The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(56)

“Save Amara!” I cry, thrusting a pin to a passing Caine Wise, who takes it and goes on his way. The convention is slowly filling again with people, browsing across the showroom floor and into Artists’ Alley. I push my glasses farther up my nose, hoping Harper will change the subject because, despite how much I truly and deeply want to flirt with her, I am walking a tightrope of time.

The thief hasn’t posted another part of the script since last night, and I’m beginning to wonder why they’ve been silent for so long. Any one of these people could be the culprit—any of the costumed heroes and antiheroes and secondary characters that pass by the booth. They might’ve even taken a Save Amara pin, for all I know.

And I hate to think—I’m dreading to dwell on—the realization that I’m not really looking forward to the next tweet. Because that means I’ll be one step closer either to finding the thief or to the thief outing me, and either way that is another step farther along the tightrope away from Harper.

There have been so many chances to tell her the truth and yet…

“Save Amara!” I call to a passing Spider-Man, and he takes the pin with a nod.

Harper finishes setting up her side of the booth, various art prints and stickers and enamel pins laid out across the table, and then opens her sketchbook to work on commissions. We sit in comfortable silence as she draws and I hand out pins, asking people to sign the petition, even though it goes against everything I want in my career.

I’m doing it to keep in character, I convince myself as I clip a pin onto a small Amara and watch her toddle away with her mother.

“Your brother’s trying out for quarterback, right?” Harper asks as she sketches the face of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Space Daddy (the commissioner’s request, not my words).

“Um…yeah.” I think she’s talking about Milo. Imogen doesn’t have another brother, does she?

“Has he heard anything yet?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

She nods, looking up from her sketch, and her eyebrows furrow in uncertainty. “Um, Imogen?”

“Hmm?”

My name is Jess, I should say.

“Would you…would you want to go to the ExcelsiCon Ball with me tonight?”

My breath catches and I swallow hard to keep the answer from rising up out of my throat. I hesitate because I’m not Imogen, and I am standing on the edge, and this is very, very bad—

“Or not,” she adds when I don’t say anything. “I mean, dances are stupid anyway.”

“No, Harper, that’s not—”

A familiar ringtone breaks out from my back pocket. At first I think I imagine it—but no, it’s definitely the Pokémon theme song.

Only one person is assigned that ringtone.

“Excuse me,” I apologize, and slip out of the booth. I retreat to the outer corner of Artists’ Alley, near where the pretzel man set up shop. It’s a little quieter here, and it gives me space to shrug out of Imogen’s character without anyone noticing. I check my phone.

I have a missed call and a text from Ethan.

ETHAN TANAKA (12:02 PM)

—Jess, another tweet is up.

—[Link]

—I think you need to call Darien.



I click on the link, even though I already know I don’t want to read it. The dreamy haze that has danced in my head all morning crystalizes with a cold burst of dread.

CARMINDOR DIES, the tweet reads.

It feels like a rubber band that has been wound and wound and wound around me pops. I sink to the carpet, staring at the excerpt. There are no clues this time who this person is or where they are—just the barest edge of a leather sofa. But I’m not sure if I really care all that much who is leaking the script.

I don’t know what I thought I wanted to find in the sequel.

I don’t know how I expected to feel.

But it isn’t…this.

I pull up Dare’s number, but I hesitate to call. It’s noon, and the cast has a panel at noon.

The news broke during the panel, I realize, and my stomach twists into knots. I hope Imogen doesn’t do anything stupid.

Ethan won’t let her. Will he?





A PHONE DINGS IN THE AUDIENCE—Starfield’s communication tone—and then another ding in the front row. Then a hundred dings in succession.

My smartphone vibrates on the table.

Darien and I, the only two of us on the panel (Amon, our moderator, is late), look at each other. We’re supposed to be talking about what it’s like to play opposing forces. “Star-Crossed in Starfield” is the name of the panel, and, you know, I was feeling pretty good about bullshitting my way through it.

Another phone dings.

Now I shift in my chair, apprehensive.

A murmur sweeps across the crowd.

My phone vibrates for only two things right now: my mothers texting me or another leak of the script.

I don’t know what to do—should I read it like everyone in the audience is obviously doing? My eyes stray to the front row until I realize that Ethan isn’t there. I left the hotel without him this morning. I didn’t go to Jess’s room to see if he’d escort me to the convention, and I did well by myself. The paparazzi greeted me outside the con and I gave them Jess’s best smile as I breezed past.