Page 2 of Fool's Gold

Mom’s favorite.

Another wave of sickness hits me, and my stomach contracts painfully. I have nothing left to throw up, yet my body revolts, trying to call me a liar, too.

Mom loved that mug. She found it in a thrift store during one of her and Dad’s trips up the coast, when they took out the convertible and just drove. She said it was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen in her life, and yet she always found joy in having her morning coffee out of it when we came to Malibu.

It’s an oddity the press wouldn’t have appreciated about the star actress.

Reality strikes with the strength of a sledgehammer right through my skull. Only my stranglehold on the lip of the sink keeps my dizzy ass from falling over.

I’m really here, in my parents’ bungalow.

It used to be their sanctuary. A place where they got out of the spotlight and could pretend, even for a few days, they were normal people. There’s nothing glitzy or glamorous about this place. It meant something to them.

And I came here.

My gorge rises again. Why did I think I’d be safe here, too?

The walls are haunted by their absence even more than the main house. The personal touches in this place are gunshots, and every one I see sends a fresh well of pain shooting through me. I should go back.

I’ll end up seeing Marcus too soon, though, and I’ve got no clue what to say to him. I can’t bring myself to leave yet.

I splash more cold water on my face before cutting off the tap and sinking down to the tile floor, my back against the cabinet. Maybe it’s right for me to be here. I’m nothing but a ghost, too. Cut down at the knees too many times to count at this point. The hits keep coming.

When are they going to stop?

When is it all going to make sense?

Even the guardian I thought wanted me doesn’t—he’d rather sign away his rights before I’m even of age, even though there were only a few more years left.

I dropped the phone somewhere on the tiles. I swipe my face with the back of my hand and crawl for it. The screen is blank, but it landed case side down this time, which is a miracle. The facial recognition software kicks in, and the screen opens.

Ugh, the text messages. I’ve got five of them in a row, all unanswered, each one more panicky than the last one. The name at the top definitely doesn’t spell out M-A-R-C-U-S, either.

I find the phone icon more from habit than anything else, with tears still blurring my vision, and the call to River connects.

“Hey.” The word comes out as a sniffle.

“Hey, boo. How are you doing?”

She knows me better than anyone else, but it still feels weird and wrong to let everything spill out. I groan and settle back against the cabinetry. The wood behind me is unyielding, exactly what I need.

“You already know how I’m doing.”

“Know about what? The only thing I know is that you didn’t answer my texts, and now you’re crying,” she replies.

“You don’t need to pretend. I hear it in your voice. You feel sorry for me.”

Of course she knows. River is the queen of social media, and she’s got her finger on the pulse of the latest gossip.

Then she sighs, the thin sham of her ignorance gone in a blink. “I’m allowed to feel sorry for you,” she adds. “It’s not pity, Em. You’re just stuck in a really shitty situation, and the press is doing what the press always does. Make a mess of things. Skew reality into something gross. You know?”

My eyes burn along with the rest of me. “It really fucking sucks.”

She sighs again. “Of course it does. Where are you?”

“Probably someplace I shouldn’t be.” And for some reason, I’m reluctant to tell her my exact location. Like it will somehow be found out, and the swarming locusts of reporters will find me too soon as well.

“Are you not going to tell me?” River presses.

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