Imposter (12 page)

I KNOCK ON ANNALEIGH'S DOOR, BUT
she isn't answering. I try her phone but go to voicemail. Call Ryder, who assures me that he saw her to her room before leaving.

I ask the desk clerk if there's any way to check on her. “I'm worried,” I explain.

“She looked okay on her way to the fitness center earlier,” he replies.

Sure enough, Annaleigh is on a treadmill. She told me this relentless need to run is an attempt to escape her home life. One week in L.A. and it has caught up with her.

The display reads 9.2 miles. She's been running for an hour and twenty minutes. She should be coated in sweat, but she isn't. She should hear me approach, see me standing right beside her, but she doesn't. She just stares at the TV screens above her—a talk show wading through the day's juiciest gossip.

There are familiar photos of Annaleigh and her father. Annaleigh and me on the kiss cam. Then pictures of me: stills from
Romeo and Juliet,
a short clip from my first commercial, with Kris at the party, all moody looks and fancy clothes. The sound
isn't on, but it's obviously an attempt to show that we've grown up on opposite sides of the tracks.

“Annaleigh?”

My voice seems to awaken her, but she keeps moving. She must be dehydrated. I wasn't able to face breakfast. What's the likelihood that she has eaten today?

“Annaleigh,” I say, firmer this time.

She blinks, but doesn't stop. So I press the stop button for her, and watch her strides contract until she's only walking, then standing. When she steps off the machine, she almost falls.

I wrap an arm around her and lead her away. She should feel hot against me, but she doesn't. All the way to her room she leans against me for support. I'm certain that if I let her go, she'll collapse.

I tell her to lie down on the bed. Remove her shoes and socks, and cover her with the sheet. She pulls it tight against her—more for the feeling of security than need of warmth, probably.

“My full name is Rebecca Annaleigh Ware,” she says. “But I always wanted to go by Annaleigh.”

I sit beside her. Her eyes are open, but she isn't looking at me.

“I hoped it would be enough, using my middle name. Figured that with a new haircut and clothes, there was a chance no one would make the connection. I even kept my new cell phone number a secret from everyone back home, like I could make that life go away. Start over. How stupid does that sound?”

“This isn't your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I should've used a completely different name, but I wanted it to be
my
name in lights. I wanted something to be proud
of. Why wasn't I satisfied with just getting away?” She clicks her tongue—dry, parched. “At home, it never matters what I do. Nothing ever changes. But this movie could've made all the difference.” Anger flares across her face, but it's quickly extinguished. “Now I don't know what's going to happen.”

I fetch a glass of water. “You should've told me.”

“About my father? How he lost his job and started dealing stolen goods to make ends meet? How sometimes he'd come home with injuries he couldn't explain? I was afraid that if Ryder and Brian found out, they wouldn't want me anymore. Especially not once I told them I'm using the money to pay for his lawyer.”

It never occurred to me that she might still feel connected to her father.

“He's family,” she says, interpreting my silence. “I hate my parents, and I'm so angry at my dad. But he wouldn't hurt someone like they say he did.”

As she takes the glass from me, our fingers brush together. “Did Brian tell you to check on me?”

“No.”

“He already called. Wanted to know how long I'll need to get my head straight. That's how he said it, like I'm some kind of flake. It's only a matter of time before Sabrina gets my role.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“Oh yeah? How are you going to stop her?”

“I don't know. But you and me, we've dealt with too much crap to give up fighting now.”

Annaleigh shrugs. “You'd be really good together.”

“No, we wouldn't! Look, I'm not who you think I am.”

“So who are you? I don't know anything about you, either. Where do you live? Where's your mom? What
crap
have you dealt with?”

I don't want to talk about me—the timing doesn't feel right—but there's no camera recording us now. As Annaleigh squeezes my hand, I realize that maybe the right time to open up is when someone cares enough to listen.

“I grew up in Ohio,” I begin. “Summer before high school, Mom got a job at UC–Northridge. Something big in human resources. She had a month between jobs, so we took a road trip. We were in New Mexico when she got sick. Stomach pain. We tried to get her to go to the hospital, but she wouldn't. Toughed it out for three more days. Turned out, her appendix had perforated. They operated immediately. She seemed to be getting better when she became septic. She died the next day.”

