Page 60 of High Society

I can’t leave things like this!

She turns to her laptop and looks up JJ’s address in her electronic medical record. She is unsurprised to see that the heiress lives in one of the most luxurious neighborhoods in Newport Beach, which boasts some of the highest priced real estate in the country. Holly assumes JJ must live in the penthouse suite.

Knowing better, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, Holly gets to her feet and grabs her car keys.

It takes less than fifteen minutes in the light evening traffic to reach Lido Park Drive in Newport. A few blocks from her final destination, she hears a siren and sees the flashing lights of a police cruiser in her rearview mirror. She worries that she is about to be pulled over, but as she slows to the side of the road, the cruiser races past her.

Even before her GPS announces she has reached JJ’s home, Holly’s heart begins to thump against her ribs. More flashing lights are clustered out front of the building ahead of her. The gnawing in her stomach turns to burning.

She finds a parking spot a block away and hurries toward the entrance on foot. An older, Black police officer with gray hair steps forward to intercept her, waving her back. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re not allowing anyone in or out right now.”

“What happened?” Holly demands.

“There’s been a medical emergency.”

Holly notices a group of first responders collected near the far corner of the building. Behind them stands a cluster of civilians, presumably other condo residents. Making a wide sweep around the officer, Holly hurries toward the gathering. “Ma’am!” the officer calls to her back, but fear propels Holly forward.

She reaches the civilians, some of whom are wearing pajamas and nightgowns. A few are chatting in hushed voices, but most stand in silence, staring at the wall of first responders in front of them.

Holly moves toward the uniformed personnel. A tall, broad-shouldered female firefighter steps forward to cut her off. “You can’t be here,” the young woman says.

“What’s happening?” Holly asks.

She motions to the civilians. “You need to step back with the others, ma’am.”

Holly stands on her tiptoes to peer over the first responders. She scans the ground behind them and catches a glimpse of what appears to be a tarp thrown over a section of the blacktop.

Right as she feels the firefighter’s hand grip her elbow to pull her back, Holly notices an unnaturally twisted leg extending out from under one corner of the tarp.

As shocking as the sight is, it’s the purple-and-white sneaker that steals her breath.

CHAPTER 30

At just after ten p.m., Simon sits behind the electronic keyboard in his home studio, aimlessly tapping the B-sharp key. He sat down hours ago determined to write a song, or if not a whole one, then at least a chorus or a few bars. But the longer he stares at the keys, the deeper his resignation grows. Not only does he not have a new song in him today, he doubts he will ever write another. Not one good enough to share with the world, anyway.

Writing hits used to be almost as easy as breathing. Sometimes, when they were recording a new album, and Jeremy handed him a page of scribbled lyrics, Simon would compose a new tune in his head before he’d finished reading the last line. But he’s too old and too broken for that kind of inspiration anymore. Besides, Jeremy is too dead.

When his phone dings with a new text, Simon is relieved for the distraction. He looks down to see that Baljit has launched a new group chat with three letters: OMG. Below it, she sends a link to a local news story. It was posted only minutes before.

“Oh, fuck,” Simon mutters as he reads the headline: “Jang Heiress Found Dead.”

The article describes multiple 911 calls from a luxury condo building in Newport at around nine p.m. A woman was pronounced dead at the scene after having presumably jumped from the balcony of her eleventh-floor penthouse. The police haven’t released the victim’s name, but multiple eyewitnesses confirmed her to be Justine Jang.

New texts roll up the screen.

Salvador: JJ DOVE OFF HER OWN BALCONY? WTF?!?

Baljit: She wasn’t right at the group session this morning. Nothing like her chatty self!

Salvador: RIGHT?! Same when I texted her earlier tonight. Could barely squeeze two words out of her.

Baljit: Texted her about what??

Salvador: The after party for my upcoming show. She offered to help.

Reese: JJ and I were supposed to get together tonight. But I had an eleventh-hour crisis on a file at work.

Salvador: Shit happens, Reese.

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