Infamous

ONE

FATHER FIGURE

Madison Brooks was not alone.

The first thing she sensed when consciousness dawned was the presence of someone looming over her bed.

She froze. Keeping her breath even, her limbs still, she listened intently for any sort of clue that might provide some insight into who had taken her and why.

Weeks in captivity had left her with little to go on. Still, there was always a chance that her captor, thinking she was asleep, would get careless or lazy and possibly do something that might give them away. Madison was so desperate for answers she refused to waste a single opportunity, no matter how improbable it might seem.

You awake?

Madison startled. The voice was familiar—one she knew well. It belonged to a man she’d trusted since she was a much younger girl.

Her eyes snapped open and zeroed in on the nondescript male hovering nearby. His hair was neatly combed and nearly the same shade of beige as his face. His lips were thin, his nose unobtrusive, his irises a dull, chalky brown. It made for a collection of features so unremarkable he was hard to describe and nearly impossible to recall.

And yet, even though she recognized him, knew him as her one true friend, she pulled the blanket defensively up to her chin and recoiled against the cold hard wall.

Easy, he coaxed, tentatively raising both hands to prove he meant her no harm.

Madison remained leery. She knew him as Paul Banks, aka the Ghost, aka her mentor, protector, and friend, who’d acted more like a parent than her real parents had.

Paul had always been there for her, had risked his life for her more than once. So she shouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find him there now. Still, the time spent in confinement had left her skittish and traumatized. She’d grown so accustomed to living in a constant state of paranoia and dread that the transition to her new reality, where she really was safe with nothing to fear, was difficult at best.

She blinked a few times, allowing a moment to adjust to the shift. Paul was not her captor. Thanks to Paul, she no longer had a captor. He’d taken care of that creep by ensuring he’d never mess with Madison, or anyone else for that matter, again.

It was hardly the first time she’d seen a dead body, but she’d never forget the fleeting look of surprise on her kidnapper’s face as he was positioning himself, preparing to do her great harm, when he was interrupted by a momentary flash and a loud cracking pop, and then the side of his head exploded into bits, showering chunks of brain matter and flesh all over the walls.

Next thing she knew Paul was lifting her, holding her close, and whispering reassurances into her ear. While he disposed of the body and cleaned up the mess, Madison slept a deep, dreamless sleep. By the time she woke, other than the strong scent of bleach permeating the room, it was like it’d been nothing more than a terrible hallucination. Neither of them had mentioned it since.

Still, there had been another captor before him. One who’d acted with great determination. And the worst part was they were still out there, somewhere, faceless and unknown. The thought made Madison shiver as she gathered the blanket even tighter around her.

You okay? Paul’s voice was gentle, his features blunted with concern.

Madison nodded, more for his benefit than hers. She wasn’t okay. Not even close. As long as her first captor was out there, she doubted she’d ever achieve such a state.

Would they try to strike again?

Possibly finish what they’d started?

While she had no idea what their endgame might be, unlike the second guy, they’d never physically harmed her, hadn’t even tried to rob her. Sure, they’d taken her purse, but as she’d recently learned, it had shown up in the trunk of her car, which was left outside Paul’s office the night of the fire. Only one of the gold-and-turquoise earrings Ryan had given her had managed to survive, but she was still in possession of her expensive diamond-encrusted Piaget watch, so clearly it wasn’t money they were after. Also, according to Paul, there hadn’t been a single ransom demand, making the motive a frustrating mystery. Yet another reason Paul insisted on keeping her completely hidden from the rest of the world.

Funny to think how all the news outlets were breathlessly speculating on her demise, and yet, here she was, hiding out in some dead guy’s shack in the middle of Death Valley, with a man many had seen but no one remembered.

Paul continued to hover, while in her head, Madison recited all the reasons she trusted him. Eventually the thoughts began to take root, her body relaxed, and she glanced around the small, shabby room they shared.

It was bare-bones, run-down, and offered only a minimum of comforts. There was the saggy bed shoved in the corner. The mattress was lumpy and stained, but Paul had covered it in clean sheets and a thin blanket, so it was hardly the worst thing Madison had ever slept on. There was a battered old coffee table that held a small hand-crank radio, a large flashlight, and a stack of survivalist tomes. Beside it sat an old couch Paul had claimed for himself by stretching a flannel sleeping bag across it. In addition to a weak air conditioner that didn’t do much to dispel the searing heat, an array of fans were scattered around, their blades whirling furiously throughout the day.

There was no sign of the knife the man had shoved hard against her throat, but she figured Paul had gotten rid of it, along with the body.

Still, there was a bathroom with running water, didn’t matter that it was cold, and a toilet that flushed. After weeks of severe deprivation, the simplest conveniences took on luxury status.

How’s the ankle? Paul gently lifted the corner of the blanket that covered her leg. And how are you?

