Rachel West and the Fallen Starlet

Book 1: Rachel West Hollywood Mysteries

by Emma Mills

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Celebrity gossip can cut to the quick, but when it turns deadly it’s up to an aspiring reporter and her quirky neighbors to close the case in the first of a witty and nostalgic new mystery series.

Baby doll top, gladiator sandals, and fully loaded iPod at the ready: it’s 2008 in Los Angeles, and Rachel West is a little less starry-eyed than your average ingenue. Copyediting a celeb gossip rag isn't the glossy entertainment journalism Rachel thought she would be doing but hey, it pays the bills. Some of them, anyway.

Rachel’s life changes overnight after meeting Molly Byrne, a former child star and current tabloid fave for her drunken escapades and rotating cast of boyfriends, and what begins as a chance encounter in a nightclub bathroom quickly grows into a genuine friendship.

When Molly is found dead, Hollywood accepts her death as an overdose. But Rachel knows for a fact her friend was clean—and she’s not alone in her suspicions that Molly was murdered.

With the help of a ragtag group of residents from her apartment building, a friendly paparazzo, and a handsome detective, Rachel must solve the mystery of Molly’s death before she’s written off for good.

Release date: May 19, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 416

Sample

1

I learned of Molly Byrne's death the same way I learned the top ten exercises for toned abs, or what movies were playing at the nearest Cinemark, or whether my ex-boyfriend from college was currently seeing someone. In short, it was the internet that told me Molly was dead. Not a friend, not someone from her staff, not even the anchor of my usual morning news show. It was the internet, cold and unfeeling, in badly kerned Helvetica font. The home page of my web browser announced that she had been found early that morning, and a quick search turned up any number of articles from sources ranging from the Associated Press to the soul-sucking realm of Celebritease.

I lived alone, so there was no one to share the news with. Molly was dead. She had died. She was just . . . gone.

There was a feeling of absolute unreality about it. Like if I closed my laptop, it would no longer be true. Or if I picked up my phone and called Molly right now, she would answer.

More than three months ago, the idea of having Molly Byrne's phone number would've sounded absolutely absurd to me. But somehow, remarkably, we had become friends.

In fact, I had seen her just last night. Just over twelve hours ago.

And now . . .

It didn't make any sense. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to.

I grabbed my cell phone and brought up her contact info, even though I knew it was nonsensical. As the phone rang, I looked at the headline currently front and center on the People home page-large, bold letters above a photo of Molly exiting an SUV, one hand held up to shield her eyes from flashbulbs:

MOLLY BYRNE DEAD AT 24, FAMILY 'DEVASTATED'

The phone clicked midring. For a second, my breath caught.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system," a robotic preset message said. Her number was "not available. At the tone, please record your message, and when you are finished recording you may hang up or press one for more options-"

I hung up.

I had brewed a cup of tea before I sat down and opened my laptop. It was stone-cold now. I picked it up and took a sip anyway. I thought of Molly's kitchen, and her mismatched tins full of bags of Earl Grey and English breakfast.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I forced myself to blink them away. I was not a crier. I prided myself on that, though part of me wondered if I never allowed myself to cry because I knew that once I started, it would be extremely difficult to stop.

There was a knock at my door.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Anton, maybe? He would enter in a haze of lavender, and he would make me new tea, and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I wouldn't believe him, but it would help to hear it anyway.

Regrettably, it wasn't Anton. When I opened the door, two people were standing on the concrete walkway outside my apartment-a man and a woman, both wearing generic, crime-scene-procedural-type clothes.

"Rachel West?"

The guy was tall and good-looking, shades of David Boreanaz circa Angel. The woman had an athletic build and an attractive face, an Eva Mendes type.

Celebrity bullshit gets into your bones. It replaces the marrow. I thought briefly of the med school dreams of a Rachel West past. Then I cleared my throat.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Lee," the man said. "This is Detective Ruiz. We're with the LAPD." They each gave the perfunctory flash of a badge. "We'd like to speak with you about Molly Byrne."

Detective Ruiz's tone was clipped. "May we come in?"

I opened the door wider to let the detectives in. As I went to close it behind them, I caught sight of one of my neighbors taking a bag of trash out to the dumpster. She was peering my way with interest. This was surely not the first time the cops had ever visited the Palm Vista apartment complex, but it was definitely the first time they had come to see me.

