1 I learned of Molly Byrne''s death the same way I learned the top ten exercises for toned abs, or what movies were playing at the nearest Cinemark, or whether my ex-boyfriend from college was currently seeing someone. In short, it was the internet that told me Molly was dead. Not a friend, not someone from her staff, not even the anchor of my usual morning news show. It was the internet, cold and unfeeling, in badly kerned Helvetica font. The home page of my web browser announced that she had been found early that morning, and a quick search turned up any number of articles from sources ranging from the Associated Press to the soul-sucking realm of Celebritease. I lived alone, so there was no one to share the news with. Molly was dead. She had died.
She was just . gone. There was a feeling of absolute unreality about it. Like if I closed my laptop, it would no longer be true. Or if I picked up my phone and called Molly right now, she would answer. More than three months ago, the idea of having Molly Byrne''s phone number would''ve sounded absolutely absurd to me. But somehow, remarkably, we had become friends. In fact, I had seen her just last night.
Just over twelve hours ago. And now . It didn''t make any sense. I couldn''t believe it. I didn''t want to. I grabbed my cell phone and brought up her contact info, even though I knew it was nonsensical. As the phone rang, I looked at the headline currently front and center on the People home page-large, bold letters above a photo of Molly exiting an SUV, one hand held up to shield her eyes from flashbulbs: MOLLY BYRNE DEAD AT 24, FAMILY ''DEVASTATED'' The phone clicked midring. For a second, my breath caught.
"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system," a robotic preset message said. Her number was "not available. At the tone, please record your message, and when you are finished recording you may hang up or press one for more options-" I hung up. I had brewed a cup of tea before I sat down and opened my laptop. It was stone-cold now. I picked it up and took a sip anyway. I thought of Molly''s kitchen, and her mismatched tins full of bags of Earl Grey and English breakfast. Tears pricked my eyes, but I forced myself to blink them away.
I was not a crier. I prided myself on that, though part of me wondered if I never allowed myself to cry because I knew that once I started, it would be extremely difficult to stop. There was a knock at my door. I squeezed my eyes shut. Anton, maybe? He would enter in a haze of lavender, and he would make me new tea, and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I wouldn''t believe him, but it would help to hear it anyway. Regrettably, it wasn''t Anton. When I opened the door, two people were standing on the concrete walkway outside my apartment-a man and a woman, both wearing generic, crime-scene-procedural-type clothes.
"Rachel West?" The guy was tall and good-looking, shades of David Boreanaz circa Angel. The woman had an athletic build and an attractive face, an Eva Mendes type. Celebrity bullshit gets into your bones. It replaces the marrow. I thought briefly of the med school dreams of a Rachel West past. Then I cleared my throat. "Yes?" "I''m Detective Lee," the man said. "This is Detective Ruiz.
We''re with the LAPD." They each gave the perfunctory flash of a badge. "We''d like to speak with you about Molly Byrne." Detective Ruiz''s tone was clipped. "May we come in?" I opened the door wider to let the detectives in. As I went to close it behind them, I caught sight of one of my neighbors taking a bag of trash out to the dumpster. She was peering my way with interest. This was surely not the first time the cops had ever visited the Palm Vista apartment complex, but it was definitely the first time they had come to see me.
I shut the door quickly and turned to face the two detectives. They were surveying my apartment: the trays from half-eaten frozen meals in the sink of the little kitchenette, the ladybug Pillow Pet on my thrift-store couch, the well-worn sneakers and slides in a haphazard pile by the door. I''m sure they easily noted the things that didn''t fit-the Fendi sunglasses on my coffee table, the stack of Louboutin boxes next to the TV. Then they looked at me, and maybe they knew I was Rachel West, recently minted entertainment reporter for Icon magazine. Probably they were judging me, trying to understand a situation in which one plus one somehow added up to negative five. Ruiz had beautiful uptilted eyes that were perfectly lined. She looked like someone who drank kale juice and did the Bar Method. She was definitely judging me.
