I work for a celebrity that doesn't exist.

I work for a very high-profile celebrity. I can't tell you who, at the risk of my life.

But I can tell you this: she, as you know her, does not exist.

We come in at 8 AM. The whole committee has never even met her, despite the fact we've worked here four years. Marge claims she glimpsed her once going into our building -- but the rest of us don't believe her.

She has better things to do than deal with us.

Social media comes first. Annabelle drafts up a Tweet. Could be anything, but usually it's a down-to-earth joke or vague political commentary. Then, we send it to our focus group. 50 girls, 15-35 in age. That's my job as resident number-cruncher. I analyze the results and decide if it's worthy of posting.

If it isn't, we start over.

If we need it to be personal, we take a photo of Rebecca from behind. She's the only blonde in the group, and is a good stand-in for the real thing. If they want a cute "pet photo," we take a photo of Ben's dogs.

The fans have never noticed.

In fact, every detail of her life that makes it to the public -- relationships, feuds, even "scandals" that are "leaked" -- are all carefully manufactured and curated. I don't think she's even met up with her "serious boyfriend of three years," other than to get purposefully caught by the paparazzi.

It all went to shit when Marge decided she wanted to meet her.

"I'm going to do it," she told us, grinning ear to ear. "I'm going to meet her."

"How?" Ben asked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because. I have a theory." She pulled out her phone, tapped a few times. "Look at this photo. From her concert in September. Look at her ears."

"Okay," I said. "What about them?"

"She's got huge earlobes, right? But in this photo," she yanked her phone back and swiped a few times, "she's got cute, little, connected earlobes."

All of us stared at her.

"It's not the same person."

"What?" Rebecca asked.

"It's different people! If you take a closer look, the noses are different, too. Just slightly. And think about it -- it would be easy to turn any skinny, blonde girl into her. What we think of as her 'face' is really just 90% makeup. The dark lipstick, the false eyelashes, all the contouring." As she spoke, Marge's voice became more manic, more frenzied.

"What next, Marge? A tinfoil hat?" Ben asked, arms crossed against his chest.

A few murmured in agreement. She ignored them, and continued, emphatically: "I think it's not just her perception, her persona, that's fake. I think [redacted] doesn't exist."

"Then who sings her songs?" Annabelle asked, through smacks of chewing gum.

"Some nameless, faceless employee paid 20 bucks an hour."

"Yeah, but she's met fans," Ben said.

"One of her doppelgangers has met fans," Marge corrected.

"But --"

"Look. I'm going to try and meet her, okay? I'm not here so you can talk me out of it." She glanced around the room, a smile on her face. "I'm here to ask who wants to come with me."

"I will."

Marge turned to me and smiled. "11 o'clock tonight, then. My place."

***

The plan was to drive to [redacted]'s address. This wasn't the address that made it into all the magazines, the tabloids; it was the address listed on our paychecks and the organization itself.

We got there in under 20 minutes. It was a country estate, on the outskirts of the city. We parked half a mile down the street. "Wear this," Marge said, passing me a black, wool cap.

That's when reality sunk in.

"We could be arrested for this, couldn't we?"

"Not really. We're not breaking in. We're just taking a look."

My heart pounded as I pulled the hat over my hair.

We slunk out into the darkness, keeping low as we walked along the side of the street. Her mansion loomed into view -- white pillars, bay windows. Marble statues peeked through the hedges in the backyard. The quiet splashes of a fountain echoed from somewhere unseen.

No lights were on in the house.

"She's probably out," I said.

"Or she doesn't exist," Marge replied.

We crept around the corner, to the side of the house. That's when we saw one light was on, on the second floor. Golden light spilled out into the grass.

"Someone's up there," Marge said.

"Maybe we should get out of here --"

"No. I'm going to see who it is." Marge ran over to a nearby tree. She climbed fast, with more agility than any 45-year-old woman should possess. Then she stretched her neck, and the golden light washed over her face.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh my God."

"Marge?"

She didn't reply.

I climbed up onto one of the rocks. With a deep breath, I jumped.

I only saw it for a second. A flash of the image, like a photograph.

A still, lifeless body lay across a bed. She looked just like [redacted]. A man bent over her, holding a knife. The whole scene lit in the soft, golden glow of the lamps.

My heart thundered in my chest. I jumped again.

No. It wasn't a knife.

It was a soldering iron.

And now he was staring straight at us.

I opened my mouth to call to Marge. But it was too late.

CRACK

A shot thundered through the air. From the forest. Marge dropped out of the tree. Her body hit the ground with a sickening thump.

Shot right in the forehead.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could, away from the house, down the street. I didn't stop until I got to the car, panting like mad.

I called 911. Even though I knew Marge was beyond saving.

"What is your emergency?"

"My friend was just shot. Please, send someone out here --"

"Where are you now?"

"[redacted] Willow Street."

Silence from the other line.

Then her voice cut through the speaker, curt and crisp:

"I'm sorry, we can't find that address."

Click.

I stared in disbelief at my phone.

The next morning, the news said that Marge had committed suicide. Alone in her apartment.

But I know the truth.


*(found this elsewhere)*