Being dead was a bitch.

Yara awoke to the harsh light of day, or the shards of it that penetrated the moth-eaten, blackout curtains in her room. The pillow beneath her cheek could have been made of concrete, it was so hard. And the pillowcase may as well have been sandpaper. Still, it was better than sleeping outside. Again.

For six weeks, she'd been running from her own life. Difficult to do when you're a worldwide, pop culture sensation, and yet easier than it should have been. People didn't make eye contact anymore, didn't ask questions. Not even when she'd showed up dripping wet in the middle of a busy convenience store. Not even when she rode the bus wearing a garbage bag for a dress. Not even when she'd broken into her own apartment to grab a few things before she got the hell out of town.

Most people don't want to know about the bad things happening around them, and that had suited Yara just fine.

She sat up on the cardboard box that pretended to be a bed, groaning at the fresh aches and pains on her weary body. Maybe she should have slept in the chair, except there were stains of an unknown origin. She didn't even want to venture a guess.

This no-name motel was only slightly better than the last, in that she didn't see the floor move in the dark after she turned off the lights. The bathroom towels also hadn't abraded her skin too much when she'd taken her first hot shower in days. So far, Pennsauken had been relatively kind. And it was very close to where she needed to be, Philadelphia, and close to where she longed to be, home just outside the city.

Her ninety-nine cent burner phone sat on the nightstand, and Yara checked to make sure it had gotten a full charge before unplugging it. It was her only connection to the world she'd left behind. The world where she'd been elevated to stardom and reduced to a single name. Yara.

Yara, the pop idol.

Yara, the overnight sensation. Never mind that she'd been plugging away in coffee shops and open mic nights for years.

Yara, the druggy whore.

That was her favorite.

She checked the phone for messages and found one.

Hey, it's me. Just making sure you got there okay. Call or text me when you can. I still can't believe it's really you.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes and Yara clutched the phone to her chest.

She grabbed the TV remote and powered on the ancient box, tuning it to MTV. Harry Styles had a new video. The song was lovely, and Yara found herself humming along almost immediately.

The next song was by someone she hadn't heard of and didn't know. She zoned out for a few minutes, her stomach rumbling. She'd need food soon. With a pre-paid Visa that was nearly tapped out, and sixty dollars plus the change in her pocket to last for who knew how long, she'd have to stay frugal. She didn't dare reach out to anyone else, not until she knew more about what was going on. She'd taken a chance leaving a message for her best friend, but at least she'd waited this long to do it.

Levering herself off the bed, Yara searched inside her backpack for a bag of chips. Bingo. Breakfast of champions. The salt and powdered cheese hit her taste buds like a tsunami. Water. Where was her bottle of water?

"Miami Police are losing hope of finding singing sensation Yara's remains."

Yara stopped mid-crunch and lunged for the remote on the bed, turning the volume up on the TV.

"The star was reported missing six weeks ago after disappearing in Biscayne Bay. Yara, born Yara Marie Bujold, was declared dead after three weeks of intense searching. Authorities say drugs and alcohol likely led to the singer drowning in the choppy waters of the bay. No foul play is suspected. Bujold had a meteoric rise to the top of the pop charts, despite her troubled personal life."

"Oh, please," Yara scoffed. "God, people will believe anything."

Her mobile phone rang, startling her.

She answered and held her breath.

"Yara?"

"Siv." She exhaled a sigh of relief. "It's so good to hear your voice."

"Shit, Yara," the other woman exclaimed. "I can't believe it's really you. It is really you, isn't it?"

Yara smiled. "Yeah, Siv. It's me."

"How do I know, though? That's it really you."

"Um, well...you could ask me something only I would know."

"This is so Law and Order."

"Right? Go on. Ask."

"Okay, well..."

Yara could almost hear her thinking on the other end of the call.

"What did I give you for your twenty-fifth birthday?"

Yara laughed. The sensation was foreign to her after the last month and a half, and it brought tears to her eyes. God, she missed her life. Missed her family. Missed her friends.

"You knew I wanted that Holzweiler bandanna that we saw at Nordstrom's, the two-hundred-dollar one."

"I still can't believe it cost that much."

"I know. But you found a similar one on Amazon for fifteen dollars and ordered it for me."

"Only it wasn't one bandanna, it was ten."

"Twelve," Yara corrected her. "And I still have ten of them. I'm wearing one right now."

"Are you really?" There was a smile in Siv's voice that warmed Yara from the inside out. "You should send me a pic."

And just like that, reality came crashing back in.

"That's...not a good idea."

"Oh." Siv's voice went quiet. "Right, sorry. Wasn't thinking."

"It's okay."

"It's not, Yar. If we're going to do this cloak and dagger shit, I need to be more careful. I don't want anything to happen to you. Anything else that is."

