The Follower by Kate Doughty (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📕

investigating all the influencer drama he could find. But now that Amber worked behind the scenes and Rudy’s commentary content had been cut—her mom didn’t want them becoming a drama channel, she’d said—Cecily is the only triplet who still has her niche. Of course, they all post about the renovation content, but that isn’t the same. Things between her and her siblings feel . . . distant.

Downstairs, a thunk and several curses jolt Cecily out of her reverie. It sounds like the junk movers are almost done clearing out the first floor.

Cecily hangs her favorite Gucci top in the closet and glances toward her bedroom window. It looks out onto a wide lawn that’s in serious need of some landscaping, striped with afternoon shadows from the looming woods. The lighting in here really isn’t that bad; maybe she should just set up in her room and invest in a couple extra ring lights. But no—Rudy had already gotten Mom to agree that she should be in the turret room; she had to. Especially after how much “viral potential” her mother said the haunting angle had. Cecily swallows her unease.

She gives up on clothes and unpacks her bookshelf—among the romance and sci-fi novels are old chemistry textbooks and some lesser-known titles on makeup manufacturing. Sometimes, when she’s sitting down for a homeschooling session between renovating a house and making social media posts, she wishes she were at a real school—one without lessons on the best practices for shooting a vlog. Maybe even one with a chemistry lab and actual advanced science classes.

She’s been meaning to update her book collection for quite some time; she reads every book on the science behind makeup that she can get her hands on. But Mom isn’t exactly . . . excited to switch up Cecily’s makeup videos from simple tutorials to in-depth talks about emulsification agents, pigments, and what makes a formula vegan. And god forbid she alienate a potential sponsor by expressing a distaste for makeup that isn’t cruelty-free.

She closes her closet and turns to her makeup stash: shears, brushes, palettes galore. Not for the first time, Cecily finds herself thinking about how nice things had been before Mom started managing her and her siblings. Not for the first time, she finds herself wondering if maybe, just maybe, her makeup videos are getting popular enough for her to make it on her own. Not as a Cole triplet, but as . . . Cecily. Who doesn’t have to be perfect, who could post the videos she wants—strange looks that aren’t guaranteed to succeed, deep dives into the chemical elements of a successful formula . . .

Of course, her family would have to get out of debt first.

The hallway has gone quiet. She slips downstairs with Speckles and returns him to his cage in the kitchen, locking it before she climbs the stairs to check on her siblings. She finds Rudy sitting on his bed with the secondhand acoustic guitar their dad got him for his sixteenth birthday, listening to the tapes from the turret room.

“Whatcha doing?” she asks.

“Trying to figure out these chords by ear,” he responds.

“Aren’t there websites with chords?”

Rudy makes a face at his sister. “I know. I just like doing it this way—it’s more challenging. Besides, you hear that crackle on the tape, you know it’s got character.”

“Or that it’s broken.”

“No, they still work! I mean, I’ve only gotten through one so far, and it’s been pretty good. Odd background noise, though, but nothing to complain about. Everything is so nineties, it’s great.”

“I’m guessing you don’t want to help me set up the desk in the turret room,” Cecily says.

“In a minute,” he replies. “I just want to figure out this chord progression . . .”

Sure. One minute in Rudy guitar time is about a thousand years.

Cecily wonders if she can convince Amber to help her. But when she walks over to her sister’s room, she finds Amber still fully packed except for her MacBook, tablet, and stylus. She’s set them up on the floor and is lying on her stomach, glaring at the screen. Amber is in work mode, like always.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to clone part of one turret room picture to cover up some of the weird boxes in the corner,” she says, but her voice is flat. Like she’s annoyed. Or distracted. “I’m working. Still not sure what I’ll do about the doll—and then I need to go back and track our post engagements from earlier; Mom wants a report of how we’re doing . . .”

Cecily isn’t sure how to answer. When they were little—and when they first started the account—she and Amber had been so close. But ever since their mom’s micromanaging about “engagement” and “successful posting practices” had pushed Amber behind the camera, things have been . . . different. She is different. Distant in a way that Cecily isn’t sure how to fix. “I’m guessing you can’t help me finish moving the desk, then,” Cecily says quietly.

“When I’m done,” Amber says in a monotone, turning back to the screen. “Don’t worry, these photos are going to be sick, wait and see. You look gorgeous.” She sounds so exhausted.

“Thanks, Ambs, ” Cecily says. Amber doesn’t even look up as she leaves the room to search for her dad. Maybe he will help her out.

Downstairs, the junk movers have really transformed the place. Without the odd pieces of furniture or boxes covered in painting tarp, the whole house seems massive. Her voice echoes through the first floor.

“Dad, I need you to—” When she turns a corner into the kitchen, her father is deep in conversation with a short Hispanic man. “Sorry,” she says, flushing. “Is this a bad time?”

“Cecily!” Mr. Cole says. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. LaRosa. He’s our secret weapon on this project—his team will be doing a lot of the installation and landscaping that your mother and I can’t get to.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. LaRosa,” she says. His handshake is firm, his smile kind.

“Please, call me Joseph,” he says. “Mr. LaRosa