I've told the story so many times that it has an almost clinical efficiency, like the synopsis to a play. I don't even cry anymore. But then, I don't need to. Annaleigh is crying for me.

“Why didn't your mom listen to you?”

It's what everyone asks—the seventy-eight-thousand-dollar question. “Because her new health insurance didn't kick in for another couple weeks. We were supposed to close on a house in Encino, but the bank pulled out when they realized we were on the hook for the hospital bills. Dad's stroke happened a few weeks later. He wasn't insured either. Gave it up when he quit his old job, because he was going to be covered by hers.”

Annaleigh runs her thumb in slow circles across my wrist. “I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“How could you? Like you say, it's not something I talk about.”

“How did you get over it? I mean, something like that . . . I just can't imagine.”

“I didn't. Not at first. But then I realized, you can't control everything. Stuff happens, and it'll happen again. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to keep going.” I savor the feel of her thumb against my skin. “This movie isn't over, Annaleigh. It's a dark moment, but we'll survive.”

Annaleigh stares deep into me. “We?”

“Yeah.
We.
”

Her thumb stops moving. Her bare arm rests on the sheets, fading summer tan against bright white. She watches me watching her.

I want to hold her. She's beautiful and strong and determined, and she cares about me. I care about her too.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth,” she whispers. “I was going to, at the party, but then Sabrina arrived . . .” She takes my hand and we twine fingers. “I won't compete with her, Seth.”

“I don't want you to.”

“I'm just saying, I'll never be Sabrina Layton.” She rolls away, so that I can't see her face. “I don't have a boyfriend, just so you know. The guy in the article, he dumped me last summer. Did it by text. Hasn't said a word to me since. But I guess I'm worth knowing again now.”

Our hands, still joined, rest on her hip. Her skin is warm beneath the sheet and the thin material of her shorts.

“Yes,” I say. “You are.”

DAD CALLS ME AROUND DINNERTIME. I
expected him to be back already. Job interviews don't usually take all day.

“I g-got it,” he says.

I've already prepared a sympathetic response, and it takes me a moment to switch gears. “That's . . . amazing!”

Amazing
might not be the best choice of adjective, but Dad makes nothing of it. “I worked this afternoon. Tomorrow I'll be f-full time.”

“So what's the job? Where're you working?”

“UC–Northridge.”

The words just sit there. Mom was supposed to work at UC–Northridge. It's why we moved out west. We always figured that Dad would get an accounting job there too, sooner or later, but after the stroke, all bets were off. Now we've come full circle.

“Which department?” I ask.

“A f-few of them. Wherever they . . . need me most.”

It can't be easy to manage accounts in several departments, so maybe he's doing audits. Not his favorite work, but between his income and mine, we'll be comfortable for the first time in years.

“I'm so proud of you, Dad. I mean it.”

“Thanks, son. Is G-Gant there?”

I pass the phone to my brother. As usual, he's sitting at the desk, studying photos of me and Annaleigh and Sabrina. He must already know Dad's news from my response, but he bubbles with excitement when he hears it firsthand.

A few seconds later, he turns to me. “Dad says I can stay here, if it's okay with you.”

“Sure, as long as you move to the sofa.”

Gant relays the information. “Seth's even letting me have the bed!”

My brother has a weird sense of humor.

Ryder goes ahead with the rehearsal the next morning, even without Annaleigh. She says she doesn't feel well, but we all know what the real problem is, and there isn't a pill to fix it.

Sabrina and I sit on opposite sides of the table and read aloud the latest version of Ryder's script. She warns me—her best friend, Andrew—not to get too involved with Lana. She tells me that I'm being irrational. She wonders why I don't trust her anymore. As Andrew, I assure her that she's wrong about everything. As Seth, I want to add that it's none of her business.

After half an hour, Ryder offers us headcams.

“No way,” says Sabrina. “Not now.”

Startled, Ryder turns to me. “You're going to be wearing them during filming,” he says.

I don't want to wear one either. I just want the rehearsal to end so I can check on Annaleigh. Then again, isn't it time Ryder got to call the shots?

