Imposter (14 page)

WE PASS THE TURN FOR THE
reservoir and head on to Griffith Park, within sight of the city but somehow removed from it too. Barely a day goes by there isn't a film crew somewhere in the massive grounds.

Sabrina parks the car and gets out. “Come on,” she says.

“Where?”

“Please, just come.”

She leads me into nearby woods, secluded and quiet, and sits on a patch of grass. I join her so that we're side by side, close but not touching.

She undoes the clasp of her bag and removes a pouch of tobacco. Opens it, and stops. The internal debate plays out on her face: the need to smoke versus the fact that I don't like it. When she puts it away, I'm surprised.

Sabrina faces forward, not blinking, loose hair whipped about by the breeze. “No,” she says suddenly. “No, I can't do this.”

She grabs her bag and strides quickly away.

Is this Sabrina the actress? Or Sabrina the public figure? I can't believe the real Sabrina would resort to something so melodramatic.

I wait for her to drop the act. It's got to be hard to maintain that kind of energy without an audience. But she doesn't stop, and her shoulders are shaking.

I follow her at a jog. When I catch up, she's crying—not delicate tears either, but sobs that rack her body. Mascara streaks angry lines down her face.

I don't know this version of Sabrina at all. It's not a persona she'd want anyone to see, though. Not ever.

“Sabrina?” I sit down, and coax her to join me on the grass.

She crosses her legs, Indian-style. “The other night at the party,” she begins, “I didn't mean to be rude about you. That was stupid of me. Hurtful. But Kris said something at the bar, and I . . . I just panicked.”

“Go on.”

“He knew I kissed you. I don't know how he knew, but he did, and he told me I was embarrassing myself. That I needed to get a grip on my life. He said what I was doing to you was cruel.”

“So you were leading me on.”

“No. That's not it. He meant that, you know, things are complicated for me. And maybe you're not the best person to handle it.”

“Handle
what
?”

I wait for her to put the pieces together, and reveal the picture once and for all. Instead, she grabs fistfuls of hair and leans forward until her face is almost in her lap.

“I ruined everything,” she cries. “With you. With Annaleigh. I shouldn't have said that stuff about her. That was stupid.”

“So why did you?”

“Because I was jealous.” She takes a rasping breath. “It's not
fair what happened to her. But no matter what people say, she knows deep down that her father was the one who messed up. Not her. She's innocent.”

“And what about you?”

Slowly, she pulls herself upright. She looks me straight in the eye, but then turns away as if holding my gaze is too much. “I . . . I'm an addict,” she says quietly. “Pills mostly. Amphetamines to get up. Vicodin when I'm flying and need to come down. Other stuff too. Sometimes . . .
anything
.”

I feel the words as much as I hear them—icy fingers around my heart, a hand pressed tight around my neck. I want her to take them back. Start over.

“I've been trying to quit for over a year now, but . . .” She shakes her head sharply. “No, that's bullshit. I say I want to quit, but I don't. Not really.”

I don't know what to say. I feel like I can help Annaleigh because I know what we're up against. Drugs are different, though—a moving target, something that happens to other people, not the ones close to me.

“Does Kris know?”

Sabrina seems to have been expecting the question. Either that, or she has steeled herself to answer anything. “It's why we broke up. He gave me an ultimatum: him or the pills.”

“And then he left you.”

She pauses, and a sickening smile pulls at her lips. “No. I chose the pills.”

I try to imagine how such a conversation could play out, but what sane person could ever say those words?

“I don't know who I am anymore,” she says. “I imagine that I'm watching myself, trying to work out which version of me is real. I can't stand it, so I take something to make the doubt go away. And then I take more to keep it away.”

I think about Sabrina's weird behavior. How I never knew which version of her I was getting. “That evening on the beach—”

“I was clean, I swear. I wanted to prove to myself that I was in control. You helped me too. Kept me real for a few hours. But it was so
tiring
. You have no idea. And then, when I got home . . .” She doesn't finish the thought. She doesn't need to.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I want you to know the real me. Instead of being pissed, you should be pleased you get to walk away.” She stares at her nails, bold red and manicured, a perfect exterior to distract from what's inside. “I don't want you to walk away, though. I think, deep down, you still care, and I need to open up to someone. It's been so long since I could just . . .
talk
.”