I shut the door quickly and turned to face the two detectives.

They were surveying my apartment: the trays from half-eaten frozen meals in the sink of the little kitchenette, the ladybug Pillow Pet on my thrift-store couch, the well-worn sneakers and slides in a haphazard pile by the door. I'm sure they easily noted the things that didn't fit-the Fendi sunglasses on my coffee table, the stack of Louboutin boxes next to the TV.

Then they looked at me, and maybe they knew I was Rachel West, recently minted entertainment reporter for Icon magazine. Probably they were judging me, trying to understand a situation in which one plus one somehow added up to negative five.

Ruiz had beautiful uptilted eyes that were perfectly lined. She looked like someone who drank kale juice and did the Bar Method. She was definitely judging me.

Lee's expression was deliberately neutral. He was certainly good-looking, though how conscious he was of that fact, I couldn't tell. In my experience, there was kind of an inverse relationship to it here in LA-the less aware of being handsome a guy was, the more attractive he became.

I realized that no amount of useless analysis of this pair was going to change the situation. So I cleared my throat. "Do you want to sit down?"

Ruiz gingerly moved my Pillow Pet to one side. Both detectives sat down on the couch. I took a seat in the adjacent chair.

"We've got witnesses placing you at Molly Byrne's house yesterday evening," Ruiz said without preamble. "Her security team says you were there between eight and eight thirty. Is that correct?"

The feeling of unreality intensified. I was being interviewed by the police. About Molly. Because she was . . . because she had . . .

"Yeah. Is she-" It was pointless to ask. I knew it was. But that didn't stop me. "Is she really dead?"

"Yes," Ruiz said bluntly, at the same time that Lee said, "I'm afraid so," in a somewhat gentler tone, and then they both glanced at each other for a fraction of a second, as if each was disappointed by the other's approach.

"How did Molly seem last night?" Lee asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Was she upset? Acting differently than usual?"

A lump had formed in my throat. "Is it true? What everyone's saying." I gestured toward my computer, like that somehow encompassed it. Everyone. "That it was-that she overdosed."

"The investigation is ongoing," Ruiz said.

"Was it on purpose? Or was it an accident?" Their answer seemed imperative. Just how oblivious were you last night, Rachel? Just how stupid were you not to realize that she was struggling? "Do you think she did it on purpose?"

Ruiz's expression was unyielding. "I'm afraid we can't share that kind of detail at the moment."

"How did she seem?" Lee pressed, but not unkindly. I met his eyes, which were a warm brown.

"I mean, kind of on edge, but . . . also kind of far away, I guess?" I swallowed hard. "But she would get like that sometimes. I just thought she was . . ." The words stuck in my throat. "She's been doing a lot of promo lately. I just thought she was tired."

"What was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Byrne?"

I had known Molly Byrne for three months. It felt like much longer, but at the same time, now, impossibly short.

"Friends," I said. "We were friends. I . . ." How could I describe the bathroom at Lithium? The Corail Aquatique and everything that came after? "We met at a club, and then later, I ended up interviewing her for the magazine where I work. She gave me an exclusive."

"About what?"

"Her breakup with Dax Van Sant." A pause. "Her sobriety." I blinked against the fresh sting in my eyes. "We kind of just . . . hit it off. She doesn't-didn't-have a ton of friends. Neither do I." My heart squeezed painfully at the realization: Now I have one less.

The two detectives proceeded to ask me a slew of questions. Was anyone else at Molly's house when I arrived? Did I know of any medications or recreational drugs that Molly was taking? Did I see her take any last night? Where did I go after I left her house? Could anyone vouch for my whereabouts?

When the questioning finally wound down, both detectives stood and thanked me and then headed toward the door. Ruiz had her hand on the knob, but Lee lingered for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said. "About your friend."

I nodded. He was the first person to say this to me.

"If you think of anything else, this is my number." He handed me a card. I accepted it, and then watched as the pair headed away.

2

IN COMPLETE SHOCK, Anton texted me.

He always texted in all caps, as he considered case-sensitive to be "too much hassle." Once, I pointed out that he could type entirely in lowercase letters instead. He replied that lowercase was INCOMPATIBLE WITH HIS LIFESTYLE.

My phone buzzed again, three times in short succession.

IM DEVASTATED FOR YOU

AND FOR MOLLY

SHE WAS SO VIBRANT

It was the same kind of thing people were saying on TV and online-She was a beautiful soul. So full of life. She will be so missed.

