Vicarious (13 page)

“I'm leaving too. Can I walk with you?” he says hopefully.

“Why?”

“I don't know. We could talk more?”

I start to refuse the offer, but then I remember I know things he doesn't. Maybe he thinks I lied to him and Rose is tucked safely inside the penthouse, avoiding him. Or maybe he believed me, but his brain has gotten to that itchy desperate place that reaches out for any tiny bit of hope. There's no way I can put him out of his misery without telling him the truth—a truth that will only hurt him worse. “You know what? Sure. Let's go.”

He heads for the elevator as I head for the stairs. “We live on the top floor, but I always walk up,” I say. “I don't like elevators.”

“Okay.” He changes direction and follows me into the stairwell without questioning it.

“So is that why you're working out here?” I ask. “Hoping to run into my sister?”

“Lame, huh?”

“You're not lame. He seems like a decent guy. I hope Rose wasn't just playing him to get something scandalous on a ViSE.

He keeps pace with me on the stairs. “Why are you wearing her necklace?”

“What?” I almost forgot I had the pendant on underneath my workout T-shirt. It must have bounced out from my collar as I was running up the steps. “Oh. We share jewelry sometimes.”

A couple minutes later, we're standing in front of the penthouse door.

“Penthouse, huh?” Andy says. “Nice.”

“We live with our … brother,” I say. I've never had to explain my relationship with Gideon to a stranger before and I don't feel like getting into the details. I punch in the entry code, press my thumb to the sensor, and open the door to a dark and empty apartment. “Sorry. She's not here.”

“It's cool. I just thought maybe…” Andy cranes his neck to get a look inside.

“Do you want to come in?” I pause in the doorway. “Our brother is out of town. We can talk more if you want.”

Andy jams both hands in his pockets. His shoulders slump forward. “That's all right.”

“How long have you known my sister?”

“Not that long. I met her about a month ago.” The way he looks when he says it makes it seem like longer. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his blond hair falling over one eye. He looks exactly like the photo of him they showed on the news. “Can I give you my number?” he asks. “Even if she doesn't want to call me, I'd love to hear from someone that she's okay.”

A lump forms in my throat. I'd love to hear that too. “Sure.” I type his number into my phone. “If she shows up, I'll tell her to call you.” I wish she
would
show up, that I would open my eyes and find out the whole day has been a dream. Even a hallucination. I'd go back to the therapist—to the hospital, even—if it meant I could have my sister back.

I shut the door, my muscles trembling in protest under the smallest force. I'm going to be sore tomorrow. Stripping off my sweaty clothes, I hop back into the shower. I find myself replaying my conversation with Andy, feeling a twinge of jealousy that my sister could make a big football star fall for her in just a couple of dates. Then I feel guilty for feeling jealous of Rose, so I try to concentrate on finding her killers. Surely there are clues I'm missing. Like Andy. Why wouldn't she have told me about him? What else might she have conveniently forgotten to mention?

I shut off the water and blot myself dry. I change back into my jeans and long-sleeved shirt and wrap a towel around my wet hair. I can't stop thinking about my sister, about the fact that she was keeping secrets from me. I have to know what they were.

Tears rise up from nowhere as I hit the doorway to her room. Everything is so Rose—from the scent of her perfume in the air to the mess of clothes and magazines on her bed to the décor itself: red comforter, red curtains, black lacquer. How could she have left me? How could someone have stolen her away? I hear Baz and Gideon arguing in my head.
We are not killers. Everyone is a killer … or a victim.
I will not be a victim. I will not let whoever killed Rose get away with it. Fighting to stay in control of my emotions, I paw through the stuff splayed across her bedspread and then drop to my knees to peer under the bed. There's nothing but a few mismatched shoes and a small stuffed bear with the words “You're unbearably cute” emblazoned across its chest.

