If Gemma Zhang can find her, so can I.
It’s been too long since I put my online stalking skills to use. I spend an afternoon in my office at the studio, hunting down Tori Eldritch and Randall Pratt.
This is something I’ve been intending to do for some time now. I want to know exactly where those two are living and what they’re up to.
Randall is surprisingly difficult to locate.
I assume somebody other than myself is interested in breaking his kneecaps, because his supposed address was only a rented office space, with no car registered under his name.
I still manage to find a phone number that I’m pretty sure is a working cell.
He answers the second time I call.
“What?”
Rough as a bag of rocks rolling around in the back of a truck—just like Mara said.
The voice I plan to use is clear and friendly, with a slight Midwest twang. The kind of voice designed to disarm Randall without quite mimicking him.
“Hey there Mr. Pratt. My name’s Kyle Warner. I write for the Chronicle, and I’m doing a story on an artist named Mara Eldritch. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
A long pause.
“Not interested,” Randall grunts, rustling the phone like he’s about to hang up.
“Well, hang on!” I say. “Could ya at least confirm a quote I got from her mother Tori Eldritch?”
Another pause, even longer.
I hear his heavy breath on the other end of the line.
“You talked to Tori?”
“That’s right.”
“In person, or over the phone?”
“I flew up to speak with her.”
“Flew where?”
Now it’s my turn to let a brief silence fall between us. Keeping my tone cheerful, I say, “Well, we can discuss that in person. I need another source for this article. Pay’s five hundred bucks, and it won’t take but a little of your time.”
Breath. Breath. Heavy breath. Hot and wet in my ear.
“Alright,” Randall grunts. “I’m in La Crescenta. You can meet me at a pub called The Black Dog.”
A smile spreads over my face where Randall can’t possibly see it.
“Perfect.”
Mara and I drive out to Burbank together. She’s going to be interviewed for the DBS morning show.
“I don’t know if I want to be on TV,” she tells me, raising her hand to her mouth, then quickly putting it back down on her lap, twisting her fingers together in anguish.
She got a manicure and doesn’t want to fuck it up.
“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. “I’ll be right there with you, watching the whole time.”
“What do you think they’ll ask me?”
“Nothing challenging—it’s a morning show, for fuck’s sake. If they weren’t talking to you, they’d probably be interviewing the lady who baked the world’s biggest donut.”
“They should interview her,” Mara laughs. “What an accomplishment.”
“You know we have to be at the studio at 4:15 a.m. for hair and makeup.”
“Are you serious!?” she cries. Mara’s not an early riser.
“That’s why they call it a morning show—‘cause it’s at the goddamned crack of dawn.”
“I’m so nervous. I’m not gonna sleep a wink.”
“Do you want an Ambien? I brought two with me.”
She considers, tapping one nicely polished nail against her lower teeth. “What if I can’t wake up in time?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll set an alarm.”
“Alright,” she agrees, sighing in relief. “Otherwise I’ll be exhausted.”
We settle in at the Chateau Marmont, where I’ve booked us a suite overlooking Sunset Boulevard. I thought Mara would like its architecture and the Old Hollywood history.
“Howard Hughes lived here,” I tell her. “Desi Arnaz would come stay whenever he was fighting with Lucille Ball. Bette Davis almost burned it down—twice. And Sharon Tate moved out of the hotel six months before she was killed. John Belushi and Helmut Newton both died here.”
I looked all this up beforehand, knowing it would interest her. Mara likes anything historical, tragic, or glamorous.
“The hotel’s in lots of movies, too,” I continue. “La La Land … A Star Is Born …”
“Really?” Mara gasps. “La La Land’s one of my favorites.”
“I know,” I laugh. “You play that one song from it all the time.”
“That’s right,” Mara says, pleased that I remembered.
Our room isn’t as luxurious as some of the places I’ve stayed, but Mara is never picky. She runs around the room, admiring the old-fashioned furniture and striped wallpaper.
She’s keyed up about the interview, equal parts giddy and terrified.
“I always think I want attention until I actually get it … I hope I don’t say something weird that gets turned into a meme. Like when Brett Kavanaugh told everybody he was a virgin in school, and for ‘many years after.’ ”
Mara shudders, imagining her face splashed all over templates.
“All publicity is good publicity.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“It is when you’re this hot,” I say, seizing her and throwing her down on the bed, which creaks and groans beneath her.
“Wait,” she says. “Give me the Ambien first.”
“You sure? Those things are strong.”
“Yeah. I like that floating feeling in sex. Like I’m half in my body and half out. Like you could do anything to me …”
My heart rate spikes as a gallon of adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream. I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep control of myself.
“You kinky little fuck.”
I hand her the small pink pills and a bottle of water stamped with the hotel’s logo. Mara tosses down the pills, chugging half the water as well.
“Perfect.” She grins.
She’s full of rowdy energy, amped up with nerves and excitement. She pushes me back on the bed, saying, “Sit there.”
I lean back against the pillows, waiting to see what this wild little thing has in mind.