Sabrina watches intently as I pull the strap over my head and adjust the camera.

“Remember,” says Ryder, “you can improvise. I
want
you to improvise. Scenes like this are tough and emotional, I get that, but the script is only a starting point. Let the dialogue flow.”

Sabrina reaches for the other headcam. It ought to be comical, watching Sabrina Layton strap a camera to her forehead, but she's not smiling. Like adversaries choosing pistols at dawn, we use the cameras as weapons in our duel.

“Only one headcam at a time, please,” says Ryder. “Seth, just put yours on the table facing Sabrina.”

It would seem petulant to point out that I was wearing my camera first, so I do as I'm told. All the same, the message feels familiar:
There's only one real star here.

“Do you love her?” asks Sabrina.

“What?” I reply.

“Lana. Seems to me, she's hooked you good.”

Earlier, Sabrina was reading the lines straight off the page. Now she's ignoring the script altogether. She stares at me, bristling with impatience and frustration and maybe even anger.

“I . . . yeah, she's special.”

“Special?” Sabrina makes the word sound trivial, childish.

“I like her.”

“Is that why you're shutting me out?”

“I'm not. Things are different now, that's all.”

“They sure are. You don't want to hear a word I say. Don't even want to look at me.”

I return my focus to her camera, unaware that I was even
looking away. “It'd help if you could just be normal for a change.”

Sabrina flares her nostrils. “So I'm right—you are shutting me out.”

“Not everything has to be about you.”

“Why can't you admit you hate me? Just
say
it!”

Silence hangs between us. A minute ago, she came out firing, but she's out of ammo now and vulnerable. I could go for the kill right here, but I'm not Andrew and Sabrina's not my best friend and this is feeling way too real.

“I don't hate you,” I say. “I just feel like things would be easier if you weren't around.”

She doesn't respond for several moments. Then she removes the headcam and places it gently on the table. “Good luck with that.” She stands, so that I'm staring up at her. “'Cause this is my story too, and I'm not going anywhere.”

As if to prove her point, she lights a cigarette and blows a stream of smoke across the table. I wait for Ryder to intervene, to chasten her for being out of line, but he doesn't say a word. It's like he's our audience, not a director at all, and he's afraid to break the spell.

Scripted reality has never felt more real.

Gant's waiting for me in my room. “Let's get out of here,” he says.

I don't argue. I want to get away too.

We leave the hotel, walking north on Rodeo. Then Beverly Drive. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Franklin Canyon.”

“Ever heard of taxis?”

“Ever heard of legs?” He glances over his shoulder. “So far, so good.”

I look too. “What's back there?”

“Nothing,” he replies enigmatically. “That's the point.”

He knows the canyons well. Not just Franklin, but Dixie, Fryman, Coldwater, Laurel. They run like fingers—some slender, some stubby—from the Santa Monica mountains. He used to bring his camera here and photograph the landscape. Then he'd put the pictures on a website. It's how he landed his first paid work.

He hasn't brought his camera today, though.

We don't have to go far into the park to feel apart from the city. One moment it's spread below us, the next it's disappearing. Gant stands on the threshold and surveys the gray concrete landscape under the steel-gray sky.

“Your stalker's taking the day off,” he says.

I follow his gaze back down the path. It's true—no one else is there. Which pretty much confirms what I already suspected: The stalker is more interested in Sabrina than me. What I still don't understand is why Sabrina doesn't seem to care.

We take Hastain Trail, a wide dirt path that slices up the east side of the canyon. Scrub smothers the hills, and it's quiet here. I feel like I could walk straight out the other end of the canyon, all the way home to Van Nuys, and discover that the past two weeks have been a dream.

After a mile, we stop to take in the view. A sliver of downtown L.A. is visible again, and my heartbeat quickens. “Let's keep going,” I say.

Gant follows, but stops a short distance later. “It's gone,” he says.

“What is?”

“The city. That's what was freaking you out, right?” I expect him to laugh—it's kind of ridiculous for me to get paranoid about an entire city—but he doesn't. “Did you know that someone dies in these canyons almost every year?”

I shake my head.

