Jeremy popped the top off a beer bottle and downed half its contents. Angie had followed him a mile or so down the coast to the small one-bedroom guesthouse he was renting in Malibu. She could hear the waves rolling in, crashing on the beach below. She perched on the sofa, looking out the big picture window. Just blackness.
“How are you? I watched the Oscars, of course. You were great.” He sat in an easy chair across from the sofa.
She couldn’t help but smile at him. He seemed like a decent guy. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure I would pull it off. But I had to—no one else in my family could go. Or wanted to.”
She tried to picture him without his beard and shaggy hair. With those changes, she would probably have recognized him as the man Scarlett had pointed out in magazines and movies, back when they’d dated the first time around.
“How did you get my number?” she asked.
“When Scar was having such a hard time, I borrowed her phone one day, told her mine was dead, and rifled through her contacts. I forwarded your number to my phone. She asked me not to call, that her parents wouldn’t understand, that her brother had his own life, wife and family, and that you . . . well . . . you had had a difficult time and whatnot . . . I wanted to call but . . .”
Angie tensed, suddenly angry. “I keep beating myself up over the fact that Scarlett didn’t think I was strong enough to help her. It’s true I’ve had issues my entire life, but I’ve learned to cope. And I’m living out here now and working at DreamWeaver, as you obviously know.”
“Yeah, it was in Variety. You were the story at the Oscars, you know. You and Scarlett. Anyway, I knew you were out here, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to contact you. To be honest, I think I was afraid to talk to you. I was afraid you’d think I should’ve done more for Scarlett, to help her.” Angie was touched to see his eyes glistening, and not surprised when he suddenly got up and walked to the kitchen, presumably so she wouldn’t see him wipe his eyes. “I’ve been shooting a series in Vancouver. That’s why I’ve got all this.” As he pulled a beer from the fridge, he looked back at Angie and gestured to his unruly appearance. “Working on the series, being that busy . . . Well, it’s very convenient if you want to avoid . . .”
Angie waited for him to complete the thought, but when he came back and sat down in the chair opposite her, she realized he wasn’t going to.
“Why reach out now?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I just wanted to talk about Scarlett. I did wonder why you came out here. You don’t seem like someone who’d move to LA after her sister died and start working at the same studio just because you wanted a change of pace.”
“True enough,” Angie conceded. “But I do like being here. It makes me feel connected, still, to Scar. If that doesn’t sound weird.”
“Nah, I think the same things. I rewatch movies we watched together, order drinks she liked, get her favorite sandwich when I go to this one café, anything that reminds me of her.” He mindlessly picked at the label on his beer bottle. “I took some things of hers from the set, you know, after she died.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I raced down here when I heard. On my series, they gave me a couple of days off. We were almost done shooting the season but they let me take a few days. Anyway, I get to Scar’s trailer and these guys are carrying out boxes. I mean, I get it, they’ve got to empty it, but all her things were being lined up outside her trailer like someone was waiting for a freakin’ pickup from Goodwill. I kind of went nuts. And some stupid young assistant comes up to me and she’s all, ‘We’re so sorry for your loss, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave, this is DreamWeaver property.’ I wanted to wring that girl’s neck, but I just stared at her, and then all my rage just disappeared, you know? And I remember getting really quiet and just looking at her and saying, ‘Sure, I’ll go. But have a little fucking respect. It’s not a goddamn yard sale.’ And I stormed off and went to a bar, drank two shots of whiskey and two beers, and had a buddy pick me up. I must have scared the hell outta that girl. Serves her right. Who do these fucking people think they are?” he asked, more to himself than Angie. Then he looked over at her. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean you. But you don’t seem like the type to work in the industry, for Weaver, no less.”
“Yeah, I surprised even myself.”
“So why did you come out here?”
“There are things about Scarlett that don’t add up.”
“I agree.”
“You knew what Scar was like. She was strong, confident. I can’t imagine her being driven to suicide.”
“It all started with Catapult. She became really moody, but she wouldn’t talk to me about it. And then she cut me out entirely. I got angry, defensive, like an idiot. I didn’t know if she needed space or if she was ghosting me or what. But I know it was about that fucking movie. Making movies, shooting TV, is work, hard, tedious work. And sometimes it can be exhausting and a fucking nightmare. But Catapult . . . She just fell apart. There was something else going on.”
“Do you know him? Personally?”
“Charles? Everybody knows him. Or of him. A great part in one of Charles’s movies will get you noticed. Not just for your work but because he campaigns the hell out of things. That helps with the awards. Hell, that wins awards. But I wouldn’t work there, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get hired at DreamWeaver. I’m persona non grata and that’s fine with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I publicly humiliated the bastard—my finest hour.” He wryly lifted his beer in a toast.
“What happened?”