“What about Genevieve?”

She pulls a strand of hair across her mouth. “No. I can't talk to her.”

“Sure you can. Ask her to visit. She'll come.”

“No, she won't. She'll never come again.” She sounds maddeningly certain. “Something happened. Something I can't take back.”

Another clue to the puzzle, but this piece will stay hidden. Friend or not, real Sabrina can't trust me with everything.

She told me not to believe the hype, the fiction of who she is. She
warned
me, even. But I thought I knew better. Hard to unlearn
assumptions accumulated over years of seeing her on film. But the truth is that Sabrina is more alone and confused than anyone I've ever met.

Three years ago, I watched helpless as Mom's insides were liquefied by infection. It was so all-consuming that I didn't notice what was happening to Dad until it was too late. I swore then that I would take care of Dad and Gant. Others too, if I could. But as Sabrina leans against me, crying warm tears into my hair, I feel lost. I try to tell myself that I'm being the friend she needs simply by being here. But I'm not. I'm just a spectator, as irrelevant now as I was at the beach.

What use is a friend who has no idea how to help?

GANT BOUNDS UP FROM THE DESK
CHAIR
.
“Where have you been?”

“Just . . . out. Why?”

He jabs a finger at my laptop. “You were right. The photo of you and Sabrina at the party was from a security camera.” He practically trips over the words.

The party. Sabrina seemed invincible that evening, sultry and seductive in a little black dress. I remember the way she looked at me, dark eyes constantly moving, like she was drinking me in. How much of it was real? How much was drugs?

“I didn't believe it at first,” Gant continues. “The image is too good. But then I realized, it's in a dark corner, so the camera would be calibrated for low light. A security camera would be mounted to the wall too, so there's no problem with shake. Suddenly you've got yourself some very valuable footage of Sabrina and Seth making out.”

“The party was at Machinus Media Enterprises,” I remind him. “Who could've gotten hold of security film?”

“I've got a theory about that,” he says. But instead of sharing it, he sits down and taps the keyboard. “Now take a look at this one.”

I join him at the desk. Another photo fills my laptop screen—Sabrina and me at the beach. A beautiful girl and her doting boy. A cigarette and a secret.

“I couldn't work out why the quality was so bad,” he says. “But then I thought about the security camera, and it hit me: This isn't a photograph. It's a captured image, like a still frame from a movie. I think you two were being filmed on that beach.”

“No. I already told you, I saw the guy. He had a camera with a long lens—”

“And I'm telling you that no self-respecting paparazzo produces an image this grainy. This is low resolution.”

“He was a hundred yards away. It was twilight.”

Gant's leg is bouncing up and down beneath the desk. “Doesn't matter. These guys are pros. They can get nude pics of celebs a mile offshore on a yacht, and the image is so clear you can recognize the actor's face. What angle was the guy shooting from, anyway?”

I think back to that evening. How Sabrina tilted her head toward the guy with the camera. Then she sat on the rock with her back to him.

“He was behind us,” I say.

“Behind you,” repeats Gant, leaving me to recognize the impossibility of the shot for myself.

“There weren't any other cameras, Gant. I would've noticed.”

“Really? Sounds to me like Sabrina had you fully focused on the guy behind you.”

He's got that look again—the one that says he's uncovered something important.

“You don't think Sabrina's behind this, do you?”

“It's possible.”

“No, it's not. Anyway, yesterday you said it was Kris. Now Sabrina. Why would she do that, huh?”

He can tell he's touched a nerve, even if he's not sure why. “To get people talking about you as a couple.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “Look, her ex-boyfriend is out of the picture, and Annaleigh's reeling because of her dad. But who's still standing? You and Sabrina, that's who. She's the common denominator. You see that, right?”

“Trust me, it's not her. Today she told me stuff . . . things she can't afford anyone else to know.”

“Like the story about Kris and Tamara? She told you that too, right? And then you shared it, just like she figured you would.” I shoot him a warning glance, but he plows on. “Worked out pretty well for her. A couple months ago, the press blamed her for breaking up with Kris. But in the past week, everything's changed. Kris looks like a lowlife, and Sabrina's the kindhearted star helping out the Hollywood newbie. And how do you repay her kindness? You hook up with Annaleigh as well.” He points at the photo again and wags his finger. “Sabrina's in control of this story, bro. Always has been.”

