Finding Forever (8 page)

“You know, you're way prettier than I imagined,” Simone said.

“Really? Were you expecting a hideous beast or something?”

“No, no, no. It's just that you don't have pictures of yourself on your blog and, well, most bloggers I've seen don't have gorgeous strawberry hair.”

“Oh, this here mop?” Brooklyn grabbed a fistful of hair. “It's actually red. I'm a ginger.”

Simone stood on the track with her arms wrapped around herself like it was 40, not 70, degrees. “I didn't mean to offend.”

“Don't worry. I get that a lot. People always think I must be the weirdest little troll because I don't post selfies like the rest of the narcissistic world.”

“Ahhh. So that's why you hardly ever post on Instagram.”

“Honestly, I just want the focus to be on the stories and on the celebs, not on me. Maybe if more journalists had the same philosophy we'd all be a little better for it.”

“Makes sense.” Simone released her hands from around her arms. “Taylor doesn't even really like to do the whole social media thing, but she realizes it's for the fans. She usually has me post stuff for her.”

“So you're the one who takes those Instagrams of her?”

“Yep. Usually. I'm the filter queen. Mayfair brings out the tan, Willow hides the pimples. The things you learn when you're an assistant . . .”

“You do all her tweeting, too?”

“Some of it, but not all. Taylor barely knows how to turn on her phone. But she's a brilliant actress and loyal person, which is why I love her.” Simone smiled for the first time. “She's very dedicated to acting. When she's prepping for a role, she totally immerses herself into it. Like a thousand percent. Social media is just a distraction.”

“That's why
I
love her,” Brooklyn said.

Simone sighed. “I know you are a big fan, and you've always been a supporter, but do you really think you can help find her?”

“Yeah, I do think I can help. But I will need
a lot
more information from you. We can't play that guessing game like last night.”

“I get it. I didn't drive two hours up here for nothing. I just had to make sure I could trust you. But I don't even know where to begin.”

“You can start by telling me everything about that night,” Brooklyn said, opening up a new Notes page on her phone. “And seriously, I mean
everything
.”

Taylor blinked. The white morning light had never seemed so bright. She kept blinking until her eyes adjusted.

Buh-boom.

Her skull ached, the pain radiating from the back of her head out to each of her temples.

Buh-boom.

Flat on her back, she struggled to tuck her chin to her chest so she could see past her feet, out the window beyond her bed. She saw a grove of palm trees planted on a meticulously manicured green lawn, a jagged brown mountain peak littered with cactus and boulders. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the only sound was the muted tweeting of sparrows from the grapefruit trees just outside her window.

A lounge chair sat in the far corner to her left, white with an orange accent pillow. A painted green metal door was on the right. A white desk beside the door, a green-and-white tile floor. Next to her bed rested a small nightstand, on which sat a lamp and a green plastic cup filled with water.

But no phone.

The room exhibited the spare elegance of a posh, if overly green-themed, hotel room. The sheets felt soft and cozy, and the modern furniture looked right out of an interior-decorating magazine. A tiny bathroom with a shower stall, sink, and toilet was to her left.

This was not the Four Seasons.

A woman in a white smock and dark green nurse pants walked into the room, rolling a cart with medical equipment.

“Where am I?” Taylor asked, still groggy.

“In a very safe, loving place,” the woman calmly replied in
a thick Mexican accent. Lifting a blood pressure cuff from the cart, she secured it around Taylor's upper left arm. “That's the most important thing. You're safe here.”

The machine beeped, releasing air from the cuff. The nurse glanced up at the digital screen and smiled politely.

“Seriously, where am I?” Taylor asked again.

“In very good hands.”

“When did I get here?” Taylor struggled to recall her last memory. The pretty boy . . . the dancing . . . midnight . . .?

“Ms. Prince,” the woman said. “It's been at least a couple of days.”

Taylor peeked under the blanket and saw she was wearing silk pajamas. But she didn't even own silk pajamas! In fact, she hated silk, the way it slid off her skin. And green? Little girls wore green PJs. Not to mention the fact that grandmas, not teens, wore silk “casualwear.”