Page 15 of Finding Silence
She sits back in her chair, smiles smugly, and shoves another bite of pastry in her mouth. I’m about to do the same when a familiar ringtone sounds from the depths of my leather tote. Of course, it takes forever to locate my damn phone on the very bottom, and by that time the ringing has stopped. I just notice the missed call was Grace when it rings again.
“I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
I start getting up from the table when Savvy stops me.
“Don’t get up, I’ve got to use the facilities anyway,” she informs me as she stands up.
“Thanks.”
Watching her head for the restrooms, I answer my manager’s call.
“Morning, Grace. You must really miss me.”
“I gather you haven’t been online this morning?” she starts, giving me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Haven’t touched any electronics until you called. Why?”
“Good, and take my advice; don’t. It’s bad for your blood pressure and I’m handling it.”
“If that is meant to be reassuring, I have news for you; it’s not,” I snap at her before asking, “What exactly are you handling?”
“Just some gossip rag story gone viral online overnight. I’ve already got your legal shark on it.”
Dammit. One of the major pitfalls of fame is dealing with the press, both legit and tabloid varieties. Both are always looking to dig up a salient story to sell, but the tabloids will go so far as to create one that doesn’t exist.
“How bad is it?”
“Well…it comes with pictures, but like I said, I’m on it.”
Fuck me, pictures are never good.
“But I also have some good news,” she quickly adds. “The realtor took some prospective buyers through the house yesterday, and you’ve got not one, but two offers on the table as of this morning. I’ll be sending you the offers as soon as I get the files.”
That didn’t take long. Andreas Steger, the realtor who originally found me the house in Portland, recommended listing slightly under market value and it looks like it paid off.
“Oh, I’ve gotta call coming in I have to take,” Grace announces. “Keep your eyes open for my email with the offers, and whatever you do, stay offline.”
She should know better than to say that. It’s like a red flag on a bull.
No sooner has she ended the call, when I’m already typing the band’s name in my browser’s search bar. A page full of social media headlines pops up, all claiming the same thing. I click on one.
* * *
Lead singer Listen Phyllis succumbs to lifelong addictions.
* * *
I scan the story, which claims I died from a drug overdose, and as evidence they not only have a recent picture of my house in Portland with the for sale sign on the lawn, but a blurry image of what is supposed to be my dead body.
I recognize myself in the shot, but I can’t quite place it. It’s not exactly a flattering picture, my mouth is hanging open and I’m spread-eagled on a couch I don’t recognize, half sliding off. I’m puzzled, this is a fairly recent picture. My hair is still all purple, but I recognize the clothes I’m wearing as the outfit I bought for the charity concert. New jeans, leather bustier, silk kimono, and, despite the poor quality of the image, I can see the heavy layers of stage makeup on my face.
Suddenly it all comes back to me; the green couch in the dressing room where I zonked out—exhausted—after the concert. Only the band would’ve had access.
Fucking Duncan.
“Son of a bitch,” I hiss.
“Everything okay?”
