Chapter Text
When you’re a publicist, hard days are the norm. Some clients make it easy, some do not. But a client straight up murdering their bandmate was a bad day by any measure.
Emily worked in PR, not the ER. That mantra had kept her sane for the last four years in the pressure cooker of her agency. It was a constant reminder that despite the stress, long hours, and constant headaches, no lives were at stake, and the consequences could always be recovered from.
But now, as she sat in the waiting room at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto, her leg bouncing restlessly, and a life hanging in the balance, the reminder of that adage just made her stomach churn.
When Emily had become Jay McCarol’s publicist, she had been so happy. The brush with stardom. The prestige. Sure, he had his flaws. You didn’t get to that level of celebrity without a few screws rattling loose. But she had heard horror stories from friends about their nightmare clients, and she counted herself lucky that the worst she had to deal with was a few under-the-table prescriptions and the occasional NDA after a one-night stand.
Jay kept to himself for the most part, by celebrity standards, he was quiet, under the radar. The more popular he got, the more he clung to his “good Canadian boy” image.
Sure, he put on a front with his bravado and entourage. He had stars in his eyes, and how could she really fault him for that? She knew in his place she would be just the same but behind the public persona, she had gotten to see glimpses of the “real Jay.” He had seemed genuine. Lonely, sure. Maybe a bit distant, But certainly not the kind of man who seemed capable of shooting someone point blank without provocation.
Her stomach churned at the memory. Was it really just this morning?
The world tour was about to start, and they had interviews lined up. Patricia had sent her out to Jay’s mansion to do a media briefing. After that disastrous Roz and Mocha interview, the agency had decided a media training refresher was in order.
Sure, the hosts had been out of line with their questions. But he had to learn how to deflect.
She had seen him do it countless times. So why had he frozen?
“Who’s your best friend?”
He had looked so broken at that question. She didn't feel it was fair to dig deeper and ask for an explanation, but the internet certainly had. The “Sad Jay” memes had started circulating within hours.
She had just been walking up the driveway, past the elaborate gate, rehearsing how she would approach this with him, when she heard the shot ring out. A single resounding crack
She knew with absolute certainty in her soul, that even if she systematically destroyed every brain cell, the sound of the screams that followed would never leave her memory. The distillation of utter heartbreak and fear reverberated through her bones.
The trailer had just come into view when she saw the band pour out, stumbling over one another. Crimson blood splattered across their clothes, their faces stricken with horror.
What had happened?
The tour crew lingering outside froze mid-task, turning toward the commotion.
“HE SHOT LUKE!” Mitch screamed. “HE SHOT HIM IN THE HEAD!”
For a moment, there was only silence. It was like the molecules in the air had stopped moving.
And then, all at once, chaos. People screamed. Ran. Hid.
Emily was frozen in shock. A shooter? A shooter… This is Canada? We don’t have shooters here.
Randy, the audio director, snapped her out of her paralysis, grabbing her wrist and dragging her behind a pile of boxed equipment.
“Stay down, Emily. We have to stay down.”
“What happened? Who got shot? Who was in there?” she rasped, breath heaving.
Randy looked at her, stunned, shock written across his face.
“I don’t know… I thought it was just the band. And Jay. I didn’t see anyone else go in…”
Then the trailer door burst open. Jay McCarol stumbled out, frantic, fear wild in his eyes, a gun still in his hand. He scanned the chaos. Tossed the gold-plated gun, his “lucky charm,” onto the lawn, and sprinted toward the trees lining the property.
In an instant he was gone.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had already called the police. The tour medic rushed into the trailer, shouting for a first aid kit. From the expressions on the band’s faces, Emily knew it might be futile.
Mitch was crouched on the ground, head in his hands, mumbling over and over: “He shot him in the face. Jay shot him in the face.”
Emily knew, in that instant, her day was about to get a lot more complicated. She pulled out her phone and dialled Patricia.
“Patricia… we have a problem, Luke was shot, It’s Jay. Jay shot Luke.”
The memory replayed on a loop as she sat in the hospital.
After she filled Patricia in, the normally unshakable woman had let a crack of panic seep into her voice, instructing Emily to go with the ambulance and report back. No one had come out to speak with her, but the grim faces of the doctors exiting the room told her everything.
It wasn’t urgency that scared her but the lack of it. No rushing. No frantic movement. No machines. No specialists being called in. The room was still. Low murmurs between doctors. Nurses with their heads down, like they were trying not to process the grisly site before them.
She was sure he was dead.
Why would Jay have done this? Her phone buzzed again. Notifications multiplying by the minute. Reporters, crisis management teams, all asking the same question.
Why?
What would drive someone who seemed to have it all? Money. Fame. Success. The girls, if her NDA files were anything to go by, to do something like this.
He was about to leave for a world tour, for god’s sake. She knew Jay wasn’t really friends with the band. There had always been a wall between them. He was the star. They were just coworkers. No one who knew them could mistake them for anything else. But still… there had never been real animosity. Nothing that could explain this.
Her mind drifted to the drugs she knew he carried. Benzos, Just to relax. Some coke, but nothing that Half of Hollywood wasn’t on.
Was it possible they have been swapped? Had he started taking something else? Was this some kind of psychotic break?
Her thoughts spiralled. She had no way of knowing.
She worked with him, yes, but they had never really talked. Not like people. She was his publicist. An obligation. A task. Just a name on a contract. Not a friend and certainly not a confidant.
“Are you Emily DeRamos?”
She looked up. A police officer stood over her. Neutral expression and a purposeful posture. She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Jay McCarol.”
“Of course,” she managed. “I’ll tell you anything I know.”
“Has he displayed any violent tendencies in the past?”
She paused, even though she had already replayed every interaction a hundred times.
“No. Nothing I can think of. He was always… normal.”
“Do you know why he had a gun in his trailer?”
“It was a prop. He said it was from an old Bond movie. A lucky charm. I didn’t even realize it worked. I thought it was fake.”
He scribbled something down.
“What do you know about his relationship with Luke LaLonde?”
“They weren’t friends. Just bandmates. Coworkers, really. I don’t think they even spent time together outside of rehearsals or performances. But they seemed to get along well enough. I never heard of any serious problems….. No tension.”
The officer nodded.
“Do you have any idea where Jay might have gone? Does he have friends in the city? Another property? A girlfriend…” He hesitated. “Or a boyfriend?”
Emily blinked. Did this mean they hadn’t caught him? She had assumed that given the heavy security in his Bridle Path neighbourhood and the rapid police response that they would have had him located in minutes. How had he managed to slip away? It had been hours since the shooting and he was still out there.
“No… I don’t know…” Her voice cracked.
“I didn’t know him like that. I’m just his publicist. I’m just supposed to make him look good.”
The officer gave a small, almost sympathetic smile.
“I don’t envy your job today.”
Despite everything, the absurdity of the situation caught her off guard and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”
He handed her a card.
“If you think of anything, or if you hear from Mr. McCarol, call us immediately.”
She nodded.
“Luke…” she hesitated. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The officer’s expression softened.
“Yes. We’re notifying his family now.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She hadn’t known him well. A handful of conversations, at most. But the senselessness of it all hit her like a truck.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She pulled out her phone and typed an update to Patricia.
Before she could put her phone down, it buzzed with an incoming call.
She answered.
“Emily, get back to the office. We have a statement to write.”