‘Wait, are you saying my images aren’t on the dark web?’ I ask, my heart thudding. ‘You only said that because you were jealous?’
‘It didn’t work though, did it? You and Dylan got tighter, if anything. That’s why I had to separate you permanently.’ He clicks his tongue, like he’s bored of the conversation. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Dylan.’
Suddenly, he’s grabbing my legs. He drags me down the bed until my arms are above my head, taut against the chains.
And now his hands are on my torso, pushing my T-shirt up, above my belly, above my chest, exposing my bra.
I kick out, but my feet don’t get close to reaching him. I writhe, but he pushes me down.
‘Stop being difficult,’ he says, in a voice that makes him sound more like a teacher than the sadist he is.
‘Otherwise, I’ll have to punish you. I’m just going take a few photos.
And don’t worry about not looking your best because that’s the point.
I want to capture the real you, Maybe Maple raw and exposed. ’
His words make me want to vomit, to lash out at him. But I’m trapped. He reaches for a boxy black camera on the side table, holds it chest height. I screw my eyes closed, try to block out the nightmare. But I can feel his hands on my body, hear the click of photos being taken.
Then he moves me again. And again. Until he’s taken hundreds of them. And in the blackness, it feels like there’s nothing left of me that’s mine.