Free The Prada Paradox by Julie Kenner Page B

Lindy, I’m sure, is still listening to talk radio while idling on the 10. Like I said—I love Beverly Hills.

    I also love my house. Before the attack, I lived in a darling little bungalow tucked away in the hills just off Laurel Canyon. Pretty and charming, with a great view and little critters that visited me at night, like raccoons and possums and the occasional coyote.

    Those critters didn’t bother me.

    It was the two-legged vermin that forced me to move, and even though I loved that house dearly, I love my very secure new home even better. This baby is wired for action, and even has a guardhouse complete with three guards on rotating shifts provided by the security firm I hired. (Lucas, Tom, and Miguel, all three of whom get really great Christmas presents from me.)

    I’m all about security and privacy these days. You hardly have to be a celebrity to be the victim of a freakish crime, but all the information that had been in the press about me over the years must have fed Janus’s fixation. And probably helped him figure out how to get to me.

    That’s one big downside of being a child star. Folks see you grow up on television and in the movies, and they think they own you. Couple that with a psychopathic personality, and you have a whole I’ll-assassinate-the-president-to-prove-I-love-Jodie-Foster thing going.

    It’s bizarre. And, yes, it’s a little scary. (Okay, it’s a lot scary.) And that’s exactly why I decided to start keeping a tight grip on the personal information that gets leaked out about me. And why I moved to a house with security roughly the equivalent of Fort Knox.

    Too little, too late, you say? Well, maybe. But it helps me sleep at night.

    The house was built in the twenties by Greta Garbo, although she never actually lived there. (That little tidbit made for tons of tabloid fodder after I became a recluse. “Spirit of Garbo Infuses Miss Devi, Who Simply ‘Vants to Be Alone.’” Puh-lease!) And although the house is older than my old bungalow, it’s been more thoroughly updated. State-of-the-art kitchen. State-of-the-art electrical system. Fully landscaped. Fabulous privacy fence (complete with security, of course). Video monitors all around the grounds. You name it.

    And whereas my old house had been just off the street, my new place is tucked up against the hills and set back away from traffic. The driveway is more like a private road that winds around until you reach my house, tucked in against the hills. The guards check and announce all guests on the property intercom, and then send them through the gate after I give my okay.

    A high fence surrounds the property, and it’s under twenty-four-hour video surveillance. It’s also got some voltage running through it, but I don’t advertise that.

    The bottom line? I feel safe there. And for someone like me, that’s saying a lot.

    Lucas is on shift when I arrive, and I pause to do the chitchat thing.

    “How’d the first day of shooting go?”

    “Great,” I say. “And the shopping afterward was even better.”

    He grins, then nods toward the gate. “Go relax. And have a good night, Ms. Taylor.”

    Lucas is an odd bird in Los Angeles—a man who wants absolutely nothing to do with the movie business. He used to be a plumber, but he went back to school to get an engineering degree. He likes the job because it gives him time to study. (That’s his basic overview, at any rate. I know a lot more about the man. Believe me. The background check I ran before I let the security company put him on-site would put the FBI to shame.)

    My first order of business when I come home is to switch purses. My new Prada bag is a little bit tote bag and a little bit purse…and one hundred percent perfect. I slip my new laptop in it just to be sure, and it fits like a charm, with two interior pockets for my wallet, makeup, and other girlie things. It even has a pocket on the back that is just the right size for a script, and two additional pockets for sunglasses and