Her body was wounded and sore. She was malnourished and weak. And her flesh bore the deep cuts and scrapes that had resulted from her ill-fated run through Death Valley.

She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes for a long, peaceful moment. When she opened them again, she looked at Paul and said, How am I? She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. Uncomfortable, weak, and angry beyond belief. She reached for the cup of instant coffee he’d left on the small fold-up table beside her and took a small sip. It was awful, truly disgusting, but at the moment, a Starbucks run was out of the question.

Apparently, the whole time she’d been missing, Paul had purposely gone missing too. He’d simply dropped off the radar, as only someone as practiced as him was able to do. Although as a master of invisibility, he’d been there all along. Moving among the very people he suspected of playing a part in her disappearance, without a single one of them noticing he was lurking around.

He reached for a pillow and gingerly placed it between her back and the wall, then handed her a plate he’d lumped with Spam and canned pineapples, the best the cupboards had to offer.

You shouldn’t have. She glared at the disgusting mash of food.

It ain’t Nobu, I know, but it’s sustenance all the same. Might even help remedy the uncomfortable and weak bits you were complaining about. He spoke without a trace of irony.

Madison took a tentative bite of Spam, then made an exaggerated gagging face, mostly for his benefit. In the weeks she’d been locked up, she’d eaten far worse. And what about the deeply seething anger? What remedies that? She stuck her fork in a piece of limp pineapple and lifted it to her mouth.

Paul dragged a chair to the side of her bed. Settling onto it, he said, I find revenge is often a good and reliable cure.

Madison took a few more bites, then set the plate aside.

You’re not a doctor, you know. She winced as Paul went about surveying her ankle.

Not by profession, but I’ve tended far worse.

She shrugged, but what she really wanted to do was scream. She wasn’t kidding about being mad. Most days it was the only thing that fueled her. But she wasn’t mad at Paul, or at least not entirely.

Ow! She leaned forward and swiped at his hand.

He pulled away. You know what they say about sprains. . . .

That they’re worse than a clean break.

He nodded. Definitely true in your case. Though at least some of the swelling is starting to subside.

How soon can I return to my Spin Cycle class?

Paul lowered his glasses onto his nose and stared at her from over the thin metal rims. Don’t push it. It’s not safe for you out there.

Her lips dragged to a frown. I can’t take much more of this, she said. Tell me you’ve at least narrowed it down to a few suspects.

Wordlessly, Paul crossed the room and returned with a stack of magazines for her to read while he went about rewrapping her leg. She’d prefer the use of a phone or a tablet, but Paul had banned anything that could be easily hacked or traced back to them. On a good day, Paul was paranoid, but lately he’d taken it to a whole new level. His palpable unease did nothing to quell her own gnawing fears.

She flipped through the stack. Her face was on every cover, alongside pictures of Layla, Tommy, Aster, and Ryan. It was as though they’d become as famous as her.

Also like her, they were locked up now too.

Madison traced her finger across Ryan’s mug shot. There was a time when she’d considered him a suspect, but the idea didn’t stick. At one point, she’d mentally accused all of them. Thoughts were the only things she had to keep from going insane. But now that she was free, she realized none of those thoughts held any weight.

Though Paul was right about revenge. The elaborate retribution fantasies she’d plotted in her head were pretty much the only thing that had gotten her through. Well, that and her refusal to find herself on the losing end of whatever messed-up game she’d been cast in.

She pushed the magazines aside. She was in no mood to read them. Do they still think it’s you?

Paul finished wrapping her ankle, then reached for her hand and inspected the pinkie finger she’d broken a few weeks earlier that he’d had to reset. What do you mean—suspect or victim?

I suppose one will overrule the other, but have they identified the body?

They’ve determined it’s not you. He let go of her hand and grabbed two pillows to prop under her ankle.

Just a matter of time before they learn it’s not you either. So who is it then? She watched him carefully. The body had been found on Paul’s property.

Why would you think I’d know?

She continued to stare.

You honestly think I’m dumb enough to bury a body on my own property?

He made a good point. What about Ira Redman?

Alive and kicking, last I checked.

No, I mean as a suspect.

Without missing a beat, Paul said, He’s on the list.

Madison wondered if he’d realized the irony of his words. Ira ran the hottest clubs in town, where everyone vied for a spot on the list, and now Ira had earned a spot on Paul’s list. She looked at Paul’s bland expression and determined the joke was lost on him.

"Okay, so if we don’t know who, then how about why? Why would someone go to the trouble of setting up Ryan, Aster, Layla, and Tommy, and how is it connected to me? Who have I wronged who would do such a thing?"

The words echoed between them as Paul shot her a patient look.

