That was a relief. But yet it was strange. After all the security precautions, the leaks planted about the false locations, as well as the plainclothes security all over the grounds, why would Veronica no longer want the guest list verified?

  The girl in the yellow dress gave the security guy her name, and handed over her cell phone.

  I closed William’s message, and saw one from Anaka had just arrived. Only the first few words appeared on the screen. Um, my dad’s not—

  But the message cut off, and as I stabbed the middle button to open the note, the security guard had already nodded to the woman in the yellow dress and motioned for her to head to the nearby golf cart, waiting to ferry guests from the gate to the house.

  I closed the phone before I could read Anaka’s message.

  “Hi. I’m Claire Tinsley,” I said, and my voice sounded scratchy and gravelly. I was trying to sound different, to throw them off the scent. But that was silly, I reminded myself. I needed to not stand out.

  The security guard—Sal, I remembered, since William had told me his name—ran his index finger down the paper. My lungs threatened to leap out of my body as he scanned. I didn’t see Claire’s name on the list. My heart was planning a mutiny as he turned to the next page. My name was always near the middle of any list. Where could it be? Then my insides settled and I remembered why. Because my last name usually started with an L. But today it started with a T.

  The security guard found Claire Tinsley’s name, then asked for my cell phone. I handed it to him, and he wrote my name on masking tape, then pressed the tape onto the phone. He looked through my purse, patting my wallet and my makeup case. He waved me in. “There’s a table for presents right inside the front door.”

  “Thank you,” I squeaked out, as I took a seat next to Yellow Dress in the golf cart. I held on tight to the gift.

  That was it. It was so easy, it was beyond easy. I was inside the premises, and now all I had to do was assemble the camera when I reached the house.

  “Friend of the bride? Or friend of the groom?”

  Yellow Dress was making small talk as the cart bumped over the driveway.

  “Bride,” I said in my normal voice this time. “You?”

  “Same. We went to college together,” she said, a cheery smile on her face.

  “Oh, that’s nice. What did you study?”

  “English literature,” she said. “What about you? How do you know Veronica?”

  Yellow Dress seemed to be studying me closely, and I worried she might recognize me from the photos with Riley and Sparky McDoodle from earlier in the week. But my dog alibi fit that, too.

  “I’m a dog trainer. I’ve worked with the family’s Chihuahua–mini pins.”

  “Oh my God. That is such a coincidence. I have to ask you a dog question. My Yorkie won’t stop getting into the cat’s food, and I feed the cat in the laundry room. I’m so worried he’s going to get fat.”

  I nodded several times, playing the part of the cool, confident dog trainer who’d dealt with this situation before. I flicked back to the episodes I’d watched of I’m a Dog Person while training Jennifer. “What you need to do in those situations is set a trap for the dog. You have to leave the door to the laundry room open, set the food there for him, and just wait. When he makes a move for it, then you correct him.”

  “Interesting,” she said with wide and curious eyes. “Do I just give him a sharp no?”

  I nodded with authority. “Yes. Or else you get a training collar.”

  She shook her head, her eyes showing fear. “A training collar? Like the kind that pinches them? I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Of course you don’t. But you certainly don’t want him to get fat, either, do you?”

  “That’s true. I definitely don’t want a fat dog,” she said with such supreme worry in her voice that it had to be genuine. We arrived at the house. “You were so helpful. Thank you.”

  I let her go ahead of me, and when I walked through the door a minute later, I took mental photos of Chelsea Knox’s palatial and eco-friendly entryway, noting the solar panels high above in the arched roof and the furniture made from renewable materials in the living room. Next to the door was a table stacked with gifts. I turned sharply to my left, and into the first bathroom in the hallway. I closed the door quickly, locked it, and opened the wedding gift. I’d wrapped it TV-style, which meant I didn’t have to unwrap it. I simply lifted the wrapped top off the box.

