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  INVESTIGATOR: Two?

  THORN: Her therapist and Taylor.

  INVESTIGATOR: Wait a minute. Are you saying now that there is an actual person named Taylor? The person running the @EricThornSucks Twitter account was not, in fact, you?

  THORN: No, no, no. It was me. Seriously, it’s not that complicated. You can’t follow this?

  INVESTIGATOR: You’ll have to excuse me. It can get a little murky when people start referring to their own multiple aliases in the third person.

  THORN: You really don’t like me very much, do you?

  INVESTIGATOR: Let me ask you this, Eric. Now, this might sound like a silly question, but I have to ask. Why all the subterfuge? Why didn’t you simply tell Tessa that the person she’d been talking to was you?

  THORN: I was going to. That’s why I staged this whole thing. I wanted to tell her in person.

  INVESTIGATOR: Why?

  THORN: It’s complicated. You don’t understand what it’s like to be famous.

  INVESTIGATOR: Go ahead. Help me understand.

  THORN: It’s terrifying, OK? It’s scary as shit. It means looking over your shoulder everywhere you go, every step you take, forever. For the rest of my life, probably. It means every single person I meet, online or off-line, I have to look at them and wonder if they’re some kind of stalker who’s going to murder me in my sleep.

  INVESTIGATOR: Murder you?

  THORN: See, that sounds kind of paranoid, right? And I know that, rationally. I know my fans aren’t out to get me. I know people with mental illnesses are no more prone to violence than anyone else… But I also know the danger isn’t completely in my head. There’s an actual psychological syndrome. It has a name and everything: erotomanic celebrity worship syndrome. Celebrity stalkers who genuinely believe their victims are in love with them. They used it at Dorian’s murder trial. Some expert witness diagnosed her.

  INVESTIGATOR: You lost me again. Who are we talking about right now? A fan who accosted you?

  THORN: No, no. I’m talking about the fangirl who killed Dorian Cromwell. Did you follow the trial coverage at all? She was totally delusional. He followed her on Twitter, and she somehow talked herself into believing that Dorian was her boyfriend. Like they were in a secret relationship that no one else knew about. She truly believed it. She thought he loved her. And when it became clear that it wasn’t true, she couldn’t handle it, and she hunted him down and killed him.

  INVESTIGATOR: I’m sorry, Eric. How exactly does this relate to the crime we’re investigating here?

  THORN: You wanted to know why I didn’t just tell Tessa who I was from the beginning. But I couldn’t. I have to be incredibly careful about giving my fans any kind of personal attention.

  INVESTIGATOR: You considered her a threat to your personal safety?

  THORN: Not Tessa specifically. All my fans in general.

  INVESTIGATOR: But now you no longer consider Tessa a threat?

  THORN: No, not at all. Now I actually am in a secret relationship with her. That’s why I came here to meet her.

  INVESTIGATOR: And you never revealed your identity to her over Twitter because…

  THORN: Because I’ve been lying to her for months, and I thought it would be better to come clean in person.

  INVESTIGATOR: Hence the contest.

  THORN: Exactly. And it would have worked just fine…if not for Blair.

  20

  DETOUR

  December 31, 2016

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  Blair made no response. An infinitesimal rise and fall of one shoulder served as the only indication that another voice had spoken. The tall, lanky figure, dressed in jeans and a dark-gray sweatshirt, merely slumped down further in the seat of the Greyhound bus.

  The middle-aged woman standing in the aisle cleared her throat again. “Is the window seat taken?”

  Blair glanced up, eyes darting around the bus’s dim interior. The seats were filling in. They must have picked up twenty new passengers at the bus depot in Dallas. So much for privacy. No choice but to move the bulky canvas duffel bag that currently occupied the next seat.

  “It’s all yours,” Blair grumbled, as the woman shuffled past and sank down heavily.

  “Thank you kindly,” she replied. “I do appreciate it. I’m Delilah, by the way. How far are you headed?”

  A chatterbox, Blair thought. Perfect. Just perfect. Every other seat had been occupied by the usual crew of bus riders—silent types, safeguarding their anonymity behind drawn-down baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts—but this lady had to be a chatterbox.