The realization that she'd be rescued by some random stranger had kept her sticking to the shadows now. Her head down, and her eyes on the ground. The trouble with having such an unusual eye color was that it made you stand out. And you couldn't wear sunglasses all of the time, not without drawing attention to yourself.

She'd picked up a cheap baseball cap.

Between the baggy clothes and the absence of her long, chestnut hair, which she tied up in a bun before she went out, Yara barely recognized herself in the mirror.

"I'm okay. I'm going into the city today."

"To talk to those Skin guys?"

"One of them, yes."

The Skin Agency. Sounded mysterious, almost cool. When Yara had first learned of them, learned who they were and what they specialized in, her stomach turned sour. That a company could thrive on ruining people's lives for profit, the idea was unfathomable. She was convinced they'd been the ones to plant the fake stories about her party prowess, at Marcus Kaine's behest.

"Are you sure that's such a great idea?" Siv asked quietly, fear clearly evident in her voice. "They're the reason you're in this mess."

"Marcus is the reason I'm in this mess, Siv. He's the reason I'm walking around like the living dead. These guys, they're just minions."

"I'm just so glad you're away from him," Siv all but whispered into the phone. "I've been watching the news, his interviews. He keeps Lacey glued to his side now."

Lacey Sharp was nineteen years old. The same age Yara had been when Marcus found her slaving away over a fryer in a mall food court. He'd promised her the stars, and she'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

"Yeah." A shudder passed through her. "I'm worried about her too, but I want my life back. Without him in it. And maybe I can help Lacey and the others too, while I'm at it."

"And you think the Skinner dude will help you? Why would he even want to?"

Yara glanced over at her backpack. "He probably won't want to, but I'm not going to give him the option of saying no."

"Meaning?"

"Leave it to me."

Siv sighed. "Yara, don't do anything stupid."

"They made me out to be a junkie, Siv. They faked pictures, paid people to lie about me. All to keep me under Marcus's thumb. They stole my name. My identity. My voice. My fucking music."

"I know," Siv replied, her voice filled with sympathy. "I know, baby girl. I can't believe some of the bullshit they're spinning. And people are eating it up."

"I'll expose him. I'll get the truth out there, even if it kills me."

"But doll," Siv said. "It might."

Yara had nothing to say to that.

"How are my parents?"

"Distraught. Angry. Your father wants to have a memorial. Your mom says it's too soon."

Yara hated the pain she knew she had to be causing her family. She smiled knowing how stubbornly her mother would hold on to any shred of hope, sending out a whisper of encouragement. Don't give up on me yet.

"Mom is always right. Though it would be funny to see who showed up at my funeral."

"Yara..."

"Seriously, how many people get to attend their own wake?" Yara laughed. It sounded brittle to her own ears.

"It's not fucking funny, Yar." The voice on the phone seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. Yara heard Siv sniffle and longed to hug her, to comfort her.

"Shit, Siv, I'm sorry." She ran her hand over the bandanna covering her hair. "I'm a little slap happy. Haven't slept more than a few hours a night for the last month or so."

"I know. Do you have enough money? I could wire you some more."

Yara wanted to say yes. She was desperately low on funds, but she had to stick to her plan.

"It's too risky, I'll manage. Besides, it's only for a little while longer."

"What're you going to do? Walk into your local TV station and announce your return from the dead?"

"Maybe, I dunno. First I have to deal with Camden Skinner."

"Are you going to his office?"

"No. Apparently, he owns a bar. I'm going to scope that out, see if I can catch him there."

"That actually makes me feel better," Siv said, her voice a bit brighter. "Public place, and all."

Yara glanced at the ancient clock on the nightstand. "I don't have many minutes left on this phone, so I'm gonna go."

"Oh, okay. Be careful, yeah?" Siv's voice broke her heart. Of all the people in the world, Yara was glad she was the one who knew she was still alive. She'd made the right decision in telling her.

"I will. Keep an eye on my folks."

"Of course! See you soon, I hope."

"Absolutely, you will."

Ending the call, Yara plugged the phone back in, wanting to top-up the charge while she showered and brushed her teeth. Her jeans were badly in need of washing. They could practically stand up on their own, but she climbed back into them and added all the layers - t-shirt, hoodie, hat, glasses - that had become her armor. Packing everything else back into her knapsack, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and headed out. Check-out time was noon, and she wasn't sure she'd be back at this particular roach motel.

She decided to head into the city. It was big enough for her to get lost in for a few hours. And she had time to kill before she stood face-to-face with one of the men that had helped to ruin her.

Jesus.

There were so many ways for that encounter to go.

But there was only one way she needed it to end. Camden Skinner had to help her. He had to. Otherwise, her life really was over.