Sam.

~~~

"Can I help you with something?" a cheerful, blond salesgirl asked, her smile as bright and polished as the white marble floors beneath our feet.

"No, we're just browsing," I replied, sliding another dress along the rack. Each one seemed indiscernible from the last—overly complicated or not quite my style.

"Mhm," the girl hummed, pursing her bubblegum-pink lips, but her gaze lingered a little too long.

Molly and I wandered toward the mannequins, their perfectly styled figures clad in shimmering bodysuits. I could feel the girl's presence behind us, shadowing our movements like an overly enthusiastic ghost.

"She probably thinks we're going to steal something," Molly whispered, her lips barely moving as she tilted her head toward the girl.

"Why would she think that?" I muttered though I didn't need an answer.

Molly took a small step back, gesturing subtly toward me with a raised eyebrow. I followed her gaze down to my outfit: an oversized Purple Rain t-shirt that nearly swallowed me whole, denim shorts barely peeking out beneath the hem, and my arm still in a cast. My hair, tied in a messy bun, added to the "just rolled out of bed" aesthetic. Maybe I didn't exactly scream "prestigious boutique shopper."

We'd been here for a good fifteen minutes, and I was no closer to finding a dress. It wasn't urgent, Raymond had dropped us off on Beverly Boulevard before heading to a mall a few miles away but it felt like a fruitless endeavor.

"How about this one?" Molly asked, holding up a yellow dress with bold black circle patterns and a rigid corset-like front.

I sighed, narrowing my eyes at her choice. "Are you shopping for me or yourself?" I asked dryly. The dress was undeniably her style—bold, loud, and unapologetic—not mine.

As I turned away, a flash of red and black near the entrance caught my attention. I walked toward the rack, ignoring Molly's grin as she continued inspecting the yellow monstrosity. The dress I found was perfect: red and black plaid with a gold zipper running down the front and thin straps instead of sleeves. Its tube-like shape would skim over my narrow hips without clinging too tightly.

"Don't you already have this dress?" Molly's voice made me jump, and I turned to see her smirking.

"Similar," I admitted, running my fingers over the fabric before glancing at the salesgirl. "I'll take this one in a size eight," I said, keeping my tone calm and decisive.

The girl blinked, her smile tightening. "This is a two-thousand-dollar dress," she said, her voice light but pointed.

I glanced at Molly, her earlier comment about being judged still fresh in my mind. It stung a little, even though I knew appearances mattered in places like this. If I wanted, I could probably buy out the entire store, but the insinuation still hit a nerve.

"Don't worry, I can afford it," I said evenly, though my pulse quickened.

The girl tilted her head, giving me a once-over that felt oddly calculating. "I'm not doubting that," she said smoothly. "I just noticed you didn't check the price. And size eight will probably be too big for you. A size six would be better."

"Really?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"You do look thinner," Molly added, her tone more matter-of-fact than complimentary.

The salesgirl nodded and disappeared into the backroom. I scanned the shop while I waited, hoping something else might catch my eye, but nothing did. A moment later, she returned and gestured toward the fitting rooms.

The thought of trying on the dress filled me with a vague dread. Changing clothes had become a chore since my arm injury—pulling off anything fitted was almost impossible without Ray's help. Still, I stepped into the fitting booth, taking a deep breath as I stared at myself in the mirror.

The reflection staring back looked tired. Dark circles lingered under my blue eyes, and my skin seemed duller than usual. The oversized t-shirt didn't help, hanging off me like a shapeless sack. At least Molly would enjoy doing my makeup for the party; she lived for that kind of thing.

I held the dress up to my body, its bold pattern a stark contrast to my pale complexion. Unzipping it carefully, I slipped it on over my clothes. To my surprise, it fit—even with the T-shirt underneath. I turned slightly, examining the silhouette. Had I really lost that much weight? I hadn't been a size six in years, not since before the miscarriage. Maybe all those half-hearted workout sessions had actually done something after all.

"Is everything okay in there?" the salesgirl called, her voice breaking through my thoughts.