“Yeah,” he continues. “It's usually dehydration, or heat exposure. They can be two hundred yards from a road, but it still takes hours for rescue teams to find the body. Sometimes days. Even with four million people in the city. Ten million people in L.A. County.
Days
.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But the cast of
Whirlwind
can't stay out of the news for even one day.”

I get the feeling this is why he's brought me here—to talk about the movie. “Sabrina says it's not really news, most of the time. When people can't find anything to write about, they just make stuff up.”

“But they're not making it up, right? That's the whole point. It's like there's this huge file of photographs and fresh-squeezed gossip just waiting for the right moment to come out. First, it was a picture of you and Sabrina on the beach. Then the story about Kris and Tamara. Then you and Sabrina, redux. Then you and Annaleigh making out on the kiss cam. Then
bam!
Suddenly her father is front-page news too.” He watches me from the corner of his eye. “It's almost like someone has an agenda against all of you.”

I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “It's called making
money. Selling stories and photographs to tabloids and magazines. How else do you think Kris and Tamara's story got leaked?”

It's a throwaway remark, but Gant latches on to it. “
Leaked?
What do you know about it?”

“At the Machinus party, Sabrina told me that Kris and Tamara were dating in secret. Later on, I told Maggie.”

“Who's Maggie?”

“She was Ryder and Brian's intern. They fired her when she leaked the story to some magazine.”

“Does Kris know that?”

“No. He thinks it was Sabrina.”

Gant takes a water bottle from his backpack. “Let me get this straight. Kris thinks Sabrina ratted him out. Then he sees a picture of you two making out at the same party
he
was attending.” He takes a swig. “You can see why he might want to bring you all down, right?”

“Kris is an actor, not a mafia kingpin.”

“Do your research, Seth. He's a rich, powerful actor with very loyal friends. An actor no one is talking about anymore, because they're too busy talking about Seth Crane, the unknown guy who took his role
and
his ex-girlfriend.”

“Then why wouldn't Kris go after
me
? What's Annaleigh done?”

“She's part of the movie too. Maybe he's trying to shut the whole thing down. If the movie folds, you disappear along with it.” He hands me the bottle. “Look, there's no way your stalker took that photo of you and Sabrina at the party, not with a cell phone. Kris could've done it, though. That's probably why there
are photos of you and Annaleigh and Sabrina, but none of him. It'd also explain why he didn't sell the picture right away. He wanted to wait until it could do the most damage.”

“If Kris took those photos of Sabrina and me kissing, I would've seen him.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Gant finds a twig and sketches in the orange dirt: two stick figures, and a camera positioned high above us. “The downward angle of the photo was steep, like someone was shooting from above, right? I'm guessing whoever took it was camped out on a balcony. In the low light, you never would've seen him.”

He's all confidence and thinly disguised excitement. It may not be JFK and a rogue shooter and a grassy knoll, but Gant has a theory, and he's clearly given it a lot of thought. He has no idea that his account is completely implausible.

“There was no balcony.”

He brushes the objection aside. “A second floor, then.”

“The building was one story.”

“Well,
someone
took it.” He flicks the twig away.

This isn't about solving a problem—it's about holding someone responsible. Finding the cause of this bad luck, because bad luck has to have a cause. Gant looks like he did after Mom died, a preteen standing outside our father's hospital room, teeth gritted and fists clenched at his sides, waiting for someone to explain
why
it was happening. He still doesn't understand that bad stuff happens, and all you can do is pick yourself up and carry on.

“Maybe it was a security camera,” I say. “Mounted to the ceiling.”

He stares at me from under heavy brows. He thinks I'm trying
to placate him, the little brother with the crazy theories. “You and Dad, you're just the same.”

“Yeah, we both have jobs.”

“You don't even know what he's doing, do you?”

“He's doing accounting at UC–Northridge.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yeah. He said he's working in a few different departments.”

“Sure, as a
custodian
.” He gives the word time to sink in. “Not an accountant. He'll be cleaning toilets and polishing the freakin' sinks.”

I could say that someone has to do it, and that Dad sounded more excited last night than he has in a year, but Gant has made his point. I don't ask the important questions. I just want to see the silver lining. Want the future to look better than the past.

Even if that means closing my eyes.