He is amazing. In all the weeks leading up to this competition finale, I’ve never seen him misstep.

Stephen’s video ends with his performance from the first airing, when he blew the doors off with “Unchained Melody.” The clip shows Emma Jake’s wide-open mouth at the judge’s table, and Thomas Reilly pumping his fist in the air. Quick cut: “That was magnificent,” says the prerecorded Jenna Kaulfield. “America is going to have to look out for you.”

Fade.

My medley is the final one. Here comes Sassy Cassidy, rhinestone shirt and all, at the Houston audition. The line had wormed its way through the convention center parking lot in the middle of a Texas June; the hair I’d painstakingly blow-dried fluffed out to a horrible mess due to the humidity. At the last minute I pulled it back into a simple ponytail and skittered up to the stage with the number 1438 pinned to my shoulder.

Suddenly, a fluffy black makeup brush obscures the screen. Nikki is whisking dry powder on my skin; “I could see you sweating from all the way over there,” she says, jerking her head to the side. “Get it together, girl.”

She is spraying a cloud of hairspray now, shellacking my head. As the mist settles, Matilda is back on the screen, smiling her wide smile and offering us a moment to enjoy these ads from our sponsors.

“Two minutes,” a PA announces. We’re brought into a smaller room to wait for our respective turns. A small, lit television is on the wall, and a table in the middle holds several bottles of water. I perch on the edge of an orange sofa with my damp hands lightly touching my knees. The waistband of my tights is cutting into my belly button. Stephen, on my left, is so close that his knee is inches from one of mine. I slide my gaze from my lap to his, and I see that he’s clasped his hands tightly there: pink fingers, white knuckles, crescent-moon nail beds.

The television is muted, but Stephen half-stands, finds the remote, turns the sound on low, and sinks back down into the couch. A waft of warm cologne and oranges trails across my body. An advertisement for a truck, shampoo, and a sitcom flicker across the screen. Then Sing It, America!’s logo appears again, and the camera pans across the hundreds of viewers in darkened auditorium seats. The judge’s panel is illuminated in the very front, and the camera cuts to Matilda once again.

A head pokes into the room. “St. James,” the PA says, not looking at any of us. I feel the couch shift as Stephen gets to his feet. The back of his neck looks flushed and I can tell that he’s perspiring too.

“Hey,” says Anna, a specter in the chair to my right. Her voice is small and her body seems to take up no space at all. “Break a leg, Stephen.”

His eyelashes flick toward her once, and he smiles with his lips closed—I’d never seen him smile that grimly before—and he walks out the door.

* * *

Wednesday

Rose

We arrived at the Savoy, hiding behind our purses again until we were in the lobby. The other girls wanted to stay at a normal hotel, but I talked them into swinging the Savoy. The studio financing Lunch at Midnight had given us a per diem for the promo, but it was pitifully small. I told the others that they should use some of their Cherry Cola money to cover the rest—or, in Merry’s case, to just pull out her black Amex.

Emily shepherded us into a waiting elevator and we stood silently as we ascended to our floor. Yumi’s and Meredith’s eyes were unfocused and staring off into the distance, and I imagined that their brains were clicking and whirring, measuring up what had happened with Cassidy—plucking thoughts of obscure, bygone days, mentally profiling any number of stalkers, wondering if maybe she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of painkillers. I stared ahead at the double doors, mentally patting down my appearance and taking inventory of what might be published in tonight’s online gossip rags: neat face, no mascara smearing, just a composed countenance. Soft leather jacket, hair in honeyed curls, ring on a necklace hidden under my crew neck, nice designer jeans that flatter my ass, good heels. My purse matched my shoes, but not too obviously so.

“I’ll change your flights,” Emily said, leaning back into her role as assistant to all of us. “Get packed and meet me back at this elevator in fifteen minutes.”

The elevator dinged and the golden doors slid open. Merry and Yumi, nearest the doors, slowly emerged from their thoughts and exited. As I made to follow, Emily caught my elbow. Stunned, I snatched my arm back and glared at her.

We shared eye contact for just a moment, then she dropped her gaze.

I went left; she moved off to the right, to the opposite end of the hall.

Upon entering my darkened suite, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the mauve bedspread. The entire room was glazed in warm pink, and with the curtains drawn there was only a slice of blue light making a line across the carpet. The bureau had a shadow where the television had been removed, per my usual request the day I checked in. My throat hurt, and I could feel the dry swallow ripple down my curved spine. I let my eyes lose focus on the white sliver on the ground and dabbed a dented toe into the soft nap.

God. Cass was dead. She was not coming back. And even though we barely heard from her anymore—no one did—we’d been through so much together that it was like feeling a part of my distant family had disappeared.

A hiccupping sob tore out of my body and I brought a hand to my mouth to stifle it. I could feel the pain of her death shivering upward, from the base of my hip bones toward my neck. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I bit down the tears and stood up, casting my eyes quickly around the room. Pack.

I was the closest one in the group to Cass. I was allowed to take a moment to mourn.

I needed to know more, but did I really want to hear it? Could I just imagine that maybe, for a little while, Cass was just fine? I itched to look at my phone but resisted.

Without any regard for organization, I dumped armfuls of clothes into my suitcase. My hands trembled, and when I touched my face they were ice-cold. I applied pressure to my eyes with my chilled fingertips, checking for wetness and dabbing at my eyelashes to keep any mascara from smearing.

I needed a drink. But the minibar had been cleared out by strict request. I touched the ring on the chain and said an affirmation: I do not need a drink.

Taking a deep breath, I slung the suitcase to the floor and sat on it to zip it up. I jammed my sunglasses on, did a once-over of the room, and hauled myself to my feet.

Emily was waiting with the other two. We wordlessly filed into the elevator, and Em had had the foresight to ask the hotel for additional security as we rolled our bags to the car and headed for Heathrow.

In the VIP lounge at the airport, I slipped away from the other girls to the bar for a glass of seltzer water, but asked the bartender to throw in a thimbleful of gin. Just a taste, not even a full shot, just enough to warm my sternum when it went down. I didn’t need to get drunk, or even tipsy; I only wanted my insides to stop shivering.

It was impossible to avoid televisions in airports; but surprisingly, Cassidy’s death wasn’t making a big splash. Her body had been found only hours earlier. Conjecture is always thrown about in these types of cases; I imagined that we’d hear all sorts of nonsense before the truth came out—if it came out at all. One of the screens nearest to the bar shared a snippet of news.

A talking head spoke. “The body of Cassidy Holmes . . . ex-member of the once-chart-topping girl group Gloss . . . humanitarian . . . found just a few short hours ago . . . other three members of the Gloss girls . . . not reachable for comment . . . they have tweeted that they are . . . by this unexpected loss. There is no word from the Los Angeles medical examiner as to the reason . . . death. We’ll keep you updated, here . . . BBC One.” The scene switched to the London Eye for another story.