“After Scarlett died, about two weeks or so later, I was on hiatus from the series. I had nothing to take my mind off of her. I was barely functioning. So, Dan, my agent, wants to meet for lunch. And we’re sitting at this restaurant, so I can ‘be seen,’ and in walks Charles Weaver. And Dan keeps talking, but I’m not hearing him anymore—it’s just noise, because Weaver comes in with this young chick who’s falling all over him. And it makes me sick. And just like that, I get up and go over. He looks up. And he recognizes me, I know he does, but he plays dumb. And I say, ‘Hi, Charles, we’ve met before. I’m Jeremy Banker, Scarlett Norris’s boyfriend.’ And he gives me this patronizing smile that just infuriates me. So, I grabbed him by the jacket and lift him up. He’s a big guy, but he’s a fat fuck, not strong. And he was afraid. Truly afraid for his life. And everybody just gasps, and Charles yells, ‘Get him off me,’ and his bodyguard is on me in a second. Then Dan grabs my arm and I yell at Charles, ‘You killed her, you sonofabitch! I know you did!’ And then Dan dragged me out of there.”
They were both quiet a moment.
“Jeremy, did you send me a note in New York?”
“No, I never had your address. Just your phone number.”
“So it wasn’t you.”
“What wasn’t me?”
“I got a weird note late one night, when I was still in New York, right before the Oscars. A courier dropped it off. It had the number of a police report with a note that said Scarlett deserved better. But I couldn’t track the report down. I went to a precinct in lower Manhattan, and they had no record of it, couldn’t find the number.”
Jeremy shook his head in bafflement. “Wish I knew.”
“I read some of Scarlett’s journals,” Angie admitted. “She wrote about a lot of things, about her work, about you and her.”
A flash of concern crossed Jeremy’s face.
“It was good stuff, don’t worry. Mostly good anyway.”
Jeremy gave a small laugh.
“But it was clear Charles’s micromanagement on the set and the way he treated the director were stressing her out. And then she started rambling toward the end. I have no idea what happened, but she wasn’t in her right mind. And I’ve heard that Charles is a real predator when it comes to women, and that he doesn’t back off. I started wondering—about Scarlett. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible with that fucker, and somehow, some way I know he’s responsible. If you find out that he touched her . . . Jesus.” He took a long slug from his beer.
Angie gave him a moment to process before venturing gently, “Her journal said you fought the last time you saw one another.”
He sighed and lowered his gaze, shook his head. “Yeah. I wish it wasn’t true, but we did. We were having these great weekends, and I realized I didn’t want to be apart from her. So we had been talking about moving in together. But then she started to change. And the last time I saw her, she was so brittle and she snapped at me for everything. She said she was confused and didn’t know what she wanted, meaning me, I thought, which left me confused. And I responded in kind. Which was oil on a fire, of course. So I went back to Canada and we talked and texted on and off after that, but she would give terse replies or not reply for days, and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I should have asked more questions or just flown back down. It’s Hollywood, after all. I should have known how bad things were.”
God, Scar, why did you have to be so strong? “You couldn’t have known if she didn’t tell you.” Angie realized she was assuring herself as much as she was Jeremy. “None of us could. All we can do now is move forward and, if anything horrible did happen to Scarlett, make sure some sort of justice is done on her behalf.”
Jeremy nodded softly, clearly lost in thought, and a silence settled over the room. He broke it a few moments later. “I think part of the reason I finally texted you is I wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t do enough for Scar, and then when I read you were working at DreamWeaver, I thought I should . . . I don’t know, check in? Does that sound ridiculous?” Jeremy focused on his beer bottle, the label almost entirely shredded. “I mean, you’re a grown woman, and now I can see you have your shit together.”
“What?” Angie laughed out loud. “Oh, my God, my shit’s never together, but thank you.” Jeremy laughed, too. “Since coming out here, I’ve been doing a little research. I can’t get into it all right now, but I know there are actresses who wouldn’t go along with Charles’s advances, and they got blacklisted.”
“Christ. I’m not surprised.”
Angie was beginning to feel tired and decided it was time to go.
“Thanks, Jeremy. I appreciate you contacting me.” Angie stood to leave before remembering one more thing. “Hey, have you been out to the house at all? Scarlett’s. I mean, have you driven by or anything?”
Jeremy shook his head as they moved toward the foyer. “Why?”
Angie took a beat. “Nothing, it’s . . . nothing.”
Angie hugged him goodbye and drove home.
***
Angie woke up feeling restless. The meeting with Jeremy had comforted her, but it had also shined light on Scarlett’s state of mind and exacerbated the state of her own. She had so much to do, but first she had to get through the workday hoping Nicole or Charles or Tanya wouldn’t lower the boom. Thank God it was Friday. And somehow, she had no meetings scheduled. Which meant she finally had a moment to track down Kristy Wong.
She pulled up the company directory and skimmed the listings to find that Kristy Wong was in cubicle number 1408—on the same floor as both Nicole and Charles.
