“I’m sorry, m—Ms. Otsuka. The M.E. ruled it a suicide. We go by what he says. It seemed very open-and-shut to him, no matter what a bag of letters might have indicated. The body—that is, ah, Ms. Holmes—has been released to her family.”

“Oh. I see.”

There was a short pause, but the detective didn’t hang up. I drummed the steering wheel with my fingers, my mind a series of snapshots, flipping, flipping. I’d known that Cassidy had been unhappy sometimes while we were touring. She never said it outright, but she was subdued and dismissive, evasive and snappy, especially during our Prime tour. We’d all had our own issues during that tour, from what turned out to be Merry’s pregnancy to Rose and Cassidy getting into their giant unnamed argument that we as a group never rebounded from, and I’d attributed Cassidy’s low moods to her fractured arm—the arm that I was now convinced had been broken by Stephen. But maybe there was something deeper going on—a small seed of disease that festered for years after we’d disbanded. This couldn’t be the outcome, could it? I sat in the car, weighing the possibility that there was no answer that would arise from my question.

“Ms.—Yumi. I hope that you can put her to rest. May her memory be a blessing,” Detective Lawrence said, his voice softer, more personable. Like two people discussing an old friend.

The lump I’d been avoiding in my throat sprang up again, making it hard to swallow. I couldn’t tell if I was angry about Stephen, angry at myself for not seeing it for so long, or in mourning. I ended the call abruptly to wipe my eyes.

33.

August 2002

L.A.

Cassidy

The entire month of August had me in a state of perpetual dread. I had avoided Stephen St. James since the bombshell tour meeting, but as this year’s Music Video Awards show loomed closer, MVC suggested that Gloss present with Stephen. Peter leapt at the idea and brought it up when he visited us at the choreographer’s studio while we were rehearsing for the performance. The other girls were still annoyed with me for taking the group’s Variety spot with my Alex rebuttal and were speaking to me only when the job required it. I could barely get out of bed to make rehearsals, and every time I opened my eyes and it was a new morning, I willed the earth to swallow me whole. Every night, I’d take four sleeping pills and collapse into bed, Penny licking my face, as I wished the tour would be canceled.

And then Peter described his vision for the MVA performance.

“They’ve already seen you two together from last year’s show,” Peter said. “Maybe we can work in some banter between Sassy and Stephen.”

I studied myself in the studio’s wall of mirrors as he said it, my expression deceitfully calm. Maybe Peter didn’t know the full story. Maybe he should be let into the loop. “Peter? Could I talk to you in private for a sec?”

We walked to a different corner of the room. With my gaze off to the side, toward the other girls, who were standing separately and looking with quizzical expressions in our direction, I cleared my throat. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

“With what?” Peter’s head tilted exaggeratedly.

“With Stephen. Remember when I told you that I broke my arm falling down? Well, um . . .” I took a deep breath and before I lost my nerve blurted, “Stephen did it.”

Peter nodded, like we were discussing the weather. “Yes, and?”

I dug into my palm with my nails, peeling a blister. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Listen. I know you’re feeling a little . . . touchy about this.” Merry had been right; his voice was unbearably squeaky. My fingers twitched as an urge to claw his face came over me. “But he and I talked about this, and he told me that he was trying to help you out of the limo, you refused, and fell over. I get that you’re embarrassed about how all of this went down, but you’re overreacting, don’t you think? You don’t have to make stuff up just to get out of it.”

“That’s what he told you? He grabbed me. And when he saw that my arm was broken, he had his driver deliver me to the hospital. He threatened me.”

“Listen, Cassidy. I’m your manager. I’m supposed to do what is best for you. And what you’re telling me right now makes me think that the best thing for you is to spend time with Stephen, heal the breach. You’re going to be on tour with him for the foreseeable future. Big Disc is thinking of extending the tour too, and Stephen has generously offered to be the opener, so that he can visit more sites around the U.S. and Europe. Make nice with him.”

I walked away from the conversation feeling dazed—and it wasn’t just because I was eating fewer calories than ever. After what had happened on the phone regarding Alex, I should have known that Peter would react in a similar fashion when it came to Stephen—protecting the bottom line, growing his business.

I don’t know why I didn’t just fake illness on the day of the show. Perhaps I bought into the hype that Gloss was a shoo-in for Best Pop Video, and after standing onstage looking at the winners—from Sing It to all the other awards shows since—I just wanted to know what it felt like to win something.

Maybe I already knew it was the end.

ANG HAD CREATED a set of patterned sequined leotards for us to wear, a medley of colors all mottled together, in different cuts for us. Gone were the days when we squeezed into lacquered pleather. Our tailor understood our bodies and seemed to have chosen an eye-catching design that disguised Merry’s thickening tummy. Strategic cutouts showed off our best assets, from Rose’s shoulders in a halter to my legs in boy-cut shorts. Our backup dancers would do the more strenuous moves and wore strappy little bondage uniforms like out of The Fifth Element.

We arrived in designer outfits—the last red-carpet appearance we would ever make together. I wore a black Chanel gown that looked like a mourning outfit with a white collar and cuffs, the meaning of which was discussed ad nauseam for months afterward. When I was paired with Stephen St. James to present Best Breakthrough Video, I had to turn on the charm and pretend that everything was fine, even though my stomach churned and my hands shook at the podium.

“Speaking of breakthrough,” Stephen said, turning his face toward me but well aware of the audience, “do you remember the last time we were on this stage, Sassy?” The audience whooped and cheered.

I gave a smile that felt like a grimace. I recited, “I sure do.”

“Should we give them another reason to cheer?”

I’d told Peter I didn’t want to do this. But it didn’t matter—he steamrolled every objection, citing the need to “heal the breach,” and refused to discuss it any further. The crowd was on its feet, stamping and hollering, an audience of people who knew nothing of the truth and would probably not care if they’d heard it.

Stephen smiled at me winningly and scooped me into his arms. I stiffened only slightly before I let myself think of Stephen as my friend, my lover, just to endure this. His lips were pursed hard, nothing like the sensual brushes he’d begun with in the limo, and it was like kissing someone else, which helped. I imagined Rose for a moment, and when he pulled back from me, I felt my throat constricting. I swallowed hard. The audience cheered.