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been done in the history of
Boston traffic and soon we are nearing our hotel. She pulls into the limo’s
spot and leaves the car running. She takes her seatbelt off and turns to face
me. “Marcus is a good man.”
     
    “ What?”
     
    “ All the women who work for him owe him a great debt. Not because
he got us into modeling; because he got us out. Most of us started as teenagers
and some of us are from countries where modeling is the only way out. But, it’s
hard, and when age, over-exposure or scars reduce your ticket — you’re left too
young for assistance and too old to start school. Many are drug addicted to
deal with the pressure, pain, weight loss, or boredom. Some have been raped or
sexually abused. Marcus helped all of us. That’s why he keeps Dr. DeLong on
staff. It isn’t just Missy he was helping. It was all of us.”
     
    “ DeLong is a quack,” I quote August, managing to say the word
correctly. “And if he wasn’t, why is Melissa Eliott dead?”
     
    “ Missy messed up,” Chloe sighs. “That’s not DeLong’s fault. Addicts
are a tough set of clients. But, most of us are here today —working jobs we
love and living a good life — because Marcus Eliott got us the help we needed
when we needed it.”
     
    “ Well, thanks for the heads up,” I say, somehow feeling even more
shitty than I did ten minutes ago.
     
    “ That’s all I wanted you to know. Don’t listen to Jordan Davis and
the rest of the ‘publicity’ department. Marcus is a good man. Don’t break his
heart. Okay?”
     
    I open the car door
and leave, not bothering to answer her question. I have no strength left to
tell her I already have.
     
    ~

Chapter 6
     
    The next day goes
by in a flurry. I’m either sitting in my bathroom crying, waiting for the call
to come from Marcus, or Jim or someone that a video has arrived, or affirming
August that he can read his work from that stage without drugs and do just
fine.
     
    The night of the
reading has blessedly much less chaos than Philadelphia. The biggest trauma is
helping August pick out what to wear. Marcus wants him in a shirt and tie,
DeLong recommends at least a long sleeve so his arms don’t show, and August
wants to wear a guayabera he picked up in Mexico.
     
    “ It’s white, Auggie,” Marcus tells him, looking at the hideous
Mexican wedding shirt.
     
    “ So what? It’s my favorite shirt.”
     
    “ You look like a Q-tip!” DeLong groused.
     
    “ A tie will be the noose that kills me,” August complains
dramatically. Marcus throws up his hands.
     
    “ A blue business shirt, not buttoned down, sleeves rolled up to the
mid-forearm, no tie. We will have the hotel wash it several times so it’s
soft,” I say, taking charge of the moment.  They all agree and by the
night we are standing in the wings of Ritz Carlton Auditorium with one suitably
dressed, shaking author. August’s stark white hair glistens in the stage light.
     
    “ Now he just looks like a blue Q-tip,” Dr. DeLong pouts.
     
    “ Don’t worry about him,” Marcus says as he holds my hand backstage.
“He hates everything. You did a great job.”
     
    “ I’m not so great,” I say.  No anonymous videos have shown up
and nothing has been said. Part of me feels like I should confess just to get
rid of the “other shoe” feeling; and part of me hopes the whole thing really
will just blow over.  I mean, a video like that means I can’t run for
President, but it’s not really a smoking gun. Maybe Jordan and Dagney will just
store it. It’s worth the risk of keeping quiet just to believe that’s true.
     
    I see the poison
couple in the audience. Dagney’s taking pictures and Jordan’s typing on a
tablet when August sits down to open his portfolio. A long moment goes by where
August looks out into the lights. Marcus holds his breath and squeezes my hand.
     
    “ Hello,” the author says, as if he just woke up and found hundreds
of people in his bedroom staring at him. Marcus