Isla's mind was a jumble of thoughts. Marlowe, Robert, Gordon, Warren Best, Marian, that idiot Sandy Miller, and of course, Joe. He'd been awfully quiet lately. Too quiet.
She chewed her bottom lip trying to puzzle it out, and as she opened the front door of her apartment building, her eyes were cast downward. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the flashing of cameras startled her. A wall of reporters faced her and called her name. Right in front was Sandy Miller, who stuck a microphone in her face.
"Ms. Foster," he called. "How long have you been making sex tapes?"
(Author’s Note)
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