Fine. She huffed. So I’ve made a few enemies along the way. She cast a sideways glance at Paul. As usual his expression was impossible to decipher. But clearly it’s either someone from my past, or someone who knows about my past as well as my connection to you. Against all odds they managed to uncover a picture of me as a kid. Same pic they sent you. Also, the walls of my first cell were papered with that image. There’s only one person I can think of, but that’s impossible, right? I mean, it couldn’t possibly be—

Before she could finish, Paul pressed a cool hand to her forehead and said, Don’t go getting yourself wound up now, okay? I’m handling it.

Madison shrank beneath his touch. It was the most she’d spoken at once in a very long while, and it left her feeling exhausted and spent.

Thanks to her injuries and overall traumatized state, Paul had kept her on a steady stream of pain pills that left her heavily sedated. Most of the time it felt like her brain had turned to mush. Madison was just starting to realize the huge toll that had taken. I don’t understand what this is all about, she finally said, her voice little more than a whisper. What do they want from me?

Paul shot her a sobering look. It’s about destroying you and everything you’ve worked so hard to build.

Madison was jolted by his words. It was the first time he’d said anything like that. Or at least that she could recall. She rubbed her eyes, forced herself to think, to try to capture remnants of past conversations they’d had. But from the moment that bullet whizzed past her face and into that creep’s head, everything had been a muted, blood-spattered, medicated blur. And yet she was sure this was the first time Paul had ever said such a thing.

Did Paul actually know more than he was letting on?

Had he been holding out on her all along?

But who would do that? She spoke slowly, as though carefully handpicking each word. When really, she just wanted to prolong the conversation so she could better observe him. Who would be so jealous and spiteful and bent on revenge? She tried to see Paul without bias, as though it was the first time they’d met.

Was he involved?

Was there a clue she might’ve missed?

When he trained his focus on her, she immediately shifted her gaze toward the far side of the room. She couldn’t risk him capturing even a twinge of doubt on her face.

The silence stretched between them, broken when he said, That’s what I’m trying to find out. He rose to his feet and pushed the plate toward her. Now eat. His tone was paternal, but Madison was on edge. We need to leave soon. It’s just a matter of time before someone stops by, and we can’t afford to leave any trace of us behind.

Dutifully, Madison picked at her food as Paul expertly wiped down the room. She spied the gasoline can he’d left near the door. He’d probably use it to douse the place, then light a match and drive away. They’d watch the flames from the rearview mirror as he took her to one of the many safe houses he kept.

It was the same MO he’d used when he burned down her childhood home. It was only now she was beginning to think maybe that hadn’t worked out quite as well as he’d led her to believe.

Where are you taking me? She watched through lowered lids as he approached with yet another pain pill and a tall glass of water. Briefly, she considered trying to refuse, but she was in no position to fight. For the time being at least, it was better to play along.

Paul stood over her, watching as she placed the pill on her tongue and pretended to wash it down. The less you know, the better, he said.

Satisfied, he carried the glass to the sink and washed it clean of prints. After drying it in a way that left it glistening and smudge free, he smashed it hard against the wall and stared as it shattered into tiny, glittering bits.

With his back turned, Madison spit the pill onto her palm and mashed it between her fingers until it morphed into a thin, grainy paste she wiped onto the sheets. She was surprised it had taken her so long to question Paul’s motives. Especially considering how hard it was for her to trust anyone. She’d learned from a young age that when it came right down to it, she had only herself to rely on. And yet, for the better part of her life, she’d depended on Paul with no questions asked. But now she couldn’t help but wonder if that had been a mistake.

There was something off about him. Something he was purposely holding back. While she couldn’t quite put her finger on it—the drugs had left her brain too cloudy for that—Madison had always relied on her instincts, and at that moment, every cell in her body was telling her it was time to take back control of her life.

Did you find an ID for that man who attacked me? Madison watched Paul’s shoulders stiffen before he slowly turned to face her. Do you know who he was?

Paul held her gaze. No, he finally said. Just a bum. An opportunist, I guess.

Madison debated whether to mention that the man’s voice had been familiar. One she still couldn’t quite place but definitely recognized.

Instead, she simply nodded as though she believed him. Then she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, knowing it was what Paul wanted to see.

Someone was out to harm her, and while she had no idea if Paul was involved, she was sure he was lying.

Whether his lies were meant to protect her or harm her, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that as soon as she built up her strength and cleared her head, she’d track down whoever had done this to her and show them just how badly they’d underestimated her.

Madison had killed before.

If it came down to it, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger again.

TWO

NOTORIOUS

Layla Harrison clutched the plastic bag stuffed with her belongings and quietly shuffled past the door her dad held open. She paused a few beats, adjusting to the punishing light, while fingering the tender bracelets of flesh that circled both wrists. The wounds served as a lingering reminder of the too-tight handcuffs that had been placed there a few days before. Back when she’d been arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder—a crime she wasn’t convinced had actually happened until she’d stumbled upon the decomposing corpse.

You okay? Her father shot her a look of concern.

She took in his paint-splattered T-shirt, the soft, worn look of his jeans, which now sagged so low on his hips it seemed as though he’d borrowed them from a much bigger man. He’d lost weight. Weight he couldn’t afford to lose. And Layla knew his weary, gaunt appearance was entirely due to her.

It hurt to see him this way, and yet, when she finally did meet his gaze, she was greeted with so much love and compassion, she clamped her lips tightly and quickly turned away.

In jail, she’d been caught in a constant cycle of utter defiance and absolute despair. One moment she was outraged, pacing her cell and shaking the bars of her cage, demanding justice to anyone close enough to hear. But eventually, like water left to boil too long, her rage desiccated to a silent, scorched anguish. Who was she kidding? No one was interested in proving her innocence. The whole world was rooting against her. Detective Larsen had a high-profile case he was eager to close, the media had a juicy story to breathlessly report, and fans of Madison Brooks were looking for a target at which to direct all their hate. It was an inferno of accusation she couldn’t possibly penetrate.

Sorry it’s a bit of a hike. Her dad squinted into the distance. Couldn’t find a closer spot.

It’s okay, she said, suddenly realizing the truth of her words. It really was okay. In fact, it was absolutely okay. Maybe not for the long term (God knows, just thinking about what the future might hold put her on the verge of hyperventilating), but at that very moment her complaints were few. After several days in captivity, she’d been released. And though she had no idea how long her freedom would last, she intended to cherish each and every glorious second.

She walked alongside her dad, listening to the dull rhythm of her boots scuffling over the asphalt, the tiny black pebbles rolling and crunching beneath every step. She couldn’t help but marvel at how much she’d changed inside over the course of the last few days, and yet the outside world was just the same as she’d left it. The sun was shining. A long strand of birds perched in tight bunches on the telephone wire strung taut overhead. Their incessant chirping seemed to promise that the world would continue to hum and churn despite what happened to her.

There was no place for regret. And though Layla wasn’t one for spiritual leanings, she firmly believed every life had a mission, a driving impulse toward a greater destiny. That wasn’t to say that everyone made good on their mission, or even acknowledged its existence. But for Layla, her desire for truth and justice had thrummed through her veins for as long as she could remember.

It was the only explanation for why she’d put her own life at risk in order to help a girl who’d gone out of her way to act like a total bitch the first time they’d met. And yet, so much had happened since then, and Layla was done holding grudges. Aster had been set up. She was innocent of every crime leveled against her. And because of it, Layla felt compelled to help prove her innocence. Even if she’d been given a peek into the future that warned how she’d only end up implicated alongside Aster, Layla wouldn’t have chosen any differently.

Here, I almost forgot. Her dad pulled a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses from the pocket of his hoodie and thrust them into her palm.

Layla gratefully slid them onto her face, then tucked her chin to her chest and continued trudging alongside him.

She was exhausted. Hadn’t slept for days. And her mind was in torment, refusing to allow even a moment’s rest. Every time she closed her eyes, a reel of horrifying scenarios unspooled in her head.

Aside from her father and a handful of friends, no one seemed willing to give her a chance. And as someone who’d dreamed of being a serious journalist for most of her life, she was horrified to find herself the subject of countless sordid headlines. The media had portrayed her as a hateful person bent on revenge, and soon her fate would rest in the hands of twelve jurors who’d probably already made up their minds well before opening arguments were over.

If the verdict was guilty, she’d spend the bulk (if not all) of her life trapped behind bars. Her dreams would never be fulfilled, and the close relationship she’d once shared with her father would be reduced to awkward, guilt-laden visits, where Layla would watch helplessly from behind a smudged Plexiglas window as her father aged and withered before her.

It was the worst outcome imaginable, and the scary thing was, it was entirely possible.

Layla! Hey, Layla—over here! Where’s Madison? Tell us what you did to her?

Great. Just what I need. Paparazzi.

Layla hiked the plastic bag high to cover her face as her father slung a protective arm around her and pulled her in close.

Don’t look. Ignore them. He pressed the words into her hair and rushed her toward his waiting car.

Layla leaned into him, allowing his momentum to carry her along, all the while fighting the impulse to cry at the sheer frustration of it all. With so many cameras centered on her, she couldn’t afford to give in to tears. The press thrived on capturing vulnerable moments. They were all in pursuit of the same thing—the rare instant when the mask dropped and the celeb inadvertently revealed an alarming humanity. Beyoncé had a pimple once, and the internet nearly exploded.

While Layla’s popular celebrity-bashing blog, Beautiful Idols, had fueled her financial independence and helped lessen the burden from her struggling artist father, she had no doubt that what was happening to her now was karmic payback for once being a player in the very industry that now stalked her.

She swallowed hard and burrowed deeper into her father’s side. She felt shaky, oversensitive, but