Page 54 of Better than Famous

"How many?" My voice was small in the loud room.

Ben dropped his hands and turned to face me. His eyes were shadowed. "Three helicopters now. Channel 7, Channel 10, and some freelance chopper out of Miami. The road is blocked. Hunter says there are ten vans parked on the verge outside the gate."

"Well, at least they can’t get in," I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. "The gate is locked. Hunter is there."

"They don’t need to get in." Ben gestured toward the ceiling where the helicopter noise was loudest. "They just need to wait. They have the long lenses, and they have the drones. They’ll wait until we run out of food or patience, and then they’ll get the shot."

My burner phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. We both stared at it. It sat there on the granite surface, vibrating innocently, but it looked more like a grenade with the pin pulled. Last night, I hadn’t wanted to think about being a celebrity. I’d only wanted to be a woman. A woman who was wanted and desired. So I’d intentionally left it out here all night. I stood and padded numbly to pick it up, where I found a long list of missed texts.

Mindy (7:45 PM): Call me. Now.

Mindy (8:10 PM): Sutton, please pick up. We have a situation. Why aren’t you responding?

Mindy (9:30 PM): THEY FOUND THE LEAK. It’s the hospital records. A hospital employee sold the admission info to a broker. They know about the ankle.

Mindy (10:15 PM): CODE RED. They know it’s Dove Key. They are on the ground. They are paying locals for tips.

Mindy (1:00 AM): GET OUT. SUTTON, GET OUT NOW. THEY ARE COMING.

The most recent text was also from Mindy. It was short, devoid of her usual frantic emojis or capital letters, which scared me more than anything else.

Mindy: Turn on Channel 7. I’m sorry.

My stomach dropped, a sensation of weightlessness that had nothing to do with gravity. "Mindy says to turn on the TV to Channel Seven from Miami."

Ben stiffened. "Don’t. You don’t need to see it."

"I do," I said as I returned to the couch and gripped the remote control. "I need to know what Nash is saying. I need to know the narrative."

"Sutton, please." Ben stepped toward me and reached out a hand to stop me. "It’s just going to be lies. Watching it gives it power."

"It already has power." I pointed the remote at the television mounted on the wall. "Ignorance isn’t safety, Ben. You taught me that. You check the radar before the storm hits, right? We just didn’t have enough time."

He stopped, his hand falling to his side. He knew I was right. We were in the eye of the storm, and we needed to know which way the wind was blowing. I pressed the power button.

The screen flickered to life. The channel was already tuned to the local affiliate, but the programming had been interrupted. A red banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS: SUTTON VALE DISAPPEARANCE UPDATE.

The anchor, a woman with helmet hair and a grave expression, was speaking to the camera. "We are going live now to Los Angeles, where music producer Nash Calloway is breaking his silence regarding the disappearance of his ex-wife and client, pop superstar Sutton Vale. This is a special report."

The feed cut to a satellite shot. Nash was sitting in his home office, surrounded by platinum records and framed awards. The setting was calculated to remind the world of his success, of his role in creating me. But Nash himself... he was a masterpiece of staging.

He wasn’t wearing his usual sharp, Italian suit. He wore a rumpled button-down shirt with the collar open, sleeves rolled up haphazardly. He hadn’t shaved in two days. His dark hair, usually gelled into submission, was tousled. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept, who had been pacing the floor worrying about someone he cared about desperately.

An icy chill slid down my spine. It was a performance. I knew his wardrobe stylist and that he had probably spent an hour in hair and makeup to achieve that specific level of "distraught."

My fingers found the locket at my throat without thinking, curling around the small oval of gold the way I had since I was nineteen years old. My grandmother’s voice in my memory, steady and unhurried. You always know who you are, baby. Don’t let anyone tell you different. I pressed the locket against my sternum and held on.

"Nash," the interviewer said in a soft and sympathetic tone. "Thank you for speaking with us. We know this is an incredibly difficult time."

"I just want her home." His voice cracked perfectly on the word home. He stared directly into the camera, his brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I just need to know she’s safe."

"There are reports surfacing this morning," the interviewer continued, "that Sutton has been located in the Florida Keys. Can you confirm this?"

Nash nodded slowly, wiping a hand across his face. "Yes. Our private investigators, working with local authorities, have tracked her to a remote property on Dove Key, north of Key West. We received confirmation early this morning."

"That must be a relief," the interviewer said.