Page 77 of Alpha Bait

Late Night News

INDIE

News of my death broke along with an unpleasant surprise.

The news blared in the background of my apartment:

BILLIONAIRE HEIR AMES CARMICHAEL FOUND DEAD AT 35. HIS DEATH HAS BEEN RULED A SUICIDE BY LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT. ON THE WAKE OF INDIE HOLLOWAY'S DEATH, WE HAVE TO ASK, JIM, ARE THESE TWO RELATED?

The entertainment news reporter -- Jim Marlow -- speculated about my life and Ames' before his big reveal:

ONE OF OUR SOURCES HAS CLAIMED THAT INDIE HOLLOWAY, BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS, AND AMES CARMICHAEL WERE LIKELY HAVING AN AFFAIR.

AN AFFAIR, JIM?

YES. WE CAN LOOK BACK AT THEIR SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS FOR EVIDENCE THIS MAY HAVE BEEN HAPPENING A LONG TIME.

I rolled my eyes and shut off the television. Their evidence was either circumstantial or fabricated entirely. Continuing to watch sickened me.

I couldn't help but remain addicted to what the media had to say about my death. I needed to see the details for myself. I searched on my phone, quickly pulling up a picture of myself that had been taken outside of one of Charlie Norbert's house parties in Arlington.

My mother would take the news of my death the hardest. Hurting her was the worst part of what I'd done. I yearned to tell her the truth, but the risk was too extreme. I'd shudder with discomfort each time I thought about how she'd react to my death. I didn't have to guess.

She'd be beside herself. And Donnie? I hadn't even said goodbye to my cousin. I was still too angry with Jamal to care what he thought. He'd probably only be angry that he'd lost his precious cargo. According to the news, I'd been hit by a drunk driver and died on impact. My brother had identified my body himself.

Later that night, they reported, Ames Carmichael shot himself.

The reports led the witness, so you'd come to the conclusion that our two deaths were related. They were, but not in the way the media had assumed. Chills surged down my spine and I double-checked the locks on my front door.

The news about Ames left me unsettled the more I read about it. Tired of the television, I scoured online news sources for any clues. Foul play instantly came to mind. If my brother shared the media's suspicion that Ames and I were having an affair...

Gooseflesh prickled over every inch of my skin. My heart knew the truth. My brother killed Ames. And if he knew I was alive, he'd kill me too.

I'd spent enough time in California that I'd settled into a sense of security. No one in Los Angeles recognized me, and I decided my worries had been paranoid delusions. At best, I had been a small-time celebrity in New York, with my few media appearances insufficient to make me a household name thousands of miles away. Los Angeles was studded with real celebrities who went out of their way to be in the limelight. I'd worked hard not to stand out.

I couldn't allow myself to go through with my plans for plastic surgery. I canceled my appointments and mused about better ways to sink into subtlety. Laying low had been easy so far and I refused to complicate it. What I needed was to find some sort of job -- a method of remaining employed without getting myself in the press. Considering the positions I was qualified for, I knew that would be difficult.

After what felt like hours of hawkishly perusing the news and scouring online job boards, I decided to leave my apartment. In California, I hadn't bothered with getting a driver. Staying inconspicuous would be easier without one, I determined.

Cabin fever is no joke. I had believed that I could survive my time in California with no connections to my past easily. Survival was easy not getting bored was what proved difficult.

I was used to having a packed social calendar filled with charity balls, benefit dinners, board meetings, mimosa brunches with the girls, family dinners, yacht parties, and executive lunches. Now, all that filled my days were thoughts of my past, the past that I'd left behind with no intention of returning to.

I couldn't bring myself to consider dating in California at all. How would I explain my past to a man? Rich had been the closest I'd come to understanding. I released a heavy sigh.

Shopping was the only activity I could think of that would cheer me up. I had been eyeing the Gucci boutique near my apartment which had just received the latest designs for the season. This season was the first time since I was 16 years old where I hadn't been right at the fashion show. And it was the first time since I turned 21 that I hadn't received Gucci gifts from designers personally.

I walked into the store with thick black sunglasses on and my wig with no expectations that I would be recognized. Even if the news of my death had just broken, I expected it would be relegated to entertainment news and daytime television. The general public would have no interest in the passing away of a billionaires daughter. And anyway, I wasn't a billionaire's daughter anymore.

I am Patsy, I repeated under my breath.

In the store, I tried on a few pairs of shoes. I had always been a fan of high heels, and anything that would make my figure looks slimmer and added more impressive height to my dwarfish frame.

I noticed the sales associates glancing at me, an experience that wasn't unfamiliar to me as a black woman who enjoyed luxury clothing.

I knew I had to buy something, not just to assuage her suspicions, but to prove a point. I'm black. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate a good pair of Gucci shoes.

I decided against the shoes at the last moment when I noticed a tiny scratch on the heels in my size. I wasn't eager to attract more attention from the sales associate so I didn't bother asking her to grab another pair from the back.

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