  Inside the box was my gorgeous camera. After setting it on the counter next to the sink, I put the cover to the gift back on. Next, I unzipped my purse, and retrieved the big makeup tub that had once held copious amounts of powder. Now, the makeup tin held the lens to my camera. I removed the lens and nested it on the camera. Then, I reached into the bag and yanked off the masking tape that had kept a circular section of fabric in place. As planned, there was now a hole in the side of the bag precisely the size and shape of the end of a lens of a camera. Carefully placing the camera inside the purse, I positioned it so the lens lined up with the hole. Then I took scotch tape from a zippered compartment and used it to re-tape the circle of fabric back onto the lens from the outside, so the bag wouldn’t look suspicious. Returning the scotch tape to the compartment, I double- and triple-checked the placement of the camera, then shut the purse and pulled it onto my shoulder, keeping the side with the circular, taped-on cutout against my body.

  As I checked my reflection in the mirror, I noticed I was shaking. I took a deep breath, my shoulders rising up and down. The air filled my lungs, calming me. After several more breaths, I felt settled again and ready. I looked at my watch—1:39. Showtime was in twenty-one minutes.

  Tucking the empty gift under my arm, I unlocked the bathroom door and nearly jumped when I opened it. William was waiting on the other side.

  “You scared me,” I whispered, my heart pounding fast in my chest.

  “Would you like me to take the gift for Ms. Belle and Mr. Bowman?” he said with an easy smile, one that suggested we were co-conspirators. “I can bring it to the table if you’d like.”

  “I would like that very much.” I handed him the wrapped and empty box.

  Then he scanned the hallway. Guests were still entering the house, so he leaned in close to my ear, so only I could hear. “I need to run. James has me doing a ton of stuff all over. But I can’t wait to see you later.”

  “Me, too,” I said, then he turned away.

  I walked to the backyard, wishing I could snap photos of everything along the way, from the back deck that wrapped around the house, to the yoga sanctuary beyond the deck, to the garden full of organic vegetables and fruit that Chelsea claimed to tend and harvest herself.

  Instead, I was a good girl, and I headed to the folding white chairs set up underneath the tent and beside the mechanical koi pond. Standing vases of daisies and sunflowers, Veronica’s two favorite varieties of flowers, lined the aisles. A long white runner led from the back steps of the house all the way to the makeshift altar under the bamboo veranda where Sandy, the talk show host, would soon officiate. An usher led me to a chair about two-thirds of the way from the altar. I sat next to a woman in a red slinky dress and a man in khaki pants. I didn’t know them.

  A string quartet by the altar played classical music.

  I held my purse tightly and checked my watch. The ceremony would start in thirteen minutes. I looked around, trying to spot faces as the chairs filled up. Everyone looked vaguely familiar. Everyone looked vaguely pretty and reasonably attractive in a random sort of way. But no face stood out. No features brought instant recognition.

  Perhaps the famous guests were waiting until the last minute. Perhaps they’d swoop in and fill the empty seats mere seconds before the bride walked down the aisle. But I flashed back to the half-read text message from Anaka—Um, my dad’s not—and figured she must have been trying to tell me her dad wasn’t coming. Why wouldn’t he be here? Why would he have a last-minute change of plans and miss the wedding?

  I tried to dismiss the flight of nerves that circled me.

  Soon, the officiant walked out of the house. She had the same cropped blond hair as the TV talk show host, but she definitely wasn’t Sandy. That was odd. Next came the groom, slipping around the chairs so he wouldn’t disturb the runner for his bride. I watched him, and something seemed off about his stride, but I could only see him from the back. Several groomsmen followed and they assumed their posts in front of the guests, and I could have sworn from where I sat that Bradley Bowman had more chiseled cheekbones. Even so, I opened my bag, rooted around as if I were looking for a tissue, and kept my right hand inside the bag to operate the camera. With my left hand, I removed the fabric cutout for the lens, freeing the camera to capture the event. I lifted the purse higher, holding it against my chest. I pushed the silver button on the camera several times to capture Bradley as he waited for his bride.

