Page 184 of Broken Lines

From Judy, of course.

After the article came the “leak”, which was entirely Judy’s doing in order to drum up salacious interest in her fucking “tell all” book—the grotesque and revolting allegation that Jackson is…yeah.

My nose wrinkles.

The idea that people read that and saw the pictures of the two of us alone makes me want to throw up. Even if, for the most part, “the world” seems to see it as the disgusting publicity stunt it is.

For one, as just about every blog and every post on Reddit on the subject points out, I looknothinglike Jackson. Someone on the internet even did one of those “parent morph” things where they blended pictures of Judy and Jackson, and the result bares zero resemblance to me.

Also, there’s a retired nurse named Linda Cressley who’s been doing the rounds on talk shows, claiming that she once worked in a health clinic in London.

A clinic where, according to her, none other than Jackson Havoc once received avasectomy.

At age twenty; the same age I am now.

Jackson is currentlyforty-two.

Yeah, do the math.

But proof or public opinion aside, it doesn’t really matter. The whole point of Judy letting that horrible story out was to catapult her and “the brand” into the spotlight. It doesn’t matter that it’s an outright lie. What matters is, people are talking about the book. And her.

And really, that’s all Judy’s ever wanted from the world: recognition, of any kind, at any price.

I’m still lying in bed when the door to my room—my gaudy new room in the Soho loft which doubles as the set for the fucking show—opens. Tanya, Judy’s way-too-eager new personal assistant, comes bustling in without a knock, frantically typing on her iPad.

“Um, hi, Tanya?”

“Mel, girl, we’re on a schedule here. I need you down at dinner like five minutes ago, cool?”

My mouth thins.

“Tanya, I need you to start knocking.”

She laughs. I’m not sure I get the joke.

“Five minutes ago, hon,” she smiles a plastic, phony smile as she taps her watch. “We’re on a real tight schedule tonight, with the event and all.”

My mood blackens to night. A cold chill creeps up my spine.

“Tanya, I already talked to Judy, and Ireallydon’t want to go—”

“Well, that would be weird if you didn’t!” She laughs. “Now, come on down!”

“My stomach is feeling gross.”

She frowns, pulling out her phone.

“Want me to call Dr. Konrad?”

My face turns white.

“No,” I blurt, shaking my head. “No. No Dr. Konrad.”

The bars of my prison of the last four months may have been invisible. But the jailers aren’t. And Judy’s “doctor friend”, Dr. Jeffery Konrad, is the captain of the guard.

Dr. Konrad is the one that “substantiated” Judy’s claims in the book about my parentage. He’s the one who put together a fake assault kit that “proves” Jackson sexually abused me—Judy’s nuclear option against Jackson if he comes after her book.

The good doctor is also the one who’s kept me docile, dulled, and lost these last four months of filming and TV appearances, through a heavy prescription of antipsychotics and anti-anxiety meds.

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