“Sounds great, thanks,” she mumbled. After a few turns they were out of the airport parking lot. Looking out the window, she could see long, flat buildings blurring past as they made their way to the hotel. Grey skies hung overhead, and the air was bloated with the impending rainstorm. She wondered again about the events that had transpired while she was blacked out.
“So, how did I get off the plane?” she asked, breaking the silence that hung in the small car.
Alex chuckled. “You don’t remember?”
“Um, no?” she said quietly. This can’t be a good sign, she thought.
“Well…” Alex then relayed a horrific story of how Sydney had completely passed out on the plane ride—to the point where several stewardesses had been called to her chair when her fellow passengers had wondered if she was breathing. They had propped her up and made sure she was buckled in when the plane landed.
When they arrived at the terminal, she woke up briefly, with just enough time to turn to the newlywed couple next to her and throw up all over their laps. The flight attendants stepped in at that point, removed her neck pillow, and hoisted her off the plane.
“At that point,” Alex continued, “you were carried out and laid across a few chairs until several airport security officers came, picked you up in their golf cart, and brought you to our office.”
Sydney’s cheeks burned, and she felt her stomach knot. She pictured her limp body laid across the golf cart as she was paraded toward Security. She said a silent prayer to herself, Good Lord I hope no one took of picture of that. She held her meticulously manicured hand over her mouth in horror.
“Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed,” she said, refusing to look anywhere but out the window as her cheeks continued to burn. “You must think I’m a mess!”
Alex laughed. “Actually, that happens a lot. You would be surprised. Ambien has become a regular problem at the airport.”
They stayed silent the rest of the ride, Sydney too embarrassed to speak of anything else and too exhausted to keep up any type of small talk. She kept her eyes firmly on the world blurring past her, wishing she could find a way to mentally escape. She felt herself looking around her lap again for her phone. In these situations, it was where she turned to when she needed to lose herself. Therapeutic scrolling through her social media feeds often took her away from the painful realities of her life.
They finally arrived at the hotel, and she nearly leapt out of the car when the bellman opened the door. She felt like a mess and wished she’d packed a baseball cap to hide her matted hair. The sunglasses she pulled from her purse would have to do for now.
After an awkward check-in at the hotel desk (where the clerk thought they were a couple), Alex escorted her to her room. As they walked down the hall, two police officers turned the corner toward them. Sydney eyed them cautiously.
“Are those guys for me?” she asked Alex.
“Sorry, it’s standard procedure. Just until morning—we need to make sure you don’t flee.”
Sydney almost laughed. “I’m not the fugitive type.”
Alex stopped and looked at her, as if he was sizing her up. “People do strange things when they are under stress,” he said as he opened her door.
She wondered how he would define strange. This entire situation felt incredibly strange to her. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, Sydney. Until then, try to get some rest.”
“Thanks,” she said as she entered the room.
Sydney turned the deadbolt on the door and heaved a sigh of relief. All the embarrassment and fear she’d been holding in since she woke could finally escape from her. She leaned back against the door, sank to the floor, and began to cry.
After a few moments of self-indulgent pity, she reminded herself again that crying wasn’t going to help anyone and it certainly wouldn’t help find Lizzy’s killer. She wiped her face, which was nearly makeup-free at this point, stood up, and headed toward the bathroom. The room was simple: a queen-size bed sat in the center facing a large dresser with a flat-screen TV sitting on top and a small desk and chair in the corner.
As she passed the large beveled mirror to the right of the TV, she got the first glimpse of herself. Smeared makeup. Hair matted on one side. She looked gaunt and pale despite her spray tan.
What a sight the good folks at Homeland Security got to enjoy, she thought as she wiped a tear from her cheek.
Her shirt was wrinkled, and her jeans were stained with some type of liquid. It was a far cry from the perfectly poised @SydneyStyle11 profile her followers on Instagram saw. Sydney’s brand was easygoing, casual chic. She was meant to look effortless but behind the scenes was heavy with preparation. Her transformation had happened over time, one beauty experiment at a time. First she had lost ten pounds, then she went from brunette to blond. She had started wearing false eyelashes, and hair extensions came soon after. Weekly manicures, pedicures, and spray tans kept her looking as polished as a fresh-out-of-the-box Barbie doll. Her dad, who was always supportive of anything Sydney had done, had even commented, saying, “Is my daughter still in there?” It had taken her years to create that look that all her followers admired.
Where she excelled as an influencer was finding locations that made her outfits pop. A pink-and-white striped top was the perfect contrast to a bright blue brick wall. Palm trees of whatever fabulous beach vacation she was on would complement her straw fedora and gauzy caftan dress.
It began as a hobby. She was working as an account manager at an advertising firm in downtown Chicago. Catering to high-maintenance clients who never seemed happy was a soul-sucking job for Sydney. But she handled it with style, right down to her Tory Burch wedges. Each night she would come home, edit, and post her outfit for the day.
She followed a few other girls who were doing the same thing. A few of them had even quit their full-time jobs to pursue careers as influencers, basically just people who market products to their social media audience. Just a few months into posting herself, she received a flood of messages from fans asking where she bought her clothes and how she did her hair. At that point, she realized she was onto something.
As her following grew, so did her obsession with perfection. The perfect messy bun to match her athleisure look. Every vacation, every trip to the local grocery store had a carefully selected outfit that fit her brand. And although her outfits looked casually chic, behind the camera was a massive spreadsheet of shirts, leggings, dresses, and shoes with hyperlinks to grow her affiliate empire. When she discovered that you could make good money by building the perfect outfit, she was hooked, and influencing became a full-time career.
It was just a few years into this endeavor that she started dating Jack. He was always a happy photographer for her but would never step in front of the camera himself. “That’s your thing,” he would say. He seemed to adore her neurotic obsession with the perfect shot and always supported her career in fashion blogging. It was only in the last few months before his death that he seemed more annoyed at having to stop at every meal and take a picture. They stopped traveling together as much, and he seemed to pull away from her.
Sydney couldn’t think about that right now. Jack was gone and now Lizzy—there was nothing she could do to change the facts. What she really wanted was to sink into the sheets with her phone and scroll through the next two hours of her feed. Alas, there was no phone. So she settled for a hot shower and a warm towel. She still had the towel wrapped around her head as she melted into the freshly made bed sheets and immediately fell asleep.