  Then Pachelbel’s Canon began, and everyone turned their heads to watch the bride. Clutching my purse for dear life, I shifted, too, and kept snapping surreptitiously as the bridesmaids walked down the aisle.

  The only trouble was, the bridesmaids weren’t Chelsea, or Veronica’s best friend, or Riley Belle.

  Nor was the bride Veronica Belle. My heart sank and my skin burned the furious red of self-loathing when I realized why I hadn’t spotted a single familiar face among the guests. Everyone here was an actor. Everyone was a stand-in. Everyone was faking it. That’s why no one needed to check IDs after all.

  Veronica Belle had staged a decoy wedding, and I’d fallen hard for it. I had the worthless photos to prove it.

  12

  Jess

  * * *

  I cried stupid tears all the way to the library, wiping the streaky lines of mascara roughly from my cheeks. But more leaked out, a cocktail of anger and self-loathing. I’d been greedy, and I’d been foolish, and that was a dangerous combination. I pulled into the library lot, almost toppling my scooter through my blurry, rage-y haze. When I jumped off, I caught a corner of the navy-blue dress on the metal covering of the wheel. I yanked until the fabric came free, tearing the skirt in a slash up the thigh.

  Curses flew from my mouth. Enough to send truckers covering their ears.

  Frustration poured through every cell in my body. Nothing was going right today, and now I’d owe Anaka a new dress. Hastily, I grabbed my backpack from under the seat, and marched inside to my changing room.

  I tugged the dress over my head in one clunky motion, stopping only to wipe more wetness from my eyes. The dress was useless now, so I pressed the fabric against my face, as if I could stopper all the sadness. But I had no right to cry, no decent reason to feel so indignant. This was a job, and the job hadn’t come through as advertised. It was only money. I should know better than to cry over money.

  There.

  Sucking in the last of the tears, I stuffed my wig into my backpack and returned to my regular clothes. When I left the stall, I turned on the cold water in the sink and splashed some on my face. I peered into the mirror and administered a dose of much-needed self-medication: “Get yourself together, Jess. Big girls don’t cry.”

  I let the bathroom door fall behind me, and was about to put Ojai Ranch as far in the rearview mirror as I could, when I heard two librarians at the front counter whispering to each other.

  “You have to see these pictures. They just showed up on On the Surface a minute ago.”

  My spine tingled. I stopped at the closest shelf of books, and pretended to look through the new releases as I listened.

  “Oh. My. God,” the younger of the two women said, stopping at each high-pitched word to catch a breath. “They eloped!”

  The floor gave out. My vision went fuzzy. Reaching for the gray metal shelf of books, I steadied myself. I’d never felt faint before, but I gripped the metal tight till the moment passed. Then I stopped pretending to listen in, and walked straight over to the counter.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but overhear that someone had eloped,” I started, quickly recovering as I did my best to appear calm.

  The woman smiled, and her hazel eyes lit up. This was a moment not to be missed—the delicious moment when celebrity news that surprised everyone began spreading across the Internet. She swiveled her computer monitor around to show me the site.

  “Veronica Belle and Bradley Bowman eloped to Las Vegas!” She squealed. “They tied the knot literally thirty minutes ago. Can you believe it? They went to an Elvis-themed wedding chapel with just their family members.”

  The floor tilted once more and the sickening feeling hit my stomach. I stared hard at the pictures on the screen of Veronica in a sassy white minidress and Bradley in shorts and a short-sleeve button-down. They were laughing as they left the chapel, two sets of parents and a few pairs of siblings behind them. Everyone was dressed in casual wear, including the sister of the bride in a cute miniskirt, clutching Sparky McDoodle in her arms as she smiled brightly. The next shot showed Veronica tossing a tiny bouquet of daisies behind her. Then there was a picture of the newlyweds and their families hopping into a black stretch limo.

  Flash.

  The pictures had to have been taken by Flash. She was always one step ahead of me. Now she was three hundred miles ahead of me in Las Vegas, and probably laughing and smiling as she counted to one hundred thousand.