I go to her dresser and start yanking open the drawers. I try to see down to the bottom of each without disturbing any more of her things than I have to. As my fingers touch the cool jade of a carved bracelet, my eyes sting and my vision goes blurry. I wipe away a rogue tear.

I have no idea what I'm looking for, what sort of evidence I might find that my sister had a whole other life I don't know about. There are no drugs, no hidden cell phones. There's no locked diary of secrets. All that stares back up at me are Rose's pajamas and a couple of knotted necklaces.

And then I see a sliver of something shiny and red protruding from beneath a folded pair of pajama pants. It's a music box shaped like a heart. Why would she hide that in a drawer? With shaking fingers, I undo the gold clasp and fold back the lid. A delicate porcelain ballerina spins to the tinny music of Beethoven's “Für Elise.” The base of the box is full of tiny blue memory cards. I pull in a sharp breath. These are Rose's ViSEs. I always keep the original copies of mine, but I never knew she did too.

Why search the present for clues about what happened, when I can search the past? Better yet, if someone went after Rose for a recording she made, I might be holding it in my hands.

 

CHAPTER 13

I take
the music box back to my room. There are nineteen memory cards scattered across the velvet. Overlay or not, I'm going to play them all.

I snap the first card into the slot on my headset and slip it over my ears. Closing my eyes, I recline back on my bed and press
PLAY
.

I'm in a dressing room of some sort. Black-and-white floor, black lacquer furniture. The air smells like a mix of perfume and styling products. Around me, women are tugging on dresses and adjusting necklines. Several of them are wearing diamond tiaras.

“Chop-chop.” A man with short black hair wearing a shiny gray suit and a metallic gold tie claps his hands together. “We need you dressed before next year.”

It's the New Year's Eve fashion show, I realize. Each year, one of the city's philanthropists holds a fashion show with some of his designer friends. The whole event is for charity, so no one is paid, but still, getting to walk in the show is a huge honor. I vaguely remember Rose telling me about it afterward, going on and on about the pretty dresses she got to wear.

My hands reach out and stroke the fabric of a gown hanging on a hook. It's off-white, a mix of silk and lace, the neckline and hemline adorned with pearls. I slip the dress over my head and the man in the gray suit zips me up.

A stylist pulls me over to a chair and a team starts working on my hair and makeup simultaneously.

I let out a sharp giggle. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn't realize this would be so much fun. I feel like a movie star.”

“You look like one too,” the woman applying my makeup says. “I wish I had your legs.”

If the stylists know I'm wearing a wig, they don't say anything. I fast-forward through the next few minutes of prep time. Rose must have recorded all of this just in case anything interesting happened backstage. The real ViSE will be the actual fashion show, the feel of strutting down a runway with all of the city's elite watching.

I'm standing in line between a tall black girl in a flowing turquoise gown and a shorter girl with strawberry-blond hair who keeps tugging at the hemline of her silver cocktail dress. A row of painted feathers adorn the bottom of it and each time she adjusts herself another feather falls to the ground. I reach out to touch her arm. “You look great,” I say.

She smiles. “You too. I'm so afraid I'm going to fall in these stilts and flash my thong underwear to the entire city.”

I look down at her shoes—silver ankle boots with heels long and sharp enough to be knives. “You won't fall,” I tell her. “And if you do, you just own it—get back up, keep going. Everyone loves that.”

“You're right,” she murmurs.

We move forward as the girl in front of me heads out onto the runway. Music pounds from the ballroom, the bass coursing through my blood and vibrating the stage beneath my feet. A man cues me and I step out from behind the curtain. I glance down at my own tall heels but then I am going, walking confidently down the runway, the soft fabric of my dress swishing against my legs with each step.

The ballroom is decorated in white, gold, and silver. Every pair of eyes turns toward me as I strut past. Women in brightly colored dresses ooh and aah. Men in tuxedoes clap politely. Flashes go off from both sides of me. My lips twitch as I fight the urge to smile. I pause at the end of the runway and strike two poses. More cameras go off. As I turn, I see Gideon sitting a few rows back. He raises a champagne glass toward me, a grin plastered on his face.

