Imposter (18 page)

I TAKE A TAXI TO MAGGIE'S
apartment building. Press the buzzer for apartment 17.

The sound of wailing over the intercom tells me she's not alone.

“It's Brian,” I say, sounding pissed.

“What?”

“Brian,” I repeat, louder.

There's a moment's hesitation. To my surprise, the door clicks open.

I walk inside, my footsteps echoing on the polished black-and-white tiled floor. A plush runner lines the stairs. Her apartment is on the third floor, halfway along. I knock once, hard.

She opens the door, catches a glimpse of me, and tries to close it again. I've already stuck out my foot, though. Arms wrapped around her baby, she can't stop me, from barging in.

She shrinks back. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“So talk.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Uh-uh. You're not here for an explanation. Like it would make any difference anyway.” As she pulls her baby closer, I step
away from her, hands raised like I'm surrendering. She tilts her head to the side, confused. “They're going to know you're here, Seth.”

“No, they're not.”

“They hear everything.”

“Only if this apartment is bugged. I left my cell phone at home, see?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You're smarter than I gave you credit for. But they'll still find out. Brian finds out everything eventually. He spent years in corporate security. Believes the best form of defense is offense. If I were you, I wouldn't want to find out what that means.”

“Like you did? I know you weren't supposed to come clean about selling the Kris and Tamara story.” I can tell I'm right because her mouth twitches. “It's the only time I've seen Brian lose it.”

She slides carefully into a leather armchair and rocks her baby. The studio apartment is large but empty—no pictures on the walls, or books on the built-in shelves. The stainless steel appliances in the kitchen are way more expensive than the ones we have at home, but they look unused. The four cardboard boxes stacked beside the door suggest that either Maggie hasn't been here long, or she's already planning to leave.

“Why are you doing this, Maggie?”

“Same reason as you. I wanted to work in the movies. Even took a job doing data entry at Machinus, all for a chance to break in.”

“Is that how you met Ryder?”

“Yeah. He sold me on the movie—scripted reality, the future of
low-budget filmmaking. Brian sold me on the perks—free apartment and good pay. They said a new kind of movie demanded a new kind of publicity. That was my job—to keep the project in the news.” She frowns. “They never told me what that really meant, though. How I'd be selling secrets to the media, so that Brian could cut me loose if anyone found out what was going on.”

“Why sell secrets at all? Why not save everything for the movie?”

“It's not easy keeping gossip under wraps. Some stuff was bound to leak out, so they figured they might as well profit off it. Plus, it's all free publicity, like a bunch of teaser trailers. Now that audiences know what's been going down, they'll want to see
how
it went down. Trust me, Brian's got it all figured out.”

“Then why'd you cross him?”

She bristles. “You know why—you were at the party too.”

“Kris told me to apologize to you about that.”

“This isn't just about a dress, or Kris, or even me. It's about you and Annaleigh too.”

I lean against the sofa, waiting for her to join the dots.

“I thought we were a
team,
” she continues. “All of us, in on the plan. But they screwed with you both from the get-go. Your first night here, some guy takes pictures of you and Kris. An hour later, Brian hands me the photos and a story about you . . . even tells me who to sell them to, and for how much money.

“Next thing, they're telling me to sell the story about Kris and Tamara having an affair. Only, I never told them about that, and when you showed up at the office freaking out, I realized you didn't either. Which meant that they must've recorded our
conversation.” She looks me right in the eye. “I always knew I'd have to fight to get ahead in this business, but not like this. Forget
scripted reality
—this is freaking invasion of privacy. They don't care what happens to you and Annaleigh, and it's pretty clear they've set you up to be the bad guy. That's not
real
. It's just bullying.” She nuzzles her baby. “If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that bullying sucks.”

“So why didn't you tell someone what was happening?”

“I tried to tell
you,
remember?”

“I mean someone in the press.”

“I signed a nondisclosure, same as you. That office was the only place I could admit what I was doing, and get away with it.”

Seeing it through her eyes, it must have seemed foolproof. Hearing her confession, who wouldn't step back and take a little time to think things through? But Brian knew my weak spot—with a stack of bills in my hand, and the promise of better days ahead, I cast Maggie as a loose cannon, and trusted Brian more than ever.

