I avoid everything. Everything goes quiet once the video is posted and yet no one concedes that the video is real. There are actual arguments about its authenticity. People think these are outtakes from a horror movie Amanda shot the year before and not even the makers of the horror movie can stop this new narrative from taking shape. I order two bottles of gin from Gil Turner's and once they're delivered I make plans to leave for Vegas and reserve a suite at the Mandalay Bay but then cancel it even though I've already packed two bags, and the moon rises over the city and for the first time in what seems like years there are no cars on Elevado Street tonight, and in a warm bath I think about calling a girl who I know would come over but then I'm just lying in bed with the Bose headphones, drinking from the second bottle of gin, and then I'm dreaming about the dead boy again and now he's standing in the bedroom, moving softly toward the bed, whispering for me to come join him in his endless sleep, and in the dream the palm trees are taller and bending in the wind outside the sliding glass wall of 1508 and when I see the bruises on his face from where I struck the boy in the previous dream the phone starts ringing, waking me up, but not before the boy whispers Save me ...
What did Rip tell you?"
It's Julian and I'm just waking up and it's late afternoon, the sky dimming into dusk. "What?" I clear my throat, and ask it again. "What?"
"I know you saw him," he says. "I know he's looking for me. What did he want?"
I barely manage to sit up. "I think ... in terms of ... what's going on - "
Julian stops me automatically. "There's nothing that's going to connect him to that." The following silence confirms that we both know what he's referencing: Amanda.
"What are you doing?" I ask. "Where are you?"
"We're leaving tonight," Julian says, downplaying the urgency in his voice.
"Who's leaving?"
"Me and Rain," Julian says. "We're leaving tonight."
"Julian," I start and then try and figure out what I want to say to him but I'm on the verge of tears and nothing comes out and I keep clutching the sheets bundled around me and they're damp with sweat and for the first time it's real: she's actually leaving with him and not me.
"What?" he asks impatiently. "What is it?"
"I need to see you," I say. "Come over. I want to help you."
"What?" he asks, annoyed. "Why? Help me with what?"
"Rip wants to make a deal," I say. "He wants this whole thing over with."
There's a pause. "And what do you have to do with this?"
"I know everything," I say. "I'm going to make it happen." I pause before saying, "I'll pay him back." Finally, though I can barely swallow I say, "I'm going to make this end."
Julian sends a text two hours later from somewhere close to the Doheny Plaza. Are you alone? And then: Is it safe to come over? I've sobered up as much as I can when I text back: Yes. When I call Rain there's no answer and because Rain doesn't pick up I dial another number and Rip takes my call.
Someone's been following me," Julian says, brushing past me into the condo. "I took a cab. I'm going to need a ride. You're going to have to drive me back to Westwood." He turns and notices that I'm wearing a robe. He notices the glass of gin I'm holding. He looks at me. "Are you okay? Are you capable of that?"
"Where's Rain?" I ask. "I mean, how is she?"
"Don't bother." Julian walks to the window wall and looks down, craning his neck as if scanning for someone.
"I hear, um, the audition went well - "
"Stop it," he says, turning around.
"She has a shot at the part - "
"It's over, Clay," he says. "That's over. Just don't."
"That's not true, Julian. Hey - "
"I want to know why you've been hanging out with Rip."
"He, um, wants to talk to you," I say. "He just wants to talk to you now that I've agreed to pay him - "
"No, he doesn't," Julian cuts me off.
"Yeah, he really does ... now that ... " I'm trying not to stammer. "Don't you get it? I'm paying him back."
Julian's stance changes: he takes a step toward me, then stops. "How did you know about that?" he says. "The money, I mean. Who told you?"
"Trent did," I say. "It was Trent."