I wink at the girl in the cocktail dress as we pass, and then head back to the curtain as the audience continues to clap. Backstage I am whisked toward a garment rack, where two girls hurriedly help me change into the next dress.

I walk in four different gowns before the ViSE ends and I open my eyes. I feel slightly queasy from playing such a long recording, but I also feel something else—exhilarated. It's almost like I actually just participated in a high-profile fashion show in front of half the city. I shake my head at the thought. I went to sleep early on New Year's Eve. That is one night where people who don't like crowds are better off staying inside.

I rub my stomach gently as I go through the ViSE again in my head. I didn't recognize anyone besides Gideon, but that doesn't mean Rose didn't know any of the other models or people in the audience. I might need to play each recording multiple times to really glean clues from them, but given my sensitivity to overlay, it could take me days to get through them even once.

Sighing, I set the first memory card to the side and select another.

I'm standing in the middle of a long line outside of a dance club called Zoo.

Zoo is the area's newest club. You generally have to be with somebody rich or famous to get inside. Unlike most of the basement clubs, Zoo boasts its own building, a converted warehouse located right at the edge of the Lofts. Rose never mentioned going there, but it's the kind of place even someone as gorgeous as she might have struggled to get into, unless Gideon pulled some strings. It's a great venue to record at, because anyone who likes dancing or partying would probably kill for a chance to spend the evening there.

I
don't
like dancing or partying. I'm dreading this recording.

Reluctantly, I force myself to focus.

Security guards dressed in black suits prowl the perimeter of the building. They pause frequently, muttering into their headsets. A tight cluster of girls in front of me are speculating about what sort of sexual favors they'd have to offer the bouncer to go to the front of the line. I sigh as I reach down to dislodge a dead leaf that's caught on the heel of my shoe. The girls flip curious but unwelcoming glances over their shoulders before judging me unworthy of their attention. Two of them start speaking in fake British accents and pretending to be European pop stars. Another girl suggests they should all make out.

“That might work,” I say. “If you're willing to repeat the show once you get inside.”

“Obviously you don't know or you'd be inside, wouldn't you?” The girl's British accent is horrible.

“Care to bet me who can get inside first?” I ask.

“Twenty bucks,” the apparent ringleader says. She's got ketchup-red hair and lipstick to match. Her pale skin is practically turning gray in the cool night air.

“Don't waste my time,” I say.

The girl paws through her wallet and pulls out a wad of cash. “Fifty,” she suggests.

“Deal.” I yank the neckline of my dress down just slightly and saunter up to the bouncer. He raises an eyebrow. I whisper something in his ear and then slip some money from my purse into the bouncer's palm.

I can't make out what Rose says to the bouncer or see how much money she gives him, but it feels like more than fifty dollars. It would be completely like my sister to take a loss to put some mean girl in her place.

The bouncer nods at me and moves the velvet rope so I can enter the club. I stride back to my place in line just long enough to pluck the crumpled bills from Ketchup Hair's hand. The girls stare at me, their brittle features a mix of surprise and loathing.

Inside, the club pounds with a bizarre mix of angry-sounding classical music and death metal. Smoke machines fill the floor with glaciers of fog, and glitter confetti swirls through the air like fake snow. Throngs of people are writhing to the endless beat, bodies brushing up against me as I move toward the center of the room.

I pause the recording for a second and open my eyes. My heart is thudding rapidly. I'm not sure if it's from the sensory overload of the smoke and lights and music, or if it's just the feel of being surrounded—and touched—by strangers. “Not real,” I remind myself. I let my eyes fall shut and continue.

There are four metal cages balanced on platforms draped in white sheets. Inside three of the cages, scantily clad girls are dancing. In the fourth one, two guys are fighting. One hits the other in the mouth and spots of blood spatter across the white sheet. The small crowd of people around the cage cheers.