“Brian came to see me here later that afternoon,” she continues. “Told me to pack up and get the hell out. Said the apartment was a perk of the job. I was supposed to have it for three months, and I had nowhere else to go. So like a freaking coward, I said I was sorry and promised to keep selling his damn stories.” She holds her baby a little tighter. “I should've realized he was playing me again. The landlord stopped by this morning. Turns out, Brian only paid for this place through the end of this month. If he doesn't pony up next month's rent, we get kicked out tomorrow.”

I perch on the edge of a coffee table—not because I want to sit,
but because I don't want to stand over her. It's time to share my plan, and intimidating Maggie isn't going to bring her around.

“What if you could get money another way?” I ask.

“How?”

“I could do a tell-all interview with you about my life. Nothing off-limits. All the photographs you want. You know how much these stories are worth, and how to sell them. You could start over.”

“And you'd do that for me, right?” She turns away. “I'm not stupid, Seth. I can smell a trap.”

“Not a trap. A trade.”

“For what?”

My knee is bouncing up and down. I clamp it in place with my right hand. “I need to borrow your office key. And I need the alarm key code.”

“You're not serious.”

“It's only for a few hours. They won't even know I'm there.”

“They're
tracking
you.”

“I'm telling you, they'll never know.” I can tell from her expression that she's still not convinced. “Even if they do find out, you'll still get the interview.”

“And what would I do with it? I already told you: I signed a nondisclosure agreement. If I sell a story about the film, they'll come after me.”

“So write a story about me instead. You could even get someone else to sell it, so they won't know you're the source. If anyone knows how to pull that off, it's you.”

She places her cheek against her baby's head and falls silent.
She's probably wondering whether to relay this conversation to Brian. Telling him about my visit could get her back into his good books.

“You said it yourself, Maggie: They tricked
us
. When the movie comes out, no one is going to believe you and me and Annaleigh weren't in on the whole thing. But
we
know.”

She bites her lip. “So when do I get this story of yours?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How do I know you'll follow through?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word?” She laughs, and her baby stirs.

“What else do you want?”

“I want you to look at us,” she says. “I need you to know that if you screw up, it won't just be me you're hurting.”

I look at the baby—tiny, rosy-cheeked, and bald except for a tight swirl of soft blond hair. “I promise I won't let you down.”

She exhales slowly. “Key's under the coffeepot.”

I head to the kitchen and lift the pot. “It's not here.”

“Try the countertop.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Hold on. Let me look.” She leans forward and tries to stand, but the chair is low and she's still holding her baby.

“Here. Let me take her.”

Maggie pulls her baby closer than before. Then, as I hold out my arms, she passes the child to me. I rest the tiny girl on my forearm and chest. Cradle her head against my neck, her quick breaths warm against my skin.

The key is under an electric kettle. “Two-zero-zero-one is the
code,” Maggie says. “You have thirty seconds to enter it. Then the alarm starts.”

“Does it stop once you enter the code?”

“Yeah. But the security company will still come to check it out.” She leaves the key on the counter. “If you set off the alarm, don't stick around to be a hero. Get out and bring me my key. I can't risk us getting hurt over you.”

“I'll get out. I promise.” I gently pass her baby back. “How do they plan for this to end, Maggie?”

“I don't know. But if they're kicking me out of here in the morning, I'm guessing it'll all be over soon.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

I take the key from the counter and leave.

Outside, the street is dark and mostly empty. There's a taxi in the distance, so I hail it.

The driver is in the mood for small talk, but I'm too distracted for that. It's not until he mentions the car behind us that I take any notice of him.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I'm wondering why that guy doesn't pass me,” the driver repeats. “He just ran a red.”

I spin around. I can't see the car that's following us because of the glare of headlights, but I can make out the first couple letters of the license plate.

It's my stalker again. And this time, the sight of me staring back doesn't deter him at all.

I TELL THE TAXI DRIVER TO
pull over a block from Beverly Gardens Park. The green Mazda continues a short distance, and stops. My stalker is probably calling Brian right now, letting him know that I just visited Maggie. I can't even warn her.

I hide behind the canopy of a cypress. Fifty yards away a sign spells
Beverly Hills
in golden letters. There's a hum from the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard across the park.

In the glow from the streetlamp I see the guy emerge: jeans and black hoodie, curly hair sticking out beneath a baseball cap. He heads in my direction, eyes flitting from left to right as though he's the one being pursued.

Someone's running along the gravel path in the middle of the park. I don't want to take my eyes off my pursuer, but the rapid footsteps are growing louder. Too late, it occurs to me that they might be Gant's footsteps.

My brother slows up as he approaches the sign. His hood is down, face visible because he wants me to see him.

