Being Stephanie by Addison Stone courtesy of the Bellamy Collection.
“But I discovered Addison,” he said to me. “It’s my opening, too.”
“Nobody discovered her,” I said. “Do not distress each other. Let it end gracefully.”
Yes, I was interfering. I was asking him to step away from her. The fight for Addison became a refrain with us. Zach was still in love with Addison, who’d cruelly and unceremoniously called it off with him. As a mother, I ached to protect my son. But Addison, as a young artist, was a votive. The flame of a votive is small and relatively unguarded, and it also must be protected. In the turmoil of Zach’s own emotions, he himself could not be called on to respect that flame. And so I asked him not to go near it.
Do I blame Zach for subsequent mistakes with regard to Addison Stone? I do. That situation was being mishandled months before the tragedy. But again, my family has been advised not to speak in depth about this, so please excuse me if I don’t.
ERICKSON MCAVENA: Teddy and I cooked up a theory that Addison and Zach fell in hate with each other. And their hate affair was a lot harder on ’em than love. Our theory went like this: Zach had everything that Addison needed—education and money and connections. But Addison had the only thing Zach’s renowned mommy really valued—genius. So if the brilliant Addison loved Zach, then it was proof to Carine that he was worthy. When she broke it off, it reinforced all of his insecurity about himself as a false, flashy wanna-be in the art world.
The break-up was a mess. Addison’s leading trait is fearlessness. Zach’s is bravado. Addison could be ruthless, too. She had to win. And so did Zach. When they turned against each other, boy, did the fur fly.
There’s this one night when me and Teddy and Addison were hanging in the apartment, lazing around, watching a movie, and all of a sudden Addison says, “I know! I know how to get him!” She’d been brewing on it. She got Teddy inspired to help her. Next thing I know, the two of them were building a fake gossip website.
It looked so real! Except every headline was about Zach: “Style Tips from Dirtbag New Yorkers.” Or “Art Scion’s Playboy Son Confesses: How I Lose My Family’s Fortune at 2M a Year.” With private pictures of Zach from Addison’s own stash.
Teddy’s a part-time web programmer, and he put up the site live.
Zach got his lawyer to remove it, but not before there’d been over a hundred thousand hits. I think Zach took Addison’s punch straight to the gut. Actually, I know so—I was with Addison when he called her, late that same night. Zach can string the curse words together from here to Sunday. On and on he went. But underneath it, he was hurting. I was surprised, too. I know it was one of those “heat of the moment” ideas, but it was a mean, childish thing of her and Teddy to do. I should have interfered. Somebody needed to be the grown-up.
Addison never lost a chance to call Zach a spoiled trust puppy. She always wanted him to “see himself for who he is.” It was like she needed to force-feed Zach cruelty truth serum. I knew there’d be more twists on the Zach-and-Addison revenge show. I just never could have predicted how destructive it’d all get. Could anyone?
FROM THE FIRST MOMENT that I embarked on this biography, I’d figured that my biggest hurdle would be to secure the cooperation of Lincoln Reed. So as I started gathering interviews—living for a couple of weeks in Peacedale, Rhode Island, then traveling to Hong Kong so that I could sit down eye to eye with Max Berger, or catching up with Zach Frat on the EuroRail before the Art Paris Art Fair—I knew that my project was a soufflé that would collapse if I couldn’t pin down Lincoln.
After Addison died, there was a rumor Lincoln had left the country to live in Nepal. Since Lincoln and Zach both were “people of interest” in the investigation, I figured I’d need to chase the mystery—to Nepal, or to anywhere. Neither Lincoln nor Zach had an alibi. Both could be placed in New York City on the night that she died.
People speculated that Lincoln had gone into deep hiding until he could get his name cleared. It made sense—Zach had the advantage of money, and the moment there was a breath of suspicion about his part in Addison’s death, he lawyered up. Lincoln didn’t have that fortune cushion. So he had to vanish.
Finally, late that spring, I got a break. I was tipped off that Lincoln Reed had been summoned to New York City’s Precinct 13 for questioning about his whereabouts on July 28th. But by the time I showed, he was gone. I checked in with Lincoln’s friends, his regular hangouts, his sublet on Elizabeth Street. He was a phantom. Without Lincoln, there was no book.
That same night, I got an email from the account of “I. DaBristol.” The name was both an alias and a reference to Ida. Whoever was sending this mail, this person knew Addison well. The note was only a Sag Harbor address and a time to meet—a 7 A.M. breakfast at the American Hotel.
I woke up before sunrise the next morning, drove the two hours to Sag Harbor, walked into the hotel, and there he was, almost unrecognizable: thick beard, shaggy hair, and skin tanned three shades darker than any photo I’d ever seen of him.
When we sat down for breakfast, Lincoln ordered for us both and also paid the check—he’d said this was “his town.” Throughout the meal, he seemed at ease, speaking candidly about Sophie Kiminski, whom he’d learned had just gone back into rehab. “Sophie’s the King Midas of tragedy,” he said. “Every life she touches is the worse for it.”
It also came clear that Lincoln was cooperating with authorities, and he swore he had nothing to hide “from a legal standpoint. But there are also things I want to tell you. And if you’re painting a portrait of Addison Stone, I’d better melt into it, right? Or else it won’t look like her in the end.”
VII.
“THERE’S ALWAYS SO MUCH TRAFFIC AROUND HIM.”
Lincoln Reed at his studio on Elizabeth Street, courtesy of the estate of Addison Stone.
LINCOLN REED: I met Addison Stone on a photo shoot for Catch magazine. By then, both of us had a few of these arty-interview puff pieces under our belts. You make fun of that stuff until you get invited to do it. It’s selling out, but it gets you meetings, it gets people wanting to know more about you. They crave the unimportant details—if you eat Cheerios for breakfast, if you have a cat, parrot, or goldfish, if you drink coffee or smoke or listen to music while you paint. But opening yourself up keeps you relevant, and it keeps your public fascinated. That’s important.