Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Dec. 30 – Saw something I shouldn’t have at the warehouse. A room with a table. Someone strapped down. A hit job? A sex thing? Getting out as soon as I can. This isn’t worth it. What if they somehow connect me to this stuff? What if I’m a patsy?
Jan. 8 – Leaving this diary at L’s apartment. If something happens to me, she’ll know why. Lena, in some ways I hope you’re reading these words. The Europeans are dangerous. The ones that work for Mickster. Maybe even Bugsy. I don’t know how deep this goes and I don’t want to know, but this is beyond the normal. I’m done. My final job (and I mean it!) is tomorrow night at the Biltmore, 8:30. For the first time they didn’t just promise me any screen tests or meetings. They promised enough money to disappear afterward. Don’t trust them but need the cash to get to SF.
The last entry. The job she never returned from.
My eyes skim the descriptions of the Europeans—a tall man, built like a boxer, with dark hair and cold blue eyes. The striking blonde woman with a heavy accent who moved with unusual grace, a Veronica Lake wannabe. The sly brunette with the diamonds. The heavyset man who never spoke. The thin man with the glasses. No names, just these tiny physical details and locations of where she saw them and what she dropped off for them.
I think of what the police would make of this. Of how they’d question how Elizabeth knew these people, what she was delivering. Drugs, I’m assuming. Maybe gambling money. Some hush hush photographs. But in the end, there would be questions that would inevitably lead back to me.
Questions that could eventually expose what I am.
What I’ve tried so hard to hide.
My parents told me when I moved to LA, that I mustn’t ever let the world know the truth about me, that I needed to stay in the shadows and stay out of trouble. But my natural magnetism made staying in the shadows tricky—I was too memorable. And I wanted it that way. After all, you don’t have ambitions of becoming a singer, a star, only to dull your shine.
So I decided the best place for me would be out in the open. People would feel compelled by me, drawn to me, because of my onstage persona—and not for any other reason. No one would question why they had a mild obsession with Lena Reid, why Lena Reid always seemed to get what she wants.
But now? If people start poking into my life a little deeper? If they look at my parents? My upbringing? Then they’ll see things that won’t make any sense. And I made a promise to the others that I would never let us be exposed.
For a brief, panicked moment, I consider destroying the diary. I get to my feet and cross to the fireplace, kneading the worn book between my hands. Feeding it to the flames would erase this dangerous evidence. I wouldn’t have to hide it. But I can’t bring myself to do it. This diary is all that’s left of Betty—her voice, her fears, her final days.
I sigh and step back from the fire just as a slight movement outside the window catches my attention. I move to the curtains and carefully peer through a small gap. The street below is mostly empty, shrouded in the bleak mist of a January night.
Then I see it.
A figure stands in the shadows across the street, the ember of a cigarette glowing briefly as it takes a drag. His face remains hidden, but something about his posture—the stillness, the focus—tells me he’s watching my window.
Watching me.
I let the curtain fall back into place, heart hammering against my ribs. Is it one of the Europeans? One of Cohen’s men? An obsessed fan?
Or just a man having a smoke who happens to be looking in my direction.
Still, the feeling of being hunted settles over me like a physical weight. I gather the diary, holding it close to my chest as I scan the apartment for a hiding place. It needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere no casual observer would look. I’ll read the rest of it tomorrow, with a clear head.
Finally, I decide on the hollow space beneath the floorboard at the foot of my bed—a hiding spot I’d discovered when I first moved in and had kept secret since. I carefully pry up the loose board and place the diary inside, along with the emerald necklace my parents gave me when I left home, as well as trinkets that Marco had gifted me over the last year, plus some wads of emergency cash.
When I’m done, I replace the floorboard, then push the small rug back over it. No one would know to look there. Betty’s secrets—and mine—will be safe.