This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
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www.harpercollins.co.uk A Paperback Original 2009 First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
Copyright © Kira Coplin and Julianne Kaye 2009
Kira Coplin and Julianne Kaye assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
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Source ISBN: 9781847561206
Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007331451
Version: 2018-06-13
For Ruth Waller, my grandmother, who always encouraged my silly dreams …
–K.C.
To my son, Jack, and my husband, Eddie, for inspiring me every day …
–J.K.
What can you say about a society that says
God is dead and Elvis is alive?
– Irv Kupcinet
A jolt of electricity runs from Crescent Heights Boulevard to Doheny Drive – a gleaming, vibrating stretch of asphalt and neon so notorious that Sin City named its ‘Strip’ after it. It’s there on Sunset Boulevard where the rich and famous play out their scandals for the world to see – where ‘It Girls’ dance pantyless atop the oversized Monkeywood tables of Hollywood clubs, and where poolside catfights are veiled only by the thick foliage of the Marmont. And on one particular night in late November, just a stone’s throw from the glittering lights and madness of the Sunset Strip, I inadvertently became a key player in one of the most shocking celebrity dramas of the past decade. No matter how I try to put the puzzle together, to coherently map out the timeline of events, pieces are still missing and holes will always remain.
There was an unnatural stiffness in the air that night as I raced down empty boulevards typically teeming with drivers blasting their radios, or assholes laying on their horns.
Expressionless models from billboards stuccoed on the sides of shopping malls glared down on me; tonight they almost appeared menacing. The city itself felt like a ghost town at this hour, loosely woven and wrapped in nebulous unease. Waiting at a traffic light, anxiously drumming my fingers on the dashboard, I spot the only other living soul out on the street – a tall, muscular man with long brown hair falling past his shoulder blades, rollerblading in circles, wearing nothing but spandex shorts and laughing hysterically as if sending out a warning, ‘Proceed with caution, the crazies are out tonight.’
I turned onto the tree-lined street, lit up by the glow of a sign that read: Emergency Department. It was empty. Momentary relief washed over me. ‘Maybe it’s okay. Maybe no one knows.’ But I knew this kind of thinking was premature. I’d been around long enough to know the percolating frenzy: chatter from police scanners had already alerted reporters and photographers, letting them know that something was amiss deep in the Valley. I screeched to a halt in the first parking garage I could find, almost forgetting to pull the keys from the ignition. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered under my breath, wondering if I could’ve parked any further from the hospital entrance. I moved fast – the gentle summer breeze mocking my distress – time was limited, that much I knew. Up ahead, a single police car with its sirens blaring flew up to the entrance of the E.R. That’s where things get a little fuzzy. A wave of adrenaline washed over me, stimulating my heart rate and dilating my air passages, prompting me to break out into a sprint. Like an animal prepared for an attack, my footsteps echoed noisily along the pavement only to be masked by the drone of helicopters appearing suddenly overhead, circling like mosquitoes. ‘They’ve found her, this is it, get ready,’ I told myself, knowing that within mere seconds I would be submerged in complete pandemonium. I had hoped to make it inside before the throngs of people began to gather, but that hope was gone now.