Vivian Divine Is Dead Read Online Free Page B

the past year of my life in his eyes: the way I felt when he sang my song, how we talked each other to sleep at night, the tremble in his lips when he kissed me. I automatically suck in my stomach—Pierre likes skinny girls—but I let it out again when I see his other hand entwined with Sparrow’s. “There’s something you should know—”
    “I don’t want to hear your excuses!” I pry Pierre’s hand off my arm. The tears have broken through my wall now; they’re streaming down my face, probably completely ruining my makeup. “You said you loved me,” I mumble, just loud enough for him to hear.
    Before he can respond, studio security surrounds the crowd and Mary whisks me off toward the limo.
    “Vivian!” Pierre yells as I climb into the limo. “I need to tell you—”
    I slam the door and his voice snaps into silence. What do you need to tell me, Pierre? That when you said “forever” you meant “until someone better comes along”? Or that you never loved me in the first place?
    As Mary gets into the driver’s seat, I curl up in the backseat, trying to get away from Sparrow and Pierre, and from the blackest hole in the universe: my broken heart.
     
    I press my face up against the hard ridge between the backseats, where the leather’s cool on my feverish skin, and focus on breathing in the smell of leather polish. I feel small and scared, like I’m drowning in water no one else can see.
    The smell of Mom’s lavender perfume suddenly washes over me, as strong as a pillow pressing down on my face. Then Mom’s shaking hands holding the letter that said, “I’m coming for the girl,” flashes through my mind. I bury my head deeper into the leather seats. Why did they kill you, Mom? Is it my fault?
    “Vivian!” The voice sounds like it’s coming from a great distance. “Vivian! What’s wrong? Speak to me!”
    The smell of leather polish fills my senses again, and all I hear is Mary calling my name from the front seat of the limo.
    “Are you okay?” Mary asks. She’s pulled onto the shoulder of the empty road and backed against a rock overhang so the paparazzi can’t sneak up and take pictures from behind.
    I must look like a lunatic. I sit up and uncurl my fists, feeling the stiff muscles of my hands. I’m suddenly grateful that Mary’s in charge of driving me to the studio, because she knows how to avoid the press. What if the paparazzi caught me like this? They’d say I was having a breakdown. And maybe they’d be right.
    “Have you talked to your dad about these feelings yet?” Mary asks.
    I shake my head . When have I talked to my dad about anything? As hard as I try to push it away, the guilt keeps coming back. Mary’s always telling me it’s not my fault, but it doesn’t help—the feelings grab me like a fist, shaking me until my core rattles with pain.
    When Mom first died, Mary suggested I see a therapist, but Dad doesn’t believe in therapy. He’s from the generation of men that thinks you should be able to cure yourself, just like he believes that “bootstraps were made so you could pull yourself up.” How many times have I heard that?
    “Let’s just go home,” I whisper, chewing nervously on my lower lip.
    But before Mary can turn back around, a silver sedan pulls onto the shoulder, cornering us against the rock overhang. Someone gets out, leaving the blinding headlights on.
    “Who’s that?” I ask, putting my hand in front of my face to block the light.
    “I don’t know,” Mary whispers. “But he’s blocked us in.” With our back bumper against the rocks, and the man standing against our front bumper, we can’t move. It’s too dark to see his face, but his spiky gray hair and black suit cut a sharp outline against the sky. Light streams around him, lighting him from behind like an evil archangel.
    A rush of dizziness fills my head. He’s going to kill me here, on the side of the road. A familiar terror is washing over me, like I’m locked inside a box,