What if my pursuer recognizes Gant? He'll report back to Brian and Ryder that my brother is still around. Without the
element of surprise, there's no way Gant will be able to break into the office.

Thankfully the guy is focused on tracking me. He's closing in too.

Gant comes to a complete stop and the park falls silent. That's what finally gets the guy's attention. He turns slowly to check out the figure by the Beverly Hills sign. Pulls out his phone and touches the screen, illuminating his face. Gant, the most innocent of several innocent victims, turns toward the light, unaware that he's looking directly into the eyes of our enemy.

Instinct takes over. The guy doesn't see me coming, doesn't even hear me until I'm a yard away. As he turns I throw myself at him, feel the crack of bone against bone, and the wind driven from his lungs as he crashes to the ground. His phone clatters away.

He sweeps his arms across the ground, grasping for his phone. I keep him pinned down, though, and he can't reach it. He grunts with each shallow breath.

“I'm done, you hear me?” I growl. “I'm
done
.”

He continues to slap at the ground, fingers inches from his phone. “No, you ain't. Not until he says so.”

“You can tell Brian to go to hell!”

“Who's Brian? I ain't heard of no Brian.”

“Then who are you talking about?”

When he doesn't answer, I wrench his arm. “Kris,” he cries.

My chest tightens. “Kris and I are working together.”

“Uh-uh. You working for Kris, but he ain't working for you. Don't trust you. Not since you got in with Sabrina.”

“He told you to follow me?”

“No, man. Told me to follow
her
. But she's in rehab now, so I'm on to you instead.” He hisses through closed teeth. “And you ain't behaving like you're innocent.”

He makes a sharp movement, but I jam my knee into the base of his spine. His cry carries across the park.

“How did you text me? Kris didn't even know my number.”

“Sure he did. That producer guy gave him all your numbers, soon as they started talking.”

“So, what—you were trying to scare me?”

“No man. I was trying to wake you up. Kris said you're like a racing dog with blinders on—soon as you spot a rabbit, you don't got room for nothing else. Think about it: You arrive, and things start getting weird. Sabrina sees you yesterday, and now she's on the front page. If you ain't the problem, you sure as hell know who is.”

A couple is heading toward us, drawn by his cry and our shadowy outlines. Two women. One pulls a cell phone from her pocket.

I've got more questions, but I'm not sticking around for the cops to arrive. My guess is that this guy won't either. So I push off him and sprint for the shadows. Rejoin the gravel path beyond the sign. Keep running in the direction Gant must have gone.

Several yards ahead of me, Gant slides out from behind a tree. “What going on?” he whispers furiously.

“Forget about it. That guy won't bother us anymore.”

“Yeah, but Brian and Ryder might.” Gant taps his pants pocket
lightly to remind me about the cell phone. “Don't worry. It's wrapped up real tight. But we'd better get moving.”

We walk briskly along the path together. I retrieve Maggie's key from my pocket and hand it to him. “The alarm code is two-zero-zero-one,” I say, voice low.

“
Two Thousand and One: A Space Odyssey
. Way to ruin the movie for me.” He grunts. “You sure we can trust her?”

I picture Maggie holding her baby, the look in her eyes as she reminded me of my promise. “Yeah.”

The lights of the Beverly Hills business district cut through the trees, beckoning us back to the madness. We keep a quick pace—important to give Brian a moving target—but I'm cold in the aftermath of the fight.

“What's your plan?” I ask.

“I'm going to wait till after ten. No way anyone's going to leave a New Year's Eve party that close to midnight. Once I'm inside the office, I'll do whatever I have to do.” He pulls a black hat from a carrier bag. “It's a designer label,” he says. “Got to look my best when I'm breaking in.”

He wants me to smile, but I'm too worried for that. “Here,” I say, pulling bills from my wallet. “Get something to eat. I'd tell you to save some for a taxi, but you probably don't want to take a taxi from the scene of a burglary.”

“Probably not.”

“Listen. Please take—”

“Care. Yeah, I know.” He stuffs his free hand in his pocket. “If there's a car parked there, I bail. If anything feels weird, I bail. If a butterfly flaps its wings in China, I bail.”

“I'm serious, Gant.”

He takes out my phone and hands it to me. It's wrapped in a dozen napkins, and feels a lot heavier than it actually is. “I know you are,” he whispers. “And I'd still prefer to break into an empty office building than deal with whatever they've got in store for you tonight.”