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This was going to be bad. By the time Emma returned, they were going to dissect her entire life, and all on camera.
The front door finally opened, and I turned, disappointed to see Emma’s manager stride in, full of self-importance. “All of the news outlets are aware. Gossip sites have lookout reports posted for her. We put a reward of $250,000 up, and it’s trending. Someone will find her, though I’m hoping we’ll get around eight to ten hours of press before she crawls out of whatever high-thread-count bed she’s curled up in.”
“Ohhh… a guy!” Eileen breathed, her eyes lighting up at the thought. “I bet she hooked up with a random and is hiding out at his place.”
“Again… no.” Dion glared at her. “She’s like, asexual. The only guys she has ever been on dates with were set up by her publicist. And we all know how those have gone.” She looked pointedly at me.
Asexual? That isn’t how I ever pictured Emma, and certainly wasn’t the vibe I’ve ever gotten from her in our face-to-face encounters. Then again, I obviously couldn’t read her well. In the kitchen, when she was screaming at me about her phone—I actually thought there had been some chemistry there. A fire.
Maybe it had been a fire of hatred I had mistaken for heat.
“Dion,” the manager snapped from the sideline. “Shut up unless you’re raving about how wonderful Emma is.” She settled in beside Dana, her arms across her enormous chest, and the two women could have been sisters.
“Maybe she’s been arrested,” Marissa whispered, her gaze darting toward the living room where a dozen people stood, watching and listening. “And they just don’t want to tell us.”
“Maybe she’s trashed and partying,” Johno mused. “That’s what I’d do.”
“If she was partying, someone would catch it on camera and claim the reward.” Layton brought a red plastic cup up to his mouth and spat a hunk of brown liquid into it.
“It’s pretty genius, you know.” Eileen kicked her foot up and rested it on the empty chair that should house Emma. “I mean, look at this. The entire first episode is going to be about her, plus she’s trending, you know her numbers are growing, and her sponsors are probably beside themselves in happiness right now.”
“She punched me,” I pointed out. “She’s probably facing assault charges, and will lose sponsors.”
“Yeah, this is Britney circa 2007.” Marissa mused.
“Okay, but this could be a publicity stunt. We have to consider it.”
“I’m laying a bet, right now, that the producers got her in a van, tucked around back.” Layton nodded his head as if it was a guarantee.
“I think we should petition them to kick her off the show.” Eileen folded her arms in a tight pinch across her chest, the comment directed at me. “We can’t live in a house with someone like that. I mean, who knows what she’ll do next?”
I nodded like I was considering it. I picked up my beer and caught Johno watching me. His mouth curled into a smile, and he gave me a nod—as if he knew exactly what was going on in my head.
If he did, I wish he’d explain it to me.
44
#iknowwhereemmais
EMMA
“Slow down,” Wesley hissed.
I obeyed, letting up on the gas pedal as the Mario-driven cart careened toward the curve. Beside me, Wesley yanked the wheel hard to the left, then right. From my spot on the floor, hidden under his bed, I peered through the bed skirt and applied more brake.
The set up was built for one person, with gas and brake pedals and a steering wheel with boost buttons built in. We had divided up the controls so that we could both play — I laid on my stomach with the gas and brake pedals in hand, and he sat beside me, his back against the dresser, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The arrangement worked well since he struggled with orchestrating both sets of controls at the same time.
Cash had gotten him the set for his last birthday, but this was the first opportunity I’d had to use it with him. Usually, I tried to get him outside. Given that I was a bit of a fugitive at the moment, his bedroom seemed a safer spot.
Wesley had had no difficulty in grasping the concept of hiding. He had grown excited the minute I’d tiptoed into his room, then nodded with glee as I’d raised my finger to my mouth and asked him to stay silent. Now, he made a loud screeching sound as his car skidded around the track, knocking another cart out of bounds.
We finished fourth, and he cheered, dropping the remote and holding his hands above his head. “WINNER!”
I smiled, setting the pedals down, and stretched as best I could.
“When do you have to leave?” It was his standard question, always posed as soon as he saw me, then peppered at me every fifteen minutes of my visits.