"Yes," I replied, pulling back the curtain of the fitting room. The salesgirl's eyes widened slightly as she took in my outfit—or rather, my awkward layering.

"I can't take the t-shirt off by myself," I explained, motioning toward my casted arm.

"Understandable," she said with a nod, her gaze drifting to my shoulder. "The size looks good. Honestly, we could probably squeeze you into a size five."

"No need," I said with a small laugh. "I'd like to breathe, thanks."

I glanced around the shop. "Have you seen my friend?"

"She's in the other booth," the girl said, gesturing to the row of curtains on the left.

"She took that yellow dress, didn't she?" I asked, moving toward Molly's fitting room.

The salesgirl smiled knowingly. "She did." Then, hesitating for a moment, she followed after me. "I'm sorry, but I just have to say—I loved your book."

I froze, turning to face her fully. My heart stuttered at her words. Maybe Molly and I had been the judgmental ones this time. It always caught me off guard when people recognized me.

"And the fact you're dating Raymond Lawrence?" she added, her smile growing wider and a little awkward. "Just... wow."

I managed a faint smile. "Sorry. I'm not really used to this kind of attention."

"Well, get used to it," she said with a soft laugh. "Everyone online is buzzing about you and Ray. And your new book? People are so excited."

"My book?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. What was she talking about?

Before I could press her, Molly pushed open the velvet curtain of her fitting room, interrupting us. "Oh, you look great," she said, eyeing the dress I was wearing. "I had to help you with the t-shirt," she added with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

"It's fine," I said, glancing her way. "You look good too. Are we done here?"

"Not quite," Molly said, stepping out and turning toward the mirror. "You should probably grab some shoes."

I shook my head, my reflection catching my eye again. The plaid dress paired with my trusty Dr. Martens was always a safe choice, but something felt... off. My bare legs looked almost ghostly against the bold red of the dress.

"I need long socks," I muttered after a moment, mostly to myself. "Like up to the knee—or higher."

"There's a shop across the street that should have something like that," the salesgirl chimed in helpfully.

Her voice startled me; I'd almost forgotten she was still there. My earlier question about the buzz surrounding my book lingered in my mind, unanswered, as Molly and I returned to the fitting rooms to change back. A short while later, we paid for our dresses and stepped out onto the bustling street.

"You know, she recognized me," I said as we waited at the crosswalk.

"Who?" Molly asked, furrowing her perfectly arched brows.

"The girl in the shop," I said, my tone tentative.

"Hence the staring," Molly muttered, her voice dry. "Recognized you as who, though?"

"As Ray's girlfriend, I guess," I said, the words sounding more like a question. "She mentioned my book too."

"Oh."

That was all Molly said. The short reply rubbed me the wrong way, her tone too clipped, too familiar. I knew her well enough to sense when she was holding something back.

The light turned green, and Molly hurried ahead, her steps quick and purposeful. I followed, catching up to her just as she reached the glass doors of a coffee shop.

"What's going on?" I asked, grabbing her shoulder. She flinched slightly but stopped, turning to face me reluctantly.

"I shouldn't..." Molly started, her gaze shifting to the shiny window of the café. She avoided my eyes. "Do we have time for coffee?" she asked instead, changing the subject.

I pulled out my phone, noticing a text from Ray. Skimming it quickly, I nodded. "We do," I said. "Ray's getting a haircut."

"Good," Molly said, her voice tight. "We can talk then."

The cafe was small but cozy, its warm interior filled with the hum of teenage chatter and clinking mugs. Groups of kids crowded the tables near the front, their laughter almost drowning out the soft music playing overhead. Molly and I ordered quickly at the counter, then found a quieter corner tucked away in the back.

I stirred my coffee absentmindedly, watching Molly across the table. Her guarded expression made my chest tighten.

"What's bothering you?" I asked, cutting through the awkward silence.

She sighed, glancing down at her cup. "It's just... something I read."

