They were exactly the same shots she’d seen from the window the day before. Nothing from a previous photo session, nothing she’d missed. They were all perfectly kosher and professional, and worse, Colleen looked really amazing in a lot of them, far more photogenic than Hanna was. Hanna kicked the streetlamp post. Why the hell had A told her to follow this stupid lead? Just to mess with her? For her to lose some cash? She should have known A was going to screw her over, not help her.
Someone coughed across the street, and Hanna shot up. It was only a college-age couple walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, but she felt nervous all the same. She tottered to her Prius, her ankles already aching, wrenched the car door open, and tossed the envelope inside so hard that it careened off the door and landed in the footwell. Groaning, she slid into the driver’s seat and reached for it, but she grabbed the wrong end and all of the pictures spilled out onto the carpet.
“Damn it.” Hanna leaned over and shoved the photos back into the slightly-too-small envelope once more. Her fingers grazed something behind the last photo. It didn’t feel glossy, like the photos, but more like a piece of computer paper.
She pulled the paper from the envelope and held it to the light. Colleen Evelina Bebris, it said at the top in plain font, listing her address, e-mail, Twitter name, and blog. Below that was what looked like a list. Dramatic experience, it said in bold. There were descriptions of the various school plays Colleen had been in, culminating with her part in Macbeth last week. It was a resume, presumably for when Colleen went on auditions. Boring.
Then, something at the bottom caught her eye. Commercial experience, a heading said. There was only one entry below it. Visiem Labak, Latvia, it said. Starring role in Latvian commercial for an important dietary supplement. According to the resume, the commercial had run last year on the most popular Latvian TV station.
Rifling through her bag, Hanna grabbed her phone and punched Visiem Labak into Google. All better, a translation came up. A bunch of what she could only assume were Latvian websites also popped on the screen, and a few showed a smiling person eating yogurt. A YouTube link appeared at the bottom of the first search page. Visiem Labak Commercial, it said. There was a still shot of Colleen’s face.
Hanna clicked the link. The commercial started with three girls sitting around a table at a café, drinking coffee and laughing. The camera then focused on Colleen, who rattled off something in a language Hanna couldn’t even begin to decipher, then clutched her stomach miserably. The other girls handed her a cup of yogurt, which Colleen began to eat with gusto. Next Colleen shut herself in the coffee bar’s bathroom, putting up a sign that surely said OCCUPIED in Latvian. Happy music played, there was a voice-over in Latvian, and Colleen emerged from the bathroom looking victorious. She held up a pot of the yogurt and grinned maniacally. The commercial ended with another shot of the yogurt.
“Oh. My. God,” Hanna whispered. This was just like those stupid commercials where Jamie Lee Curtis pimped out Activia to bloated, constipated women. And here Colleen was, playing the Latvian girl who needed a yogurt laxative to get her regular again. No wonder she hadn’t bragged about it. Hanna guessed she hadn’t told anyone.
“Yes,” she whispered, placing the resume and envelope into the glove compartment. After all this went down, she’d charge Colleen for the pictures, if she still wanted them. It wasn’t like Hanna needed them anymore. Those pictures didn’t tell a story. But a certain video did.
25
SECRETS, OPEN AND CLOSED
As dusk was falling, Aria pulled into the circular driveway at Noel’s house and shut off the engine. The house was dark, with only one of the porch lights lit. She checked the text on her phone again. Come at six, Noel had said—and it was six on the dot.
She stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, careful not to trip in her high heels. She was going to Mr. Marin’s fund-raising ball after this, an event she and Noel were supposed to attend together. Obviously, that was off. Aria wasn’t sure if Noel was planning to go anyway. A lot of kids from Rosewood Day would be there, after all.
Footsteps sounded from inside after she rang the bell. Noel opened the door quietly, not looking her in the eye. Aria almost gasped at his appearance. His face was puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed that morning, and he had the exhausted, heavy-lidded look of someone who hadn’t slept.
“I got your stuff together,” Noel said woodenly, turning and heading toward the den. Aria followed. The house was unusually quiet and still, with no TVs blaring or music playing or Patrice humming jovially in the kitchen.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
Noel sniffed, walking stiffly to a cardboard box that was sitting on the couch. “My mom went to that fund-raiser. My dad’s . . . somewhere.” He eyed her. “Why do you care, anyway?”
Aria flinched. It was weird to see Noel angry, especially at her. “I was just making conversation,” she said sheepishly. She grabbed the box and hefted it into her arms. “I’ll go, okay?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Noel growled.
But then he awkwardly swallowed. Aria turned around and met his gaze. She stared at him for a long moment, trying to convey that breaking up was the only way she could make things right.
Noel looked away. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, heading downstairs. He held the door open for her, and Aria mumbled good-bye and scuttled out. As she stepped off the porch, the box slipped from her grasp and spilled onto the brick path. She scrambled to pick up the spilled CDs, books, and T-shirts, and then felt a hand on her arm.
“Here.” Noel leaned down, his voice softening. “I’ll get that.”
Aria allowed him to gather up her things and load them back into the box. When she stood up, she saw something move at the back of the Kahns’ property. Someone was skulking around by the guest house. At first, she feared it was A, but then a spotlight beamed down on the figure’s tall blond hairdo, frilly dress, and clunky heels.
The figure turned in the light, revealing her face. Aria tensed. It wasn’t Mrs. Kahn . . . it was Noel’s father. In drag. At home.
Aria gasped before she could stop herself and, as if in slow motion, watched Noel’s head turn in the direction she was looking. “No!” she shouted, throwing herself in front of Noel to obstruct his view.
“What are you doing?” Noel asked.
“Um, I was . . .” Aria peeked over her shoulder. Mr. Kahn was gone. “I, um, thought I saw a bat swoop for your head.”
Noel stared at her like she was nuts. A long, tense few seconds passed. Shrugging, he helped put Aria’s stuff in the back of her car, then turned toward the house. At the same time, the front door creaked open. Mr. Kahn had gotten through the house and to the front door, and now he stood on the porch in his lipstick and dress. He gawked at Noel, then Aria. The blood drained from his face.
“D-Dad,” Noel stammered.
“Oh,” he croaked, his voice gruff and deep. “I-I thought no one was home.”
Mr. Kahn did an about-face and marched back into the house. Aria covered her face in her hands. But surprisingly, Noel was making no noise at all. No gasps, no violent freak-outs, nothing. She peeked at him through her fingers. Instead of staring at the front door, which Mr. Kahn had just gone through, he was gaping at her.