The Match (Wilde, #2)(31)

Wilde said nothing.

“Peter’s innocence, his na?veté, his fragility. The rest of us, well, we are attractive enough, I guess. But Peter? He had that intangible. These reality shows—sure, they’re all fake and scripted, but the viewer still somehow sees through all that and finds the real you. And the real Peter was pure goodness. You know the expression ‘too good for this world’?”

Wilde nodded. He debated asking why someone “too good” would have roofied his sister-in-law, but he imagined that Vicky Chiba would either deny it or shut down entirely, and neither of those results would be fruitful right now; instead, he asked, “You said you blame yourself for Peter.”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell me why?”

“Because I got him into this,” Vicky said. “I knew he’d be a star, and then I did a tarot reading that encouraged me to be active, not reactive—that’s what it said over and over, ‘Be active, not reactive,’ and I had always been so reactive, my whole life—so I filled out the application for Peter to be on the show. I didn’t think anything would come of it. Or maybe I knew. I can’t say anymore. But I didn’t really comprehend the long-term impact on Peter’s psyche.”

“In what way?” Wilde asked.

“Fame changes everyone. I know that sounds like a cliché, but no one gets out unscathed. When that fame beacon hits you, it’s warm and soothing and the most addictive drug in the world. Every celebrity denies it—they pretend to be above craving fame—but it’s so much worse for reality stars.”

“How so?”

“No reality star stays a star. There is always an expiration date. I worked for a while in Hollywood. I always heard, ‘The bigger the star, the nicer they are.’ And you know what? That’s true—the big stars are often really nice—but do you know why?”

Wilde shook his head.

“It’s because they can afford to be. Those big superstars are secure that the fame will always be in plentiful supply for them. But for reality stars? It’s the opposite. Reality stars know that beacon is at its brightest when it first hits you and that it will only dim with time.”

Wilde gestured to the family photograph in her hand. “And that’s what happened to your brother?”

“I thought Peter handled it as well as anyone could. I thought he’d built a life with Jenn, a happy one, but when it all fell apart…” Her voice faded away. Her eyes grew moist. “Do you really think Peter is alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” she said, trying to sound resolute. “If Peter was alive, he’d have contacted me.”

Wilde waited. Vicky Chiba would get there soon enough.

“But then again, if Peter had decided to leave this world”—Vicky Chiba stopped, blinked back the tears, regained her composure—“I think he would have contacted me. To let me know. To say goodbye.”

They both stood there for a moment. Then Wilde said, “Let’s go back for a second. When did you last see Peter?”

“He was staying with me.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“When did he leave?”

“You saw Peter’s social media profiles?”

“Some of them,” Wilde said.

“He left three days before his last Instagram post.”

“The one with the cliff?”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said he was staying with you.”

“Yes.”

“What precipitated him leaving? What did he tell you?”

Again her eyes welled up. “On the surface, Peter seemed to be getting better. There was that post about not being so quick to believe what you hear. Did you see that one?”

Wilde nodded.

“So I thought maybe Peter was turning a corner, but looking back on it, I see it was all kinds of forced. Like he was psyching himself up for a battle he knew he couldn’t win.” She headed toward a computer on a desk in the corner. “Did you read the comments under any of his posts?”

“I did,” Wilde said.

“Vile, right?”

“Yes.”

“The last few days he was here, Peter read them all. Every single one of them. I don’t know why. I told him not to. They made him spiral. So on that last day, that’s what he was doing. He read the comments. Then he went through hundreds of DMs.”

“DMs?”

“Direct Messages. Think of it like the messaging service in your DNA website. Followers on Instagram can write to you directly. Most remain unread. I tried to keep up during the height of Peter’s popularity—that was important to him, to be kind to his fans—but there were so many it was impossible. Anyway, he got a particularly awful one. And that, I don’t know, that seemed like the last straw.”

“When did he get this message?”

“A day or two before he left. Some toxic creep had been trolling him, but this particular message—it was the first time I saw a flash of anger from him. For the most part, Peter was just confused and baffled by all this, not angry. It was like the world punched him in the face, and he was just trying to get his bearings and figure out why. But with this message, he wanted to go after the guy.”