Lee''s expression was deliberately neutral. He was certainly good-looking, though how conscious he was of that fact, I couldn''t tell. In my experience, there was kind of an inverse relationship to it here in LA-the less aware of being handsome a guy was, the more attractive he became. I realized that no amount of useless analysis of this pair was going to change the situation. So I cleared my throat. "Do you want to sit down?" Ruiz gingerly moved my Pillow Pet to one side. Both detectives sat down on the couch. I took a seat in the adjacent chair.
"We''ve got witnesses placing you at Molly Byrne''s house yesterday evening," Ruiz said without preamble. "Her security team says you were there between eight and eight thirty. Is that correct?" The feeling of unreality intensified. I was being interviewed by the police. About Molly. Because she was . because she had . "Yeah.
Is she-" It was pointless to ask. I knew it was. But that didn''t stop me. "Is she really dead?" "Yes," Ruiz said bluntly, at the same time that Lee said, "I''m afraid so," in a somewhat gentler tone, and then they both glanced at each other for a fraction of a second, as if each was disappointed by the other''s approach. "How did Molly seem last night?" Lee asked. "What do you mean?" "Was she upset? Acting differently than usual?" A lump had formed in my throat. "Is it true? What everyone''s saying." I gestured toward my computer, like that somehow encompassed it.
Everyone. "That it was-that she overdosed." "The investigation is ongoing," Ruiz said. "Was it on purpose? Or was it an accident?" Their answer seemed imperative. Just how oblivious were you last night, Rachel? Just how stupid were you not to realize that she was struggling? "Do you think she did it on purpose?" Ruiz''s expression was unyielding. "I''m afraid we can''t share that kind of detail at the moment." "How did she seem?" Lee pressed, but not unkindly. I met his eyes, which were a warm brown.
"I mean, kind of on edge, but . also kind of far away, I guess?" I swallowed hard. "But she would get like that sometimes. I just thought she was ." The words stuck in my throat. "She''s been doing a lot of promo lately. I just thought she was tired." "What was the nature of your relationship with Ms.
Byrne?" I had known Molly Byrne for three months. It felt like much longer, but at the same time, now, impossibly short. "Friends," I said. "We were friends. I ." How could I describe the bathroom at Lithium? The Corail Aquatique and everything that came after? "We met at a club, and then later, I ended up interviewing her for the magazine where I work. She gave me an exclusive." "About what?" "Her breakup with Dax Van Sant.
" A pause. "Her sobriety." I blinked against the fresh sting in my eyes. "We kind of just . hit it off. She doesn''t-didn''t-have a ton of friends. Neither do I." My heart squeezed painfully at the realization: Now I have one less.
The two detectives proceeded to ask me a slew of questions. Was anyone else at Molly''s house when I arrived? Did I know of any medications or recreational drugs that Molly was taking? Did I see her take any last night? Where did I go after I left her house? Could anyone vouch for my whereabouts? When the questioning finally wound down, both detectives stood and thanked me and then headed toward the door. Ruiz had her hand on the knob, but Lee lingered for a moment. "I''m sorry," he said. "About your friend." I nodded. He was the first person to say this to me. "If you think of anything else, this is my number.
" He handed me a card. I accepted it, and then watched as the pair headed away. 2 IN COMPLETE SHOCK, Anton texted me. He always texted in all caps, as he considered case-sensitive to be "too much hassle." Once, I pointed out that he could type entirely in lowercase letters instead. He replied that lowercase was INCOMPATIBLE WITH HIS LIFESTYLE. My phone buzzed again, three times in short succession. IM DEVASTATED FOR YOU AND FOR MOLLY SHE WAS SO VIBRANT It was the same kind of thing people were saying on TV and online-She was a beautiful soul.
So full of life. She will be so missed. And the think pieces were pouring in already: Hounded by paparazzi, crucified by the media-is the entertainment industry to blame for the death of Molly Byrne? But this was personalized: I''m devastated for you. I''m sorry about your friend. My phone screen swam before my eyes. I looked away, blinked hard, and then typed back: