Among other details that The Los Angeles Times mentioned, the would-be assassin was described as wearing a cream-colored blouse. A tidbit that made Shawna laugh to herself as she thumbed through the article. And she did literally thumb through it, as her parents were among the small percentage left that still subscribed to getting The L.A. Times tangibly, having it tossed on their doorstep each morning by one of the last paperboys in the United States.

This was one of many things that Shawna enjoyed about staying there. Not just because it was Beverly Hills, therefore inherently more luxurious than her own living situation in Chicago, but because, in many ways, it made her feel as if she had stepped back in time. To an era when things were simpler. Not least of which because information was meted out with less rapidity, making it easier to swallow and digest fully before immediately moving on to “something else.” And, in these times, that “something else” was usually entirely insignificant and “filler-y.” A means to keep the news cycle grinding for twenty-four hours, seven days a week. But with a paper, Shawna could pretend that she was “taking in” her news more carefully. Not just gobbling it like a glutton the way everyone else in L.A. (and the world) did.

Besides, taking in the “little details”—like the fact that the woman they arrested was wearing a cream-colored blouse—is what made Shawna fully grasp “the scene.” And it was a scene that had every celebrity on high alert. Of course, not to the extent that they were after, say, the Manson murders, but still, this was the closest it had gotten to that level of fear in many years. Especially because the premeditated attempt at murder was aimed at one of the last “major” celebrities left in this town (you know, from a time before “virality” was all it took to become “famous”). And that celebrity was Romilda.

Oh sure, she had abandoned her career as a pop/R&B/dancehall music star a decade ago in favor of becoming a business mogul (specifically, through a beauty and lingerie empire), but that didn’t mean anyone had forgotten about her music. In fact, the longer she stayed away from recording a new album, the more pervasive her old songs seemed to be, whether on the radio or playing in a store/place of business of any variety (from the grocery to the gym). As if, by playing them, it might serve as some kind of “siren song” for her to come back to the industry—even though she herself was the siren.

The obsession surrounding her had reached a fever pitch by the time her third album, Benevolent Woman Turned Malevolent, came out. Released the year before the financial crisis, it arrived when the pop music on offer was still indicative of a more carefree, “dancefloor-ready” era. In effect, Romilda had burst onto the scene at the perfect moment to soundtrack the height of 2000s decadence and frivolity (which, for whatever reason, actually only seemed to amplify in the aftermath of 9/11), cementing her in the minds of a particular generation in a way that perennially associated her with “better times.” In fact, Shawna often wondered if the real reason behind the constant clamoring for a new Romilda album wasn’t actually just about wanting to convince oneself that she could “bring about” those better times anew, simply by making music like it was the 2000s or 2010s again. But, for whatever reason (likely financial + the well-known secret that pop star-oriented fame often takes a mental health toll), Romilda refused to give in to the public pressure for her to put out a new record.

Now, instead, she put out a new makeup product with the kind of frequency once reserved for her singles. Besides that, she had shacked up with a “bad boy” of rap and had three of his babies. Which would obviously be very time-consuming, though not as much so for a billionaire with plenty of resources to afford the various things and people that make childcare so much simpler. Maybe this was just one of the many things about Romilda that started to make her would-be assassin hate her. Not only hate her, but be convinced that Romilda was somehow out to “get her.” More delusional still, that Romilda was “stealing” from her in some way. Whether that means musically, stylistically or otherwise, Shawna didn’t know. Not that there was any point in trying to understand the logic behind what a severely deranged person was thinking. To do that would make one go deranged themselves. And Shawna was trying to hold off on that for just a little bit longer. At least get through her thirties without a psychotic break.

As Shawna read through the rest of the article, she noticed another detail—one that was antithetical to wearing a cream-colored blouse. And that was: “her car was dirty on the bottom.” Shawna had to ask herself whether or not this kind of journalism was hard-hitting or petty, thorough or superfluous. In a sense, it seemed as if the writers were trying to harken back to the 1960s and 1970s heyday of reporting, using this scenario as their opportunity. In the coming days, there would be even more opportunities for such a style of reporting, as more lurid details about the would-be assassin came to light, including various videos that she had posted to social media that involved her railing against Romilda for releasing music that was tantamount to “witchcraft.” To Shawna—and likely Romilda’s fans—that actually sounded complimentary. As most “insults” from unhinged people did. Like when a certain orange man called a certain female presidential candidate a “nasty woman” and it prompted legions of women to have that branded on their clothing, hats and bags.

In the weeks that followed the attempted murder, which was a stone’s throw from where Shawna’s parents lived, the news media coverage around it grew suspiciously quiet. Even though its shelf life for being reported on could have lasted far longer. It was almost as if Romilda herself had paid to bury the news, not wanting to draw any further attention to the matter. Shawna speculated that maybe this was in large part due to Romilda not wanting fans or reporters trying to hunt her down in her new location, for she had fled Beverly Hills almost immediately after the “incident,” filmed and photographed herding her family into a chauffeured car and perhaps getting taken away to some distant island (arguably the one she originally hailed from). Anywhere but Beverly Hills, now as tainted to her as it was for Vivian Ward when she was denied the right to shop on Rodeo Drive. Shawna, on the other hand, was having trouble leaving, dreading the thought of going back to cold, gray Chicago to what was perhaps her even colder, grayer apartment. A studio, naturally.

Her parents weren’t much of a help either, mocking her for going to Chicago to “make it big” when, usually, people came to L.A.—where she had already been to begin with—to do that. But no, Shawna insisted. She wanted to come up “the Second City way,” and eventually make her way through the Saturday Night Live pipeline by that means. Again, her parents said she was being ridiculous and that she ought to just stay in L.A. and join the Groundlings or something. Sure, that would have been “easier,” but it wasn’t the direction Shawna wanted to take. That is, until she luxuriated daily in a bubble bath at her parents’ oh so spacious abode. Maybe she was a fool to keep pretending. What was so bad about wanting to be comfortable? Why was it such an admission of defeat for her? But then, even Romilda couldn’t outright admit she wasn’t “doing music” anymore. Instead said nothing or kept claiming “soon.” Better known as: never. Shawna didn’t want to be like that. In constant denial. Which is why she knew she had to go back to Chicago and truly “make it” so that she could afford her own luxuries instead of skulking around her parents’.

And this revelation was part of how she managed to talk herself into getting on the plane a few weeks after Romilda was almost shot. For the journey, Shawna decided to wear a cream-colored blouse as part of her traveling ensemble. She couldn’t say why, or even if she was fully aware of the would-be assassin’s sartorial choice influencing her own outfit. All she knew was that the decision is what led to her being tackled by airport security near the gate she was meant to board. Apparently, they had received word to look out for that same would-be assassin still wearing a cream-colored blouse in the airport. Because while out on bail, the woman had evidently learned that Romilda was returning to L.A. via a commercial flight and was hunting the halls of the terminal after buying a plane ticket under an assumed name for this very purpose. And so, while splayed out on the dirty carpeted floor, Shawna wondered if this, too, was some kind of “divine intervention” telling her not to leave L.A.

In hindsight, though, Shawna didn’t mind the unwarranted assault. It was an anecdote she incorporated into the improv sketch that would eventually gain the attention of certain influential people at SNL, who happened to be in the audience at Second City on one of the nights when she performed it. So, in a strange way, while Romilda might abhor her would-be assassin, Shawna ended up having nothing but an odd kind of appreciation for the woman who unwittingly kick-started her career.