Free Shooting for the Stars by R. G. Belsky Page A

happened. And lots of discussion about the price of fame for someone like Abbie Kincaid or Laura Marlowe in our society.
    I was part of all this, of course. I did the first news story on the discovery of the body, covered all the press conferences on the status of the investigation, and attended the star-studded funeral they held for Abbie. I also wrote a bylined first-person piece about the time I had spent with her. Everyone told me it was one of the best things I’ve ever done. But I was doing it all on autopilot. The days were all a blur to me as I tried to deal with Abbie’s sudden death.
    The most traumatic moment happened when Stacy came up with the idea of me doing a live webcast on the Daily News website about my personal relationship with Abbie in the days before her death.
    The paper’s online audience would email or text or tweet me questions, I’d answer them onscreen for the website, and our internet traffic would soar, Stacy proclaimed proudly.
    It didn’t seem like that good an idea to me, just crass and sensationalistic. I wanted to be a real journalist, not some gimmick to boost net traffic or newspaper sales by exploiting my relationship with Abbie. But Stacy was insistent. She might not know much about journalism—but she sure as hell knew how to draw a big audience. And I was her star attraction, whether I liked it or not.
    The webcast lasted for thirty minutes. I held up pretty well through most of it. I answered questions about Abbie’s career, the murder investigation, and how I’d gotten to know her after the interview in her office—as well as a lot of other, straightforward material. But then, just before the end, someone asked me this question: “What will you remember most about Abbie Kincaid?” And all I could think of was that last night at my apartment when she’d come to me in tears, buried her head against my chest, and said, “I just want to feel safe with someone.” I teared up as I tried to give an answer; my voice broke with emotion, and I dabbed at my eyes on camera as I tried to regain my composure. Somehow I made it to the end of the webcast.
    Afterward, Stacy was ecstatic.
    â€œThat was terrific, Gil. We set all kinds of new traffic records with it. Maybe we should do another webcast with you tomorrow.”
    â€œTomorrow?”
    â€œHell, we can keep doing them all week if there’s that much interest out there in the Abbie Kincaid murder.”
    â€œI’m sorry about that bit at the end,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œStacy, I almost cried on camera.”
    â€œThat was the best part.”
    â€œI thought you’d be upset.”
    â€œUpset? That video with you wiping tears out of your eyes is already going viral on social media. It was incredibly compelling. You showed real emotion to them. You opened up your heart, you opened up your feelings, and they loved it all.”
    â€œUh, well, I’m glad I was able to put on a good show.”
    â€œI just have one request if we do another webcast tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Stacy?”
    â€œDo you think you can cry on camera like that again?”
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    One night, not long after Abbie was killed, I went back to the coffee shop in Greenwich Village where we’d eaten dinner together that first night. I sat there for a long time, looking at the waitresses and wondering if any of them would ever wind up like Abbie. I tried to imagine Abbie waiting on tables and dreaming of becoming a big star someday. I wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t made it big. What if she’d just kept working as a waitress? What if she’d gone back to Wisconsin? What if she’d stayed married to her husband back there? She probably wouldn’t be too happy, but she might still be alive.
    At some point, I came up with a wild theory that maybe Abbie wasn’t really dead. That it could all be a publicity stunt. I