Frank and I took off running toward Anya’s trailer. Inside, we found an unexpected scene: no Zolo, no wounded Anya. Just Vance and a defiant Anya facing off against Jaan and Stan.
“I won’t do it,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Absolutely not! With Zolo threatening me and running around somewhere out there? You have to be crazy!”
Jaan and Stan turned around and noticed my brother and me. Jaan looked a little sheepish. Stan just sighed, as if to say, Another irritation I have to deal with.
“Listen, sweetheart,” Stan said, drawing a little closer to Anya. “I know it’s scary. I know you’ve gone through a lot on this movie. I give you a lot of credit for sticking it out this long.”
Anya glared at him. “I want to finish the movie!” she insisted, shaking her head angrily. “But I won’t go to the Big Apple Awards! We don’t even know why he’s after me, but we know he’s going to do something at the awards! No way!”
I cleared my throat. “Um, actually . . .”
All eyes turned to me.
“Actually what?” Stan asked abruptly. “You two finally turn up some information the rest of us are missing?”
Ouch. “Uh, yeah,” I replied. I turned to Anya. “Listen, it looks like Zolo had kind of a huge crush on you.”
Anya looked stunned. “Zolo?” she asked.
Frank nodded. “Yup, Zolo. And listen, we need to ask you—have you been getting any secret admirer kind of texts?” He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed. “‘You look hot,’ that kind of thing?”
A faint blush crept across Anya’s cheeks. “I mean, I . . .” She paused, looking at Vance. “Yeah. I got some very sweet anonymous texts. It was kind of a relief from all the nasty anonymous ones I was getting.” She let out an awkward chuckle, then shook her head. “But I thought . . . when Vance told me how he felt about me . . . I thought . . .”
Vance furrowed his brow. “You thought they came from me, my love?”
Anya looked at him shyly. “Well—yeah.” She turned back to Frank and me. “That’s why I never mentioned them to you. They were this nice little thing, and I thought—mystery solved!”
I nodded. “That makes sense. But listen— Harmony just told us they actually came from Zolo,” I explained.
“She got him a disposable cell phone,” Frank added. “Harmony told us that she wanted to help him win your heart. But it seems his intentions were a little darker than she believed.”
“What does that mean?” asked Vance.
“He wanted Anya to quit the Deathstalker role,” I supplied. “He thought that was the only way they could be together—before she got famous and had her pick of, well . . .”
Vance puffed up a little. “Hollywood’s elite,” he finished. And it was clear from his expression that he thought he fit that description.
Everyone was quiet for a few moments, soaking up this new information. After a short silence, Stan spoke up.
“So it’s decided,” he said, putting on a bright expression. “You’ll attend the Big Apple Awards.”
Anya looked at him incredulously. “What? No!”
Stan held out his hands. “But from the sound of it, Zolo never had any intention of hurting you,” he said, shrugging. “He only wanted to scare you. And he succeeded brilliantly.”
Anya looked at him like he was crazy. “How many times have I almost been killed?” she asked. “How close does he have to come before we agree he’s dangerous?”
Stan sighed. “Of course he’s a threat, Anya. That’s why we’ve doubled security. But listen . . .” He leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a gravelly rumble. “We need this.”
Anya just watched him, quiet.
“This production has been running off the rails for a while now,” Stan went on in a low tone. “We’ve managed to keep some of the problems out of the press, but we’re way over budget, and now we have to recast Asp with someone who looks enough like Zolo Watson to pass for him.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Do you know anyone like that?”
Anya was still quiet, but she shook her head. Zolo’s unusual looks were what had gotten him the part as an alien in the first place.
“Anya,” Stan went on, “I know you’re frightened. But we’ll ask them to triple security at the awards. And really, where would you be safer? Who would try to hurt you on live television?”
Anya opened her mouth like she was about to argue, but then bit her lip, looking thoughtful.
Stan glanced back at my brother and me. “As I was saying, I managed to get the cast a plum spot presenting the award for Best New Action Movie,” he went on. “It will get people talking about the movie in a good way.”
Anya looked torn, but Stan went on.
“And you’ll look gorgeous,” he added, pointing to Anya. “We got the up-and-coming designer Julia George to loan you an evening gown for the occasion. Not to mention thirty carats’ worth of diamonds from the legendary jeweler Dan Worthington! Baby, you’ll be on every best-dressed list this side of Paris!”
Stan grinned, but Anya didn’t seem convinced. She looked at Vance. “I don’t want to be on best-dressed lists,” she said plaintively. “I want to live.”
Stan shot Vance a look, and Vance turned to Anya with an earnest expression. “Sugarplum,” he said, in that sugary tone we’d all gotten to know, “you know I won’t let anything happen to you. I’d dive in front of a bullet to keep you safe.”
I couldn’t imagine self-centered Vance diving in front of so much as a ball of socks for anyone, but I bit my tongue. Maybe love really was changing him.
