Infamous: the page-turning thriller from New York Times bestselling author Alyson Noël

“Did you find an ID for that man who attacked me?” Madison watched Paul’s shoulders stiffen before he slowly turned to face her. “Do you know who he was?”

Paul held her gaze. “No,” he finally said. “Just a bum. An opportunist, I guess.”

Madison debated whether to mention that the man’s voice had been familiar. One she still couldn’t quite place but definitely recognized.

Instead, she simply nodded as though she believed him. Then she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, knowing it was what Paul wanted to see.

Someone was out to harm her, and while she had no idea if Paul was involved, she was sure he was lying.

Whether his lies were meant to protect her or harm her, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that as soon as she built up her strength and cleared her head, she’d track down whoever had done this to her and show them just how badly they’d underestimated her.

Madison had killed before.

If it came down to it, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger again.

TWO (#ulink_774dd757-9f3e-58d3-8490-5e19b379053d)

NOTORIOUS (#ulink_774dd757-9f3e-58d3-8490-5e19b379053d)

Layla Harrison clutched the plastic bag stuffed with her belongings and quietly shuffled past the door her dad held open. She paused a few beats, adjusting to the punishing light, while fingering the tender bracelets of flesh that circled both wrists. The wounds served as a lingering reminder of the too-tight handcuffs that had been placed there a few days before. Back when she’d been arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder—a crime she wasn’t convinced had actually happened until she’d stumbled upon the decomposing corpse.

“You okay?” Her father shot her a look of concern.

She took in his paint-splattered T-shirt, the soft, worn look of his jeans, which now sagged so low on his hips it seemed as though he’d borrowed them from a much bigger man. He’d lost weight. Weight he couldn’t afford to lose. And Layla knew his weary, gaunt appearance was entirely due to her.

It hurt to see him this way, and yet, when she finally did meet his gaze, she was greeted with so much love and compassion, she clamped her lips tightly and quickly turned away.

In jail, she’d been caught in a constant cycle of utter defiance and absolute despair. One moment she was outraged, pacing her cell and shaking the bars of her cage, demanding justice to anyone close enough to hear. But eventually, like water left to boil too long, her rage desiccated to a silent, scorched anguish. Who was she kidding? No one was interested in proving her innocence. The whole world was rooting against her. Detective Larsen had a high-profile case he was eager to close, the media had a juicy story to breathlessly report, and fans of Madison Brooks were looking for a target at which to direct all their hate. It was an inferno of accusation she couldn’t possibly penetrate.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a hike.” Her dad squinted into the distance. “Couldn’t find a closer spot.”

“It’s okay,” she said, suddenly realizing the truth of her words. It really was okay. In fact, it was absolutely okay. Maybe not for the long term (God knows, just thinking about what the future might hold put her on the verge of hyperventilating), but at that very moment her complaints were few. After several days in captivity, she’d been released. And though she had no idea how long her freedom would last, she intended to cherish each and every glorious second.

She walked alongside her dad, listening to the dull rhythm of her boots scuffling over the asphalt, the tiny black pebbles rolling and crunching beneath every step. She couldn’t help but marvel at how much she’d changed inside over the course of the last few days, and yet the outside world was just the same as she’d left it. The sun was shining. A long strand of birds perched in tight bunches on the telephone wire strung taut overhead. Their incessant chirping seemed to promise that the world would continue to hum and churn despite what happened to her.

There was no place for regret. And though Layla wasn’t one for spiritual leanings, she firmly believed every life had a mission, a driving impulse toward a greater destiny. That wasn’t to say that everyone made good on their mission, or even acknowledged its existence. But for Layla, her desire for truth and justice had thrummed through her veins for as long as she could remember.

It was the only explanation for why she’d put her own life at risk in order to help a girl who’d gone out of her way to act like a total bitch the first time they’d met. And yet, so much had happened since then, and Layla was done holding grudges. Aster had been set up. She was innocent of every crime leveled against her. And because of it, Layla felt compelled to help prove her innocence. Even if she’d been given a peek into the future that warned how she’d only end up implicated alongside Aster, Layla wouldn’t have chosen any differently.

