Finding Forever (19 page)

At home, a photo of Taylor filled Brooklyn's computer screen, her head shaved to the point of near baldness, crying. Underneath the photo was a block of text:

Sources exclusively reveal to STARSTALK that teen actress Taylor Prince has been holed up in a California rehab facility for the last three days following a drug-filled night of partying that ended with the once-revered star shaving her head and threatening to kill herself. Only STARSTALK can report that Prince is now being treated at an undisclosed addiction treatment center. Calls to Prince's rep went unanswered, but when contacted by STARSTALK via phone in Arizona, Prince's mother replied, “We are praying for our daughter. We have no further comment.”

As STARSTALK has reported exclusively many times in recent months, Prince has been secretly struggling with an addiction to opiate painkillers and other drugs, a habit enabled by her longtime assistant and friend, Simone Witten. Says a source: “The plan right now is to cut out all the bad people in Taylor's life, get her clean and back to the world-class talent she was before her slide.”

STARSTALK will remain on top of the story and will update with the latest developments.

Not only did Brooklyn feel betrayed by Simone, now she felt completely gullible, like an amateurish high school blogger rather than the kind of journalist she actually was.

She had been dumb enough to believe Simone's tall tale. Obviously, anyone who would invite a drug dealer to her friend's birthday party could not to be trusted. She knew sources with personal agendas often fed journalists misinformation to help their own selfish cause or interest, but fabricating an entire tale of kidnapping really took the cake!

She texted Simone.

                      
thanks for wasting my time, LIAR. Plz lose my #

Brooklyn paused. Feeling guilty, she added:

                      
but may God bless you . . . you need it.

Brooklyn was reading and re-reading the
STARSTALK
story, analyzing it for any clues as to who their sources might be, when Holden walked into her bedroom.

“Knocking go out of style?” Brooklyn asked.

“Sorry,” Holden said. “But what the heck's going on?”

“
This
is going on.” Brooklyn pointed at her laptop.

Holden leaned in. “So this was the story you had me helping you with?”

“Yeah, well, sort of. That girl at the track was telling me a different version of the story. Much different.”

“So Simone Witten was that source?”

“Usually I'd never reveal a source, but since she is looking like a totally bogus, lying sack of crap, I don't mind telling you that, yes, she is the idiot-liar source of mine.”

Holden put his hands on his hips. “But how often would you estimate that
STARSTALK
is right?”

“I don't know. Maybe half the time. If that.”

“So couldn't their story also have a fifty percent chance of being
wrong
?”

“Maybe.”

“And what was your dad's saying about most of the cases he investigated?”

“That there are always three sides to every story,” Brooklyn said. “The accuser's story, the accused's story, and then the truth.”

“So maybe the truth is somewhere in between the
STARSTALK
report and Simone's. I mean, why would Simone totally make up everything like that?”

“It's obvious. Simone could have been trying to cover her own butt because she knew all the dirt on her was about to come out. Think about it. It's your basic slick PR damage control. Get your side of the story out first since that usually becomes the storyline people are more likely to believe.”

“Fine, maybe Simone is lying,” Holden replied. “But what if she is right and
STARSTALK
is wrong?”

“Then I just blew it.” She sighed.

“Why?”

“Because I just told Simone to lose my number.”

“The results,” George announced from Taylor's bedside. “I have them here.”

The nurse removed the catheter from Taylor's arm, soaking up a dribble of blood and covering the wound with a cotton ball and single strip of white medical tape.

A pair of goateed security guards also stood in Taylor's room. George handed Taylor a copy of her toxicology report: A bullet-pointed list of all the substances for which she had apparently tested positive—heroin, cocaine, benzodiazepines, and amphetamines. As she read the report, George said, “Your
temporary
seventy-two-hour involuntary hold has been officially extended for another fourteen days.”

In other words, she was stuck for two more weeks inside an antiseptic land of creepy liars. “I've never done a drug in my life,” Taylor said.

Taylor flung the papers in the air and flew from her bed and across the floor toward the man. Clenching her right fist into a tight ball, Taylor twisted her body to the left and then snapped it to the right, the backside of her balled-up hand going smack into George's nose. Blood gushed from George's nostrils, as well as from Taylor's left arm where the IV puncture hadn't yet clotted.

The security goons tackled Taylor, and with one holding her by the feet and the other by her arms, they carried her thrashing body down the hall. The more she squirmed, the harder they squeezed.

“Let me go!”

When they reached the end of the hall, a steel door unlocked with a buzz. The men pushed the door open and
dropped Taylor on the tile floor in a windowless room smaller than her mansion's walk-in closet. All four walls were lined with thick padding. The men left, slamming the door shut behind them.