And the think pieces were pouring in already: Hounded by paparazzi, crucified by the media-is the entertainment industry to blame for the death of Molly Byrne?

But this was personalized: I'm devastated for you.

I'm sorry about your friend.

My phone screen swam before my eyes. I looked away, blinked hard, and then typed back:

I know. It's terrible.

And that was completely insufficient. But what do you say in a text? How could I possibly sum it up? This horrible, weird, bad thing has happened, and I don't know what to do with myself ?

I had no clue. So I did what I'd do on any other morning: I went to work.

Icon's offices were on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise on Wilshire. "Is it just like Ugly Betty?" my little sister, Natalie, had asked me over the phone when I first got the job, more than a year ago. She was a college freshman at the time, still living at home in St. Louis, with our parents.

"Yes," I had replied, "down to the very floor tiles. All magazine offices are like that. In fact, people can barely remember what magazine offices looked like before Ugly Betty, and did you know that they're contractually obligated to hire an America Ferrera look-alike-"

"Okay!" she squawked. "I get it! Silly question. Also, I hate you."

"I hate that we don't talk about Ugly Betty as much as we should."

In reality, Icon was not particularly glamorous. Besides the view, I suppose, but that was only for the privileged few in the private offices along the perimeter of the floor. All the lower editorial staff were stuck in a bullpen in the center of the floor, with the characteristic fluorescent lights and gray industrial carpeting of myriad office suites across the country. My old desk and Anton's backed right up to each other. I had to crane my neck to catch a sliver of window through one of the open office doors when I got up to make a copy.

Since my recent promotion to entertainment reporter, I now shared one of the windowed offices with a lifestyle editor named Tyla. She was very into health and fitness, and was obsessed with what she referred to as wellness. This involved things like drinking lukewarm water with lemon in it, sitting on an exercise ball in lieu of a desk chair, and refusing to eat anything that contained Red 40.

Tyla's desk was empty this morning, and I was secretly relieved. I had encountered many well-intentioned condolence givers on my way into work. So many tilted heads, so many I just can't believe its and How are you holding ups.

It made me irrationally angry and I couldn't even articulate why. Maybe because I didn't deserve condolences-I had known Molly for only a few months, while there were so many people who had known her and loved her for longer-or maybe because I hated having to hear them in the first place. I hated the fact that Molly was gone.

I had just settled in at my desk when Irina stopped by.

She was my boss, and the chief entertainment editor at Icon. Irina's office was indeed glamorous, and Irina herself was intimidatingly glamorous. "She's got the kind of beauty that's completely timeless," one of the art directors remarked once. "Like she'd be considered just as beautiful in ancient Rome or Regency England or imperial Russia."

"True, I can totally see her plotting the downfall of the Romanovs," Anton had muttered to me, and I stifled a laugh.

Right now, Irina gazed at me with icy blue eyes that revealed nothing. She wore her hair in a blunt-cut bob, perfectly straight, and it moved as a unit, a pale blond curtain, as she gestured in the direction of her office. "Shall we chat?"

I followed her.

"Please sit." She indicated one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of her desk. It was made of padded leather and had a very low back, so you had to either sit perched forward or lean awkwardly back. I opted for perching forward.

Irina offered me a Fiji water, which I waved off, and then she took a seat behind her desk. She twisted the cap off her own Fiji, and then immediately screwed it back on without taking a drink.

"I'm so sorry about Molly," she said. "I know you two were close."

"Thank you," I replied, which felt both completely wrong and completely inadequate.

"This is an incredibly difficult situation, but obviously we need to move forward with a memorial issue. I'm wondering if you would be interested-" Irina paused, pursing her lips. "That's not the right way to put it. I'm wondering if you would be willing to contribute a short editorial about Molly. Something about your friendship with her, how close you became in such a short time-"

"I . . ." The thought hadn't even crossed my mind yet. Of course they would scrap the current issue.

"And before you get started, it would be immensely helpful to me if you could reach out to the Byrnes." Irina clicked one manicured nail against the cap of the Fiji bottle. "Tish, Doug, Amy-it doesn't matter who, as long as we get something from one of them. People's already got a 'source' who's 'close to the family'"-Irina lived and died by air quotes-"but I know we can get something directly from the Byrnes if you work your magic."