  Blair ignored the woman’s question and inserted a pair of beaten-up earphones instead. Just a prop, of course. They didn’t work. Cheap drugstore earbuds, doomed from the start. The left ear blew out somewhere around Baton Rouge, and the right ear died an untimely death a few hours later, just outside Houston. But that didn’t matter. The earphones served their purpose well enough—universal sign language for “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Suit yourself,” the woman muttered.

  Blair ignored her, flicking on a phone instead. Twitter had signed itself back out again. It kept doing that, ever since the latest software update—a new glitch in the system that wouldn’t allow two different phones to remain signed in to the same account.

  Some misguided attempt at cybersecurity, no doubt. A minor nuisance. Nothing more. Blair found it easy enough to sign back in to Twitter every time.

  Username: @EricThornSucks

  Password: password

  Who used “password,” anyway? No one. That’s who. No one who actually wanted privacy. This couldn’t even be considered hacking, really. That password wasn’t a password at all. It was a red carpet, rolled out. An invitation.

  Blair directed a fleeting glance at the woman in the window seat. She’d leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Good, Blair thought, bending forward over the phone. No time for idle chitchat. Not tonight. Not when there were Twitter feeds to check. Private messages to read.

  And reread.

  And reread.

  And reread…

  Time Stamp 12/29/16, 9:03 a.m.

  Tessa H: I can’t believe this is happening.

  Taylor: I know. I’m so psyched. I’m all packed and ready to go. Just tell me where and when.

  Tessa H: I don’t know… I’m not even sure I’m going.

  Taylor: Tessa, you have to! It’s Eric Thorn. You’ve never seen him live before. When are you going to get a better chance than this?

  Tessa H: Just give me a sec. I need to do my deep breathing.

  Taylor: What does your therapist say?

  Tessa H: She thinks I should go. Make it like a New Year’s resolution.

  Taylor: Exactly! Tessa, you can do this.

  Tessa H: I just have this horrible feeling. Promise me nothing bad is going to happen.

  Taylor: Nothing bad. Only good. Very, very good.

  Tessa H: You promise?

  Taylor: I promise. Now promise me you’ll come.

  Tessa H: OK, OK. It’s a club in Midland, Texas. The Trail Dust Honky-Tonk Saloon. Meet me there on New Year’s Eve at exactly 6:00 p.m.

  Those messages had passed back and forth two days ago, and already Blair had read the exchange a hundred times. It always felt the same. The same ripple of elation bubbling up—the high that came back stronger every time, with every glimpse inside.

  The giddiness would only last for a moment. It would be replaced again soon by the feeling that came next. Irritation, to begin with, imagining the words on the screen spoken aloud. Something about that fantasy never failed to set Blair’s teeth on edge.

  Blair used to think it was the sound of the voice itself. Too high. Jarring. Juvenile. There was something slightly off in the pitch or cadence, some indefinable flaw that had never quite done justice to the perfect bone structure of the face. Such a shame, really. Some people were better as a silent image, caught on film—seen and not hear
d. A physical specimen, perfectly preserved, without all those inconvenient words to mar the visual.

  It wasn’t just the sound of the voice though. Blair understood that now. These DM conversations made it clear. It was something in the words themselves and the thoughts they represented. Ever since Blair began following their correspondence, the feelings went far beyond mere irritation. Something deeper, darker. An undying anger. A fury at them both.

  But mostly at the interloper.

  The obstacle.

  The one who needed to be removed. Erased. Blotted out, like a bad dream.

  The one who didn’t deserve to be in the picture in the first place.

  Soon, Blair thought, with eyes slowly drifting closed. It would happen. Soon enough.

  21

  PRIVATE PARTY

  Eric stood outside the Trail Dust Honky-Tonk Saloon beneath the emblazoned marquee:

  Happy New Year’s!

  Closed for Private Party

  Of course, the sign didn’t say just how private the party would be. Eric couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the absurdity. Even before he got his record deal, he’d never played a live show for an audience quite this small. He’d be flying solo tonight without his usual crew. No backup singers. No hip-hop dancers. No elaborate concert pyrotechnics. Just a single pair of eyes staring back at him as he took the stage alone, with her therapist lurking somewhere in the shadows.

  Eric rubbed his dampened palms against his jeans. It must be almost six by now. She should be pulling up any moment.

  Maury had really outdone himself with the choice of venue tonight. Admittedly, it couldn’t have been easy to find an empty club on New Year’s Eve, but still… Was this really the best that Midland, Texas, had to offer? A dilapidated roadside club on an abandoned stretch of highway, miles from anything that could even pass for a downtown? Eric had seen a grand total of one big-rig truck pass by in the entire time he’d been standing out there. Otherwise, no sign of another living soul as far as the eye could see. Was that an actual tumbleweed rolling around in the parking lot?

  He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he’d worn something warmer than a thin leather motorcycle jacket. He’d expected mild weather. The temperatures had hovered in the midsixties since he rolled into Texas this morning, but he could feel a change in the air tonight. Must have been some late-December cold front blowing in. He could see the dark storm clouds gathering overhead.

  Maybe it was a good thing that Maury had chosen this dump. Eric should consider it a stroke of luck. He usually had to contend with gate-crashers when he gave a private show. Somehow, the location always leaked, and the local fans showed up in droves. But not out here in the middle of Nowhereville.

  Everything was going according to plan, Eric reassured himself. It was just a matter of a few more moments before the car would pull into the parking lot. The door would pop open…and he would finally catch a glimpse of the face he’d been waiting to see for months.

  So why did he feel this urge to run away and hide?

  It must have been the silence out there, playing on his nerves. It was getting downright eerie now that night was falling. Tessa should have been there by now. Something must have happened to delay her. Eric stuffed his hands into his pockets, straining to see down the empty span of highway that stretched out in both directions. He heard the faint rumble of an engine in the distance. He held his breath as he listened to the sound approach.

  The vehicle came into view, and Eric scuffed the bottom of his shoe against the pavement. Not Tessa. Just a rundown-looking Greyhound bus, speeding down the highway in a cloud of dust…

  Eric reached for his phone. Had he misunderstood the plan somehow? He pulled up Twitter and ran his eyes once again over the DMs from this morning.

  Time Stamp 12/31/2016, 9:23 a.m.

  Taylor: We’re still on for tonight, right?

  Tessa H: I’ll be there. I’m starting to get excited now.

  Taylor: Awesome. Excited to meet Eric?

  Tessa H: More scared to meet Eric. Excited to meet you. Or maybe the other way around? I honestly don’t even know. This whole thing is surreal.

  Taylor: Don’t be scared. It’ll be OK.

  Tessa H: You don’t think it’ll be crowded, do you?

  Taylor: What are you talking about? It’s a private show. Just you and me, and some douchebag up onstage, serenading us for our first dance.

  Tessa H: But what if other fans find out and try to crash? It could be a total mob scene.

  Taylor: Tessa, stop. You’re catastrophizing.

  Tessa H: I know, but should we have some kind of signal so I can recognize you? Just in case?

  Taylor: Whatever makes you feel safe. You want me to wear some hot-pink bunny slippers?

  Tessa H: Perfect :P

  Taylor: If only I knew someone who could lend me a pair…

  Tessa H: I know. How about a hot-pink rabbit’s foot?

  Taylor: Where am I supposed to get one of those?

  Tessa H: They sell them at the service station. Exit 54. It’s just a couple miles down the road. Will you do that?

  Taylor: Of course. Rabbit’s foot. Good idea. I’m gonna need all the luck I can get.

  He’d dutifully picked up the rabbit’s foot on his way into town that afternoon. The pit stop had raised a few eyebrows, although not for the usual reasons. The men loitering around the service station barely gave him a second look once they caught sight of his car. The baby-blue Ferrari stuck out like a sore thumb among all the tractors and rusty pickup trucks. The mechanic behind the counter even had the nerve to offer him $50,000 cash, right there on the spot, to take the car off his hands. Eric couldn’t quite tell if the guy was kidding.

  “Nice try,” Eric had laughed back nervously. He didn’t bother to say it, but they both knew his car was worth four or five times that much. The guy had merely shrugged in response and taken Eric’s $3.99 for the rabbit’s foot without another word.

  Eric glanced down at the piece of pink fluff that dangled on a chain around his neck. The pop of neon color stood out starkly against the black leather of his jacket. How exactly would Tessa react when she laid eyes on it?

  He had his opening line all planned out, complete with choreography. Maybe it would come across a little cheesy, but he didn’t want to wing it. This particular meet-and-greet was way too important to leave to chance. He rehearsed it one more time inside his head. He knew exactly what he would do. The moment she stepped out of the car, he’d saunter over and hold out the good luck charm for her to see.

  “I’m looking for a girl named Tessa who’s really into rabbits’ feet,” he’d say. And then, before she could breathe a single word, he’d hit her with his most handsome, charming, lady-killer smile.

  “Guess what,” he’d say. “I’m Eric Taylor Thorn. And today’s your lucky day.”

  • • •

  “Showtime.”

  Tessa murmured the word aloud as her hand came to rest on the bedroom doorknob.

  She couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Dr. Regan would arrive in a few minutes to pick her up, and Tessa intended to be ready. Nothing would stop her. No triggers. No flashbacks. No panic episodes. She wouldn’t bail out at the last minute. Not this time.

  This was it. December 31. New Year’s Eve. The final day of what had to be the worst year of her life. Tonight she would shut the door on all the irrational fears that had held her prisoner for so long. She would leave her home and make the twenty-minute journey to the concert venue—even if it killed her.

  Tessa gritted her teeth as she pulled the bedroom door open and made her way to the bathroom in the hall.

  Eric one…Eric two…Eric three…

  She’d kept her mind clear for most of the day by focusing on the superficial details. What shoes would she bring out of storage? Which purse would she carry? What clothes would she wear? She must have tried on every single item in her closet before she finally settled on the perfect outfit: dark-washe
d skinny jeans, paired with a sparkly V-neck top that skimmed her hips and revealed a hint of cleavage.

  She took in her appearance in the bathroom mirror. Too much skin? She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, but she didn’t want to hide her assets either. Tonight, Taylor would lay eyes on her for the first time. She wanted him to like what he saw.

  Tessa stared at her reflection, forcing a too-bright smile on her face. Happy. Excited. That’s how a normal person would be feeling. The boy she loved had come all the way to Texas just to meet her. Her heart should have been thudding with anticipation, not with fear.

  Eric Thorn…Eric four…Eric five…

  Forget the outfit, Tessa told herself. She was running out of time. The clock was ticking, and she still hadn’t done her hair and makeup. Her wavy, brown hair had grown out during the months of her self-imposed confinement. She normally kept it tied back in a braid, but she’d left it down tonight, a shimmery cascade that fell below her shoulders. Hopefully, Taylor wouldn’t notice the split ends.

  Eric six…Eric sucks…Eric seven…

  Then there was the question of makeup. She hadn’t worn a drop since the day she fled from New Orleans. Her old beauty supplies never made the trip back home, long since abandoned in her temporary dorm room. She would have to ransack her mother’s makeup stash. Tessa knelt down and sifted through the contents of the cabinet beneath the sink. Her eyes landed on a black leather satchel, and she quickly snapped it open, but it didn’t contain cosmetics. Looked like a spare set of medical supplies that her mother had brought home from work: needles, rubber tubing, antiseptic wipes…

  Tessa pinched her lips together. Maybe she should have asked before her mother left for work. But that would have meant explaining why she needed makeup.

  Tessa hadn’t breathed a word to her mom about the contest or the boy she was leaving the house to meet. Some guy she met on Twitter? A total stranger? She knew her mother would disapprove. It came as a stroke of luck, really, that Tessa had won a show on New Year’s Eve. Her mom was working another double shift. She’d left for the hospital a couple hours ago, and she wouldn’t be back until morning. Tessa would be home by then, safely tucked in bed, and her mother never had to know she’d left.