Now, taking in the sun-speckled main street of Amber's birthplace, I had the startling realization that Amber might be for real. The thought was followed by a sudden and intense burst of guilt and the perverse idea that having Amber make the Final Five on the show was like throwing a lamb into a pit of hungry lions. She would be torn to pieces while all of America watched her close her big blue eyes, throw her head back, and belt out gospel music as if her heart and soul depended on it.

Ratings would skyrocket. Viewer votes might keep her in the running until the very end, assuming she didn't self-destruct before then. Over the past three months, Amber had turned my job into something between a waking nightmare and a tightrope act. Just about every week, she gave the tabloids something delicious to print and me some bizarre incident to carefully spin-doctor to the show's benefit. In her defense, Amber pleaded that every single faux pas was an innocent mistake. American Megastar's Good Girl Detained at LAX—Amber claimed she had completely forgotten the box knife was in her coat pocket. She'd used it to help her grandpa cut open feed sacks back home. Gospel-Singing Goody-Two-Shoes Linked to Hollywood Brat Pack—Amber claimed that when the gang at the studio next door invited her out clubbing, she thought it was some exotic sport, like polo or croquet. She had no idea drinking would be involved. Gospel Girl Nabbed in Prostitution Sting—Amber was lost and she'd only stopped to ask directions. How was she supposed to know those ladies on the corner were ... were ... She actually blushed and stammered and took a full minute to whisper the words ladies of ... ill repute.

If it was an act, Amber was an actress worthy of an Academy Award. The show's crew even had an "Amber pool" going—a harmless little bet on when Amber's innocent façade would finally crack. Everyone except Rosita, the cleaning lady, was in. And that was only because Rosita didn't speak English. Not one crew member believed that Amber's farm girl act could last forever. Nobody short of Elly May Clampett could be that naïve.

It looked like the Amber pool might pay off pretty soon. Five days ago, Amber had been linked to Justin Shay, and reporters were hiding in bushes everywhere, trolling for pictures and details. Could the fresh-faced gospel girl really be dating a Hollywood bad boy almost twice her age?

Even I had no idea how to spin-doctor this one. When the latest Amber rumor crept into my office, I'd accepted it with a sense of resignation. She'd finally gone too far—embroiled herself in the kind of smarmy Hollywood relationship that even her honey-covered southern accent couldn't sweeten. I wasn't sad about it, really. When all was said and done Amber was an opportunist, like everyone else in LA. Why should she be any different from the rest of us? It was a cynical thought, and in the back of my mind, I was bothered by how easily it came to me, how quickly I accepted it, how I'd suspected it all along. There was a time when I was more like Amber and less like Ursula.