Her words sent a ripple of unease through me. Whatever it was, I had a feeling I wasn't going to like it.

"Ray is probably going to kill me for telling you this," Molly said, shifting into the black wooden chair across from me. Her tone was conspiratorial, but her face held an undercurrent of guilt. "But since it's all still relevant, I think you should know."

"Know what?" I asked, stirring my latte. The swirling foam seemed less daunting than the answer Molly was about to give.

She leaned over her coffee, blowing gently on the steam. "The press," she began. "Ray's been trying to shield you from it, which is why you've had those so-called 'internet issues' at home."

I paused, mid-stir. "Wait. Are you saying he turned off the internet?"

Molly nodded, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. "Yeah. He figured things had calmed down at first, but as time went on, the lack of any response from you or Ray only fueled the theories. And, well, let's just say some of them aren't that far from the truth."

I stared at her, dumbfounded. "I can't believe he cut off the internet," I said, shaking my head slowly. "Logan told me the press had moved on. He said the 'crazed fan' theory stuck."

"It did—at first," Molly admitted, her expression tightening. "But then your dad gave an interview on your behalf, and he... slipped up. He mentioned you knew Scott. After that, old photos of you and Scott from university started popping up everywhere. The media dug deeper, talked to people, and now most of them believe the shooting wasn't because of Ray—but because of you."

My stomach sank, and the latte suddenly felt heavy in my hands. "Okay, so they're closer to the truth. Why all the secrecy, then?"

Molly rolled her eyes dramatically. "You know how people are. Some think you're to blame for putting Ray in danger. Others are praising you as a hero for saving him. And then," she added, raising her coffee cup like a toast, "there's the comparison issue. Which, by the way, has sparked a whole new round of speculations."

I frowned, setting my mug down. "Comparison issue?"

"KeMe," Molly said casually, like it explained everything.

"What?"

"That's the name the media came up with for your uncle and his girlfriend back in the day."

My confusion deepened. "Why is that relevant now?"

"Well," Molly said, her tone slowing, "back in the nineties, they were the 'it' couple—a rock star and a writer. That's how they met, actually. Melissa wrote songs for your uncle."

I blinked, taken aback. "I didn't know that," I admitted quietly, my gaze falling to the table. "My parents don't talk about Keith at all. It's like... a forbidden topic."

"I know," Molly said gently. "But my mom was kind of a fan of your uncle, so she told me some stuff."

"When?"

"Ages ago," Molly said, brushing it off. "Most of it's old gossip. I didn't think it mattered."

"So, the comparison," I prompted, narrowing my eyes. "It's just because Ray and I have similar careers to them?"

Molly hesitated, then shook her head. "Not just that," she said softly. "They died because a fan chased them off the road. That's what people thought happened to you and Ray—at first."

My chest tightened. "Wait," I said, gripping the edge of the table. "They both died? I thought it was just my uncle."

Molly sighed. "Keith died at the scene, but Melissa... she held on for a few months. She was on life support before she passed." felt my pulse quicken. The weight of her words settled over me like a thick fog.

Molly continued, her voice quieter now. "So, when you were in the hospital, people started speculating if the same fate was waiting for you. And then there's..." She trailed off, hesitant.

"There's what?" I pressed.

She glanced away, her eyes darting to the corner of the room. "They're saying you and Melissa could've been twins."

"What?"

"You look just like her," Molly said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen side-by-side photos. It's... uncanny."

"Show me," I demanded.

Molly hesitated, then pulled out her phone. After a few moments, she turned the screen toward me.

I stared at the images, my breath catching. One was of me—a photo from my Instagram, taken in Paris. I recognized it instantly. The other was a studio shot of Melissa, her hair swept up as she stood near recording equipment. The resemblance was startling.

"When did she die?" I asked, my voice trembling as my vision blurred.

"December tenth," Molly said quietly.

The date hit me like a punch to the gut. My hands trembled as I handed the phone back, my mind racing with questions I wasn't ready to face.