  I swallowed thickly, trying to push down this terrible taste of failure in my mouth.

  “That is just so clever,” the librarian said, and I realized she’d been speaking the whole time. “We were just talking about how something must have been happening down at Chelsea’s home today. I saw the party rental trucks, and then there were florist vans and a big red car that had some caterer’s name on it. What was that all about?” she asked with a kind of awestruck curiosity.

  Her friend answered. “It must have been a decoy wedding.”

  The redhead laughed, as if such a stunt was the most clever thing she’d ever heard.

  “Yeah, it was,” I said in in a dead voice. “They hired actors. Extra types to show up. Pretend to be guests. Fill the seats. They even had stand-ins for Veronica and Bradley and Chelsea and Riley. They had security, too. To make it all seem real.”

  “That is amazing to go to that effort. To spend all that money to just throw paparazzi off the scent,” the redhead said in admiration.

  Her friend chimed in. “Well, nobody likes the paparazzi.”

  Truer words were never spoken, and on that note, I left and drove all the way home without looking back.

  13

  William

  * * *

  Stuck on the other side of the property manning the front door of the estate, I barely even caught a glimpse of her leaving, just a flurry of color—her navy dress, her brown wig, her beige purse, and then, like a mirage in the desert, she was gone.

  Minutes later, I was momentarily freed, so I tried calling several times, but her phone rang and rang. I swore under my breath, then with my focus on the gates, I picked up the pace, eager to search for her phone. She’d probably left it behind.

  But James corralled me on the way and cut me off. “Change of plans,” he barked. “I need you over there in the receiving line. Congratulate the bride and groom.”

  I tilted my head, as if I could better decipher his request from an angle. “But—” I started. “What’s the point?”

  “No buts,” he hissed. “It’s part of the job.”

  “Did you know it was a fake wedding?” I asked in a harsh clip, because he’d screwed over Jess. Big time.

  He gave me a look like he thought I was stupid. “Kid, they’re my clients. Of course I knew.”

  “And you didn’t mention it?” I asked, as if I were a lawyer in a courtroom, quizzing a belligerent witness. I reminded myself that whether he was in on it or not, he never knew I was the man on the inside, sneaking in a paparazzo to take clandestine shots. Truth be told, I hadn’t a leg to stand on when it came to this moral battle. Still, I was pissed as hell, and keeping me in the dark felt wrong.

  “Don’t get your panties all bunched up because you missed the chance to meet Veronica and Bradley. You’ll get used to it in Hollywood,” James said, clapping me on the back.

  Fighting the urge to roll my eyes and bite out a sarcastic comment, I drew a quick, deep breath, plastered on a smile, and said, “I assure you, that’s not the case.”

  He stared down at me with wide and annoyed eyes. “Then get back out there and mingle. That’s the job, kid. We’ve got to keep up the appearance. That’s what the client wants. Eat some kale, look like a guest, then be on your merry way. Look, I know you’re hunting for a job, and I’m sorry as hell I can’t give you one, but do me a solid here and finish this up today, then tomorrow we’ll meet with the publicity shop about the paparazzi intel you got for me, and if you do those things, I’ll be sure to give you a good recommendation as you look for work, maybe even refer you to a few friends. How about that?”

  He looked me square in the eyes, knowing he had something I wanted. Maybe it wasn’t a job, but it was something I’d need for another one. A positive recommendation could make the difference in landing a gig in the next two months.

  “Fine,” I muttered.

  Shoving me on the shoulder, James whispered, “Go.”

  I headed to the line of wedding guests, who were clearly actors, along with the stand-ins for Veronica and Bradley. Taking my turn behind a sea of players, I waited under the hot sun by the back deck, willing the line to move faster so I could escape and track down Jess.

  When I reached the wedding party, the fake Bradley extended his hand. “Thank you so much for attending,” he said.

  “We’re so glad you’re here,” fake Veronica echoed.

  “Pleasure to be here. What a lovely ceremony, and such beautiful grounds,” I said, and the moment was beyond false, even by Hollywood standards.