Anya took a deep breath. Suddenly she looked to me and Frank. “And you two will be there?” she asked, with a wan smile. “Right?”
“Of course,” I said, glancing from Stan to Anya. “If you really want to do this.”
Anya tugged on her lip for a moment, looking undecided. She looked from me to Frank to Vance, who nodded at her reassuringly.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I guess you’re right— Zolo never really wanted to hurt me. And I want to show the world I’m a professional.” She paused, offering a shy smile to Stan. “Can I see the dress?”
Stan smiled—what looked like a warm, genuine smile. Seeing him smile made me realize how rarely it happened. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said, moving to the door. “We’ll send in the stylist.”
Jaan and Stan left, and Vance followed—after giving Anya yet another uncomfortably long kiss and cooing in her ear for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Anya, Frank, and I were alone.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, plopping down on Anya’s couch. “Go to the awards? You don’t have to, no matter what Stan says.”
Anya took a deep breath. “I want to,” she affirmed. “I can’t let the fear of Zolo keep me from doing what I want for the rest of my life. And if I want to be a serious actress, I need to get used to events like this.”
Before we could reply, there was a knock on the door and Anya called, “Come in!”
In breezed a fortysomething blond woman, with deeply tanned skin and a perfectly made up face. “Hi, darling,” she said, looking Anya up and down. “Oh, perfect! Look what a gorgeous little figure you have.”
I glanced at Frank. “Uh . . . maybe we should go,” he said.
“No, stay,” Anya insisted, looking over at us a little uncertainly. “I could use an unbiased opinion about how I look in the dress.”
Frank looked at me and coughed. I knew him well enough to know that that cough meant, Gee, just what our extensive ATAC training prepared us for—fashion critiques. I nodded to let him know I understood, but then shrugged. Anya could use extra reassurance right now—and it wasn’t like we had any idea where to look for Zolo yet. All our preliminary inquiries—into his home, his favorite places, his relatives’ houses—had turned up nothing.
With a flourish, the stylist—who introduced herself as Venice—disappeared with Anya into the room at the back of the trailer. In a few minutes, they both emerged, Anya in a long, drapey red gown.
Wow.
Anya was always a pretty girl, but in this dress, she looked downright gorgeous.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Amazing,” I answered honestly, while Frank just sat there with his jaw dropped. (He’s always a little tongue-tied around pretty girls.) “You’re going to be the prettiest girl at the awards—no doubt!”
Anya blushed, pink creeping into her creamy porcelain skin. “Oh, come on,” she said, giggling. “I don’t know about that. Huge movie stars will be there!”
Behind her, Venice grinned. “If I’m doing my job right, you’ll outshine them all,” she promised. “Now, for the pièce de résistance . . .”
She walked to the door and peeked out, calling to an unseen person. “Okay, bring it in.”
As she came back in, a small, bespectacled bald man followed, holding a black leather briefcase.
“This is Harry from Dan Worthington,” Venice said, and the man nodded amiably. “He’s the guard sent to watch over the jewelry you’ll be wearing— because that’s just how valuable it is! Harry, open up and show us what you’ve got.”
Harry placed the briefcase on the small dining table and opened it. Immediately, we were nearly blinded by the light reflecting off what looked like a mine’s worth of diamonds.
As my eyes focused, I saw that the biggest piece—a necklace—was actually in the shape of a scorpion. “Dan’s been experimenting with insect shapes this season,” Venice announced, looking adoringly at the necklace. “When Stan contacted me about styling you for the awards, I knew you had to wear this.”
Anya was staring into the briefcase with an open mouth. “Wow,” she said. “Just . . . wow.”
Venice nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the briefcase’s contents. “It’s stunning,” she agreed. “I can’t imagine what it would feel like to wear it.”
Anya perked up, looking from the necklace to Venice. “Would you like to try it on?” she asked.
Venice looked touched, but then quickly shook her head. “No, no. It wouldn’t be . . .”
“Please,” Anya insisted, gesturing toward the briefcase. “You chose such beautiful things for me. It’s the least I can do.”
Venice hesitated, but then looked back at the briefcase adoringly. “Well . . . all right,” she agreed, chuckling nervously. “Just for a few seconds.”
With wide eyes, she lifted the necklace—it looked heavy—and carefully clasped it around her neck.
As soon as she had gotten it on, though, her adoring expression changed—her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened with fear.
“Oh my gosh!” she cried, her hands scrambling to the clasp as her voice rose to a scream. “Get it off! Get it off! It BURNS!”
We all jumped toward her, and as we did I noticed a note we’d missed before tucked in the briefcase, in crude, messy handwriting.
OUT OF SIGHT, BUT NOT OUT OF MIND. I CAN ALWAYS GET TO YOU. AND NOW THAT I KNOW WE CAN NEVER BE TOGETHER, I’LL TAKE CARE OF YOU—FOREVER.