“Here, I almost forgot.” Her dad pulled a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses from the pocket of his hoodie and thrust them into her palm.

Layla gratefully slid them onto her face, then tucked her chin to her chest and continued trudging alongside him.

She was exhausted. Hadn’t slept for days. And her mind was in torment, refusing to allow even a moment’s rest. Every time she closed her eyes, a reel of horrifying scenarios unspooled in her head.

Aside from her father and a handful of friends, no one seemed willing to give her a chance. And as someone who’d dreamed of being a serious journalist for most of her life, she was horrified to find herself the subject of countless sordid headlines. The media had portrayed her as a hateful person bent on revenge, and soon her fate would rest in the hands of twelve jurors who’d probably already made up their minds well before opening arguments were over.

If the verdict was guilty, she’d spend the bulk (if not all) of her life trapped behind bars. Her dreams would never be fulfilled, and the close relationship she’d once shared with her father would be reduced to awkward, guilt-laden visits, where Layla would watch helplessly from behind a smudged Plexiglas window as her father aged and withered before her.

It was the worst outcome imaginable, and the scary thing was, it was entirely possible.

“Layla! Hey, Layla—over here! Where’s Madison? Tell us what you did to her?”

Great. Just what I need. Paparazzi.

Layla hiked the plastic bag high to cover her face as her father slung a protective arm around her and pulled her in close.

“Don’t look. Ignore them.” He pressed the words into her hair and rushed her toward his waiting car.

Layla leaned into him, allowing his momentum to carry her along, all the while fighting the impulse to cry at the sheer frustration of it all. With so many cameras centered on her, she couldn’t afford to give in to tears. The press thrived on capturing vulnerable moments. They were all in pursuit of the same thing—the rare instant when the mask dropped and the celeb inadvertently revealed an alarming humanity. Beyoncé had a pimple once, and the internet nearly exploded.

While Layla’s popular celebrity-bashing blog, Beautiful Idols, had fueled her financial independence and helped lessen the burden from her struggling artist father, she had no doubt that what was happening to her now was karmic payback for once being a player in the very industry that now stalked her.

She swallowed hard and burrowed deeper into her father’s side. She felt shaky, oversensitive, but she couldn’t afford to show any weakness. The breakdown would have to wait until later.

“Hey, H.D.! Over here! Are you standing by your daughter even though she’s a murderer?”

Layla’s father grew tense—a sure sign that the primal fight instinct had kicked in. Layla would prefer he chose flight.

Dad, she started to say, don’t, it’s not worth it.

But before she could get to the words, he was already turning away and securing her inside the car.

“Tell us whose body it is!” another pap screamed, his voice muted when her dad shut the door, shielding her from the onslaught.

“What’s he talking about?” Layla watched her dad settle in.

“It wasn’t Madison.”

It took a moment to process the words. She repeated them back to him just to make sure.

“Wasn’t her.” He shook his head and slowly maneuvered through the retreating throng. “That’s why they released you. I’m sorry, I assumed they would’ve told you.” He turned his focus back to the road.

Layla gnawed the inside of her cheek, trying to decide what the news meant. “I figured you’d posted bail.”

Her dad pressed his lips together and gripped the wheel hard. “No bail. They refused it.”

Layla screwed her eyes shut and allowed the good news to sink in. Her chest loosened, her breath flowed with less restriction, as the eternal flame of optimism began to burn through what had come to seem like an impenetrable fog of despair.

If the body wasn’t Madison’s, then the LAPD could no longer charge her with murder.

The fact that they’d let her go probably meant they’d deemed her entirely innocent.

She rolled the thoughts around in her head until they gathered enough strength to edge the darker ones out.

“Did they ID the body?” She studied her dad, realizing that while it might not be Madison, there was still a dead body. “Was it Paul Banks?” The body had been found on his property, so it was entirely possible. Maybe she wasn’t in the clear, after all.

“It’s an adult male. That’s all so far.”