Alyson Noel - Blacklist

For Charlie and Rachel, my A-list friends

No man is rich enough to buy back his past.

—OSCAR WILDE

Breaking News: Discovery of Blood-Soaked Dress Leads to Arrest of Night for Night Party Promoter!

By Trena Moretti

Just in—Mere hours after teen heartthrob Ryan Hawthorne was called in for questioning regarding the disappearance of his former girlfriend, Hollywood A-lister Madison Brooks, Los Angeles police received an anonymous tip leading to a blood-soaked dress thought to belong to Night for Night party promoter Aster Amirpour.

While the official statement released by the LAPD states that tests are under way to determine the source of the blood, an LAPD insider assures us they’ve received confirmation that the blood on the dress is a match for the missing celebrity.

According to our sources, the dress was turned over to police when a W Hotel employee became suspicious.

“I was only doing my job, which requires me to double-check the number and type of clothes found in the guest’s laundry bag with the number and type of clothes the guest logged onto the form,” said the employee, who wishes to remain anonymous. “This is the same standard procedure we always follow before we send the laundry out to our vendor. You would not believe how many people don’t know the difference between a chemise and a dress. Anyway, in the middle of checking I noticed that a black dress had been improperly marked as a blouse. When I looked closer, I saw that the dress was covered in large dark stains that struck me as suspicious. It was then that I alerted my boss and they took it from there. If it really is the blood of Madison Brooks, then all we can do is pray for that poor young girl, because it really was an awful lot of blood. The dress was completely covered in it.”

At the time of writing, Aster Amirpour was being booked into LA County Jail. We’ll have more as this story develops.

Cover

Title Page

ONE: GIRL AFRAID

TWO: HEART-SHAPED BOX

THREE: THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHERF * * * * R

FOUR: WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT

FIVE: I WOULD DIE 4 U

SIX: HOTLINE BLING

SEVEN: THE BITCH IS BACK

EIGHT: SHE SELLS SANCTUARY

NINE: ROCK AND ROLL, HOOCHIE KOO

TEN: BEEN CAUGHT STEALING

ELEVEN: RUDE BOY

TWELVE: LOVE DROUGHT

THIRTEEN: CAN’T FEEL MY FACE

FOURTEEN: WHISPER TO A SCREAM

FIFTEEN: ALL APOLOGIES

SIXTEEN: MUSIC TO WATCH BOYS TO

SEVENTEEN: ’TIS A PITY SHE WAS A WHORE

EIGHTEEN: PAINT IT BLACK

NINETEEN: BUILDING A MYSTERY

TWENTY: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER

TWENTY-ONE: GUILTY FILTHY SOUL

TWENTY-TWO: EX’S & OH’S

TWENTY-THREE: USED TO LOVE YOU SOBER

TWENTY-FOUR: DRINK YOU AWAY

TWENTY-FIVE: THE KILLING MOON

TWENTY-SIX: DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND

TWENTY-SEVEN: DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP

TWENTY-EIGHT: YOU SHOOK ME ALL NIGHT LONG

TWENTY-NINE: OUR LIPS ARE SEALED

THIRTY: BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE

THIRTY-ONE: WALKASHAME

THIRTY-TWO: VICTIM OF LOVE

THIRTY-THREE: ENTER SANDMAN

THIRTY-FOUR: CALLING ALL ANGELS

THIRTY-FIVE: WATCHING THE DETECTIVES

THIRTY-SIX: EVIL WAYS

THIRTY-SEVEN: INTERSTATE LOVE SONG

THIRTY-EIGHT: ALL THE YOUNG DUDES

THIRTY-NINE: JANIE’S GOT A GUN

FORTY: HIGHWAY TO HELL

FORTY-ONE: HOTEL CALIFORNIA

FORTY-TWO: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

FORTY-THREE: FIGHT SONG

FORTY-FOUR: GANGSTA’S PARADISE

FORTY-FIVE: DON’T FEAR THE REAPER

FORTY-SIX: SUGAR, WE’RE GOIN’ DOWN

FORTY-SEVEN: DIRTY LAUNDRY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

Madison Brooks grudgingly surrendered the fading remnants of her dream and blinked into the blackness before her. The room was soundless, still. The air hung weighty and stale. Despite the promise of sleep, her waking life remained a living hell.

While she had plenty of fears—fear of forgetting her lines during a live performance, fear of her secret past being revealed—a fear of the dark had never been among them. Even as a child she understood that the mythical monster dwelling under the bed could only pale in comparison to the all-too-real parental monsters getting high in the den.

And it was no different now.

She pushed away from the soiled mattress she’d slept on and crept toward the solid steel door, alerted to any hint of scent, sound—anything that might provide a clue as to who had taken her, where they had taken her, and why. Over thirty days spent in captivity, and Madison was no closer to answers than the night she’d been snatched. She’d gone over the incident countless times—the memory playing on a continuous loop as she searched frame by frame, hunting for revelations, some small but crucial detail she might’ve missed. Yet every viewing remained stubbornly the same.

She’d broken up with Ryan only to be rescued by Tommy, and after sharing a few beers (along with a few memorable kisses), she’d received a text from Paul instructing her to meet him at Night for Night, and she’d fled without question. Though she should’ve known the moment she arrived at the closed and empty club that something had gone terribly wrong. Paul was professional. Punctual. If he’d truly intended to meet her, he would’ve been there already. She’d walked straight into a trap, but that was all hindsight now. Yet another item to add to the long list of things she’d chosen to ignore until she found herself with nothing but time to second-guess and berate herself.

How could she have been so trusting? So naive?

Why had she continued to wait on the terrace, reminiscing about a past she was desperate to keep buried while ignoring her gut instinct that urged her to flee?

Last thing she remembered was a curl of wind at her back, the wisp of a scent she still couldn’t place; then a hand was clasped firmly over her mouth and time folded in on itself.

And now, several weeks later, she remained locked in a windowless cell that offered little more than a sink, a toilet, a bare mattress tossed on the floor, and a succession of bland, lumpy meals served three times a day.

Not a single sign of her captor.

Not a clue as to why she’d been taken.

Her diamond-encrusted Piaget watch, the hoop earrings Ryan had given her, the Gucci stilettos she’d worn, and the cashmere wrap she now used as a blanket served as the only reminders of her former Hollywood It Girl status.

If it was money they were after, they would’ve stripped her of the luxuries long ago. Allowing her to keep them seemed almost cruel. Like they wanted her to remember who she’d once been, if only to show her how quickly they could strip it away.

She sprawled on the cold cement floor with her legs splayed before her, wondering, as she always did, what was happening outside the cinder-block walls. Surely the whole world knew of her disappearance. There was probably even a task force specifically assigned to her case. So why was it taking them so long to find her? And more importantly, why hadn’t Paul directed them to her when he was the one who’d insisted on embedding the microchip tracker into her arm, just under the burn scar, in anticipation of this very thing?

Right on schedule, the lights switched on—sending the fluorescent bulbs flickering, humming, and washing the room in a garish green glow. A moment later, when the slot snapped open, Madison crouched right beside it, stretched her mouth wide, and screamed from the very depths of her belly.