“I hope you brought tacos, because that’s what I ordered.”
Layla breezed past Javen and moved toward the center of the room. “Did she believe you?” She turned in a circle, taking in the bright, open space.
“What do you think?” He shot her a mock-offended look. “Sure took you long enough to get here. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“I watched her leave.” Layla roamed Trena’s spacious apartment. It was a large open-floor plan with stunning city views and sleek modern furnishings. Aside from a few framed pieces on the walls, the personal touches were kept to a minimum, leaving Layla to wonder if Trena preferred a more anonymous, spare look, or if she’d simply been too busy to add her own stamp to it.
It was a recent acquisition, and though Layla had never visited her last place, she was willing to bet it wasn’t nearly as nice as this new one. Clearly, her hit TV show had come with a considerable leap in the pay grade.
Glancing at Javen, Layla said, “I wanted to make sure she stayed gone.” She lifted a hardcover book from the coffee table authored by an esteemed journalist Layla admired. She inspected the front and back covers, flipped to the title page, and confirmed it was indeed signed and personalized. Then she placed it right back where she’d found it and joined Aster’s brother.
“Again, you’re doubting my skills.” Javen scowled.
“Or overestimating Trena’s. Two sides to everything, right?” She peered over his shoulder and peeked at his laptop. From what she could see, he was writing a school essay.
“It’s part of my escape plan.” He nodded toward the screen. “I need to maintain my grades so I can graduate early and attend an East Coast college. I don’t even care which one, just the farther away the better.”
Layla could relate. There was a time, not long ago, when she’d made a similar plan. Now it seemed like nothing more than the quaint dream of someone who’d never been arrested, never seen the inside of a jail cell, never been chased by paparazzi, never received death threats that flooded her in-box until she’d stopped reading all incoming comments, direct messages, and email. She was living each moment as it came. There was no looking ahead, no telling where she’d end up. Planning seemed like a luxury she could not afford.
To Javen, she said, “It’s a good goal.”
“So.” He looked at her. “What now?”
Layla pursed her lips. “We snoop.”
“And are we looking for anything in particular?”
It was a good question, but Layla had no solid answer. “I guess just anything remotely connected to Madison, your sister, Ira, Paul . . .” She finished with a shrug. “Does Trena keep an office here?”
Javen directed her down the hallway and into a back room, where Layla stood in the doorway, stunned by the sudden jolt of jealousy that overcame her.
Normally, she made fun of people who crammed their wall space with framed certificates and photos of all the famous people they’d met. But now she understood that her former urge to poke fun had more to do with her own glaring lack of accomplishments than the pride Trena took in hers.
It was an impressive collection of achievements, and there was no denying Trena had worked hard to get where she was—nothing had ever been handed to her. But this latest accomplishment—the penthouse apartment and the prime-time slot—was entirely due to a story Layla had helped her create.
Though instead of feeling bitter, Layla was left to wonder if journalism was something she still wanted to pursue. After playing a major role in one of the world’s most scandalous stories, she was no longer sure she had it in her to be the hunter after having spent so much time as the prey.
Writing for a major news publication was the only solid dream she’d ever really had, and now, even that was in jeopardy. The summer had robbed her of nearly everything she’d ever cared about.
“Are we starting in here?”
Layla turned to find Javen leaning against the door frame.
She looked away, needing a moment to compose herself. “You start in the bedroom,” she said.
Javen’s reply was swift. “No. No way.”
Layla heaved a frustrated sigh.
“Not a chance. You go looking in her underwear drawer. I’m not going anywhere near it. This is not what I signed up for.”
He was so adamant there was no use pushing it. “Fine,” Layla said. “I’m sure if there’s anything to find, it’ll probably be in here anyway.”
“Or on her laptop,” he said. “Only it’s not here. She took it with her.”
Layla pressed her lips together, trying to decide where to begin. “Is there any way to tap into her network—or her cloud—or whatever?” Might as well encourage him to use one of his most valuable skills. “The note said she was hiding a clue, but it wasn’t specific as to where.”
“There’s always a way.” He smirked, disappearing down the hall as Layla made for Trena’s desk.
Trena had left the Washington Post to head up the LA Times digital division, which probably meant Javen was right. Anything important was stored on her computer.
Then again, Layla specifically remembered seeing Trena carrying a notebook back when they’d first met. Finding her stash of notebooks would be a good start.
The desk was modern, sleek and white—exactly the sort of desk Layla might choose for herself. The top drawer didn’t offer much more than a stack of sticky notes, some paper clips, and a book of stamps. The side drawers revealed a tube of hand lotion, a pricey lip balm, and a pile of hair bands.
Layla ran her hands underneath and all along the sides in search of secret compartments. Realizing she was reenacting every spy movie she’d ever seen, she stepped away and surveyed the room. If she had important documents she didn’t want anyone to find, she’d store them in a place no one would ever think to look.
The bookshelf was tightly packed, though it was obvious from the pristine condition of the individual book jackets that Trena harbored a real affection for her collection. She’d never choose to deface one.
Magazines, on the other hand . . .
There was a stack of Vanity Fair and the Hollywood Reporter, a few in particular that appeared especially lumpy and thick.
Pulling them from the stack, Layla claimed a space on the rug and spread them all around. Arranging them by the dates on the cover, she started with the June issue of Vanity Fair and immediately confirmed that her hunch was correct. The pages had been torn out and replaced with meticulous notes Trena had kept on Ira’s Unrivaled Nightlife contest, including a rundown of the rules and the names of those who were cut—there was a full dossier on every one of them.
Layla was tempted to see what Trena had written about her, but not wanting to waste time on something with the potential to upset her and throw her off track, she pushed the magazine aside and moved on to September.
She rifled through the papers. Trena’s writing was loopy and wide, and at times it was hard to make out every word. Most of it consisted of stuff Trena had already told her, and Layla was ready to give up when she came across a photocopy of an old news clipping Trena hadn’t mentioned.
After skimming it, Layla knew why.
She reached for her phone and took a quick pic. Trena was on her way to Ojai, which meant there was no hurry to leave. But now that Layla had found what she needed, there was no reason to stay.
“Find anything?” Javen moved into the office and glanced over Layla’s shoulder.
She briefly considered telling him, but decided the less he knew the better.
“Well, I’ve got something,” Javen said. “It’s an address, in Ventura County. A different one from where I sent Trena. According to Google Maps, it’s about an hour’s drive.”
Layla hoisted her bag on her shoulder and went to stand beside him. “You actually sent her somewhere legit?”
“I sent her to a tiny parcel of land with a trailer on it.” He shrugged. “This, on the other hand, is a house. And from what I’ve seen, it’s the sort of place Madison would choose to hang out.”
“And if I run into Trena while I’m out there?”
“Out of my jurisdiction. I’m just the hacker. Though you should know, the only side I’m taking is Aster’s, and mine, of course.”
“Duly noted,” Layla said.
She was heading for the door when he called, “Oh, and before you go, can you bring me my Postmates? Pretty sure it was just delivered.”