He has to be wrong. Sabrina just bared her soul. “What about the security video from the party? How did Sabrina get hold of that?”

“Probably knows someone at Machinus.”

“How could she be sure we'd be on camera?”

“She led you to that exact spot, right?” He stands and heads to the bathroom. “Point is, there's something weird going on. And you're starting to look like a prop in someone else's show.”

As I toggle back and forth between the photos, my phone rings. It's Brian, which probably means there's bad news, because, well . . . Brian
is
bad news.

“Is your brother there?” he asks. No greeting. No
Hi, Seth!

“Sure. Why?”

There's a pause. “With all the crap that's been going down—photographs, stories—I hired an investigator to see if there's a pattern. Someone behind it all.”

So Gant's not the only conspiracy theorist. I'd laughed at the idea once, but I'm not laughing now.

“My guy looked into that photo of you and Sabrina on the beach. It was sold through an agency, and they don't reveal the identities of their photographers. But that one of you and Annaleigh on Rodeo Drive . . .” His tone shifts. “It was sold by an individual. Someone we know.”

I wait for the reveal. Will it be Kris or Sabrina? And why do I still want it to be Kris?

Brian clicks his tongue. “Turns out, our mystery photographer is someone by the name of Gant Crane.”

I can't move. Can't breathe. “But . . . there's no way—”

“With all due respect, we're kind of pissed that in return for a free hotel room, your brother's trying to make some money off of us. Makes us wonder what else he's been up to.”

The bathroom door is closed. Gant's camera sits on the desk
beside the computer. I switch it on and scroll through the photographs, working back from the most recent. Three photos later, I stop. I recognize the scene: me climbing into Sabrina's Prius just a couple hours ago, looking shady and furtive as if I have something to hide. How would either of us look if this photo got out? What would Annaleigh say if she saw it?

“Did you know he was doing this, Seth?” Brian asks. His tone is gentle, but I don't trust it. It's the voice of Good Cop Brian, and Bad Cop Brian is a whole lot more convincing.

“No,” I say.

I keep scrolling through Gant's pictures. I'd almost forgotten about that photo of us on Rodeo Drive. Compared to all the other photos coming out, it was tame and inoffensive. But here are dozens more just like it, all taken from distance with maximum zoom.

“You're going to sort this out,” says Brian.

“Yeah,” I mumble. Then I hang up, because really, I have no idea
how
to sort it out.

The bathroom door clicks open. Gant steps out and sees the camera in my hands and the look on my face. “What's up?”

“You've been following me. Photographing me.”

He shrugs.

“You sold me out!”

“What? I haven't shown them to anyone.”

“One of them already appeared in a newspaper, Gant. I notice you've got some of me and Sabrina ready to go too.”

“I swear, I never—”

I punch the scroll key on his camera. Locate the photo of Annaleigh and me on Rodeo Drive. Turn the camera so he can see the screen for himself.

“I know how it looks, Seth, but someone else must've been next to me taking pictures as well.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Well then, maybe someone hacked into my photo library.”

“Why didn't you tell me that when the photo came out?”

“Because then you'd want to know why I was following you.”

“I still want to know!”

He looks away. “There's money in this, okay? If I can photograph you in secret and get good images, I can film other people too.”

I still don't believe he's telling the truth, and he still hasn't apologized. He just stands there, stony faced, no longer my little brother, my rock, but another rogue cell in a fast-spreading cancer.

“You stalked us, Gant. You're like a freaking Peeping Tom.”

“Are you serious?” He curls his lip. “Who spent his first night here ogling hundreds of images of Sabrina Layton, huh, Seth? I saw all the links in your search history.”

“I'd just met her at a party.”

“You met Kris too, right? How many photos of him did you pull up?”

This is crazy. I've done nothing wrong, so why am I on the defensive? “I think it's time you went home,” I say.

“I'm not going to leave you.”

“I'm not asking!”

He doesn't move. “You going to make me? Drag me past those photographers waiting on the curb? Let them shoot pictures of you stuffing your kid brother in a taxi? How's that going to play out with the fans?”

He knows he's got me. The story of rival siblings is almost as old as star-crossed lovers.

And the end is just as predictable.