She snatched a folder to look official and headed to the elevators, where two employees she’d never seen before stood waiting. She counted that as good luck. If she didn’t know them, they likely wouldn’t know her. Or at least not enough about her to think it suspicious she was on her way to an upper-level floor.
They hardly glanced at her when the door dinged and they entered the car, gossiping about someone. The taller of the two swiped a key card and hit the button for the thirteenth floor. Shit. It wasn’t the one Angie needed. But the other employee casually swiped his card for the fourteenth floor. Bingo. The car started ascending, and their conversation hushed for a moment, but then they quickly returned to dishing the dirt. The door opened on thirteen and the first guy got out, giving a quick wave to his companion. The short ride to C-suite was silent, and the second guy didn’t seem to give her a moment’s thought.
When the bell dinged on the top level, she took a deep breath and stepped out with what she hoped was a confident air. The same double-glass doors let on to the suite of glass-and-metal tables with the blue couches and film posters. No one was there.
She counted that as more good luck. And hoped she wasn’t using it all up.
She turned left and headed down the hall to a pen of cubicles. To her surprise, the first space she came to was number 1400, followed by 1401. She was going in the right direction. But when she got to 1408, the cube was empty. Now what? She couldn’t very well stand there and wait. What if Nicole saw her?
She was suppressing her rising panic and was about to head back to the elevators when movement down the hall caught her eye and she observed Kristy coming out of what appeared to be a kitchen area. In a mauve skirt and white blouse, she was carrying a cup of coffee, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She was alone and focusing on her phone. She was still several cubicles away when she looked up. A flash of recognition—followed by, what, fear, annoyance?—crossed her face and she immediately deviated her course, slipping into a door on her right. The women’s restroom.
Angie followed her inside to find a clean white room with four stalls and two sinks. Only one stall had its door shut. Angie leaned against the counter, the folder held tight against her chest. She spoke quietly.
“Kristy. I know you’re in there and I know you saw me.” When there was no response, Angie added, “I know it must have been hard for you to find my sister.” She waited.
The bathroom was so quiet she could hear the air conditioning thrum through the building. Finally, there was a scuffling of shoes and the stall opened. Kristy’s face was blotchy, her eyes wet.
“I liked Scarlett,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But I can’t lose my job.”
“I don’t want to endanger your position here. But I need to know what happened that day. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Of course. I told the police everything.”
“But something happened to push Scarlett over the edge. Do you know anything?”
“I know she was stressed. There were a couple days when she really wasn’t feeling well, but she kept working. She seemed kind of distracted. I had the feeling she wasn’t eating or sleeping enough, so one night I went to her trailer with some tea, thinking it would relax her. But when I got there, I heard voices inside. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but you know how sometimes you can’t help it? You just hear something?”
“Sure, of course.”
“Right. And Scarlett sounded upset and scared, but she was standing up to whoever was in there. She was saying something like, ‘You need to get out. This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.’ And then I hear a man’s voice, very clearly. He says—I still remember the words—‘It isn’t up to you. You should know that by now. I always get what I want.’ And it’s Charles. He sounds . . . menacing. And I panic. I try to think what to do. I’m not really supposed to be there and not supposed to hear their conversation. Right then my phone goes off. Very loudly. And I’m literally standing on the steps to the trailer. So, I freeze. And then I hear the doorknob turning. And then Charles is standing there, looking angry, and he says, ‘Kristy, can I help you?’ And I say something I’m like, ‘Scarlett wanted some tea.’ And I can see her right behind him, over his shoulder. And she smiles at me. And then she says, ‘Thanks, I’ll text you if I need anything else’ and comes forward, takes the tea, and then Charles closes the door.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. But then I got a text from Scarlett asking if I would call her in thirty minutes. So I did, but it went straight to voice mail. Then the next day on set, she was even more distracted, short with people. She snapped at her assistant. That wasn’t like her. I mean, she was always a pro, she hit her marks, knew her lines, could modulate her performance for different takes, but once the director said ‘Cut’ she started wandering off to her trailer. Normally, she was easy-going, she liked to hang with the crew or rehearse or just watch the process. But after the thing in her trailer, she was, like, gone. Just vacant.”
Kristy’s eyes met Angie’s and then she started to cry. Her next words came out haltingly. “I shouldn’t have left her there with him. I should have gone back or called the police or . . .”
“The police? Why?”
“Because . . . that was just the first time he was in her trailer with her.”
Angie knew her next question would cut, but she had to ask. “Do you think he raped her?”
Kristy turned away, tears glistening on her face. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
Sweet Jesus. Angie tried to contain her own tears. “You couldn’t have done much. What would you have told the police, you overheard parts of conversations? Scarlett herself said she was okay. We both know who the responsible party is, and it’s not you.”
“You can’t tell anyone. Please. My parents . . .”
The door opened and Tanya strode in wearing a red power suit, her expression one of surprise when she saw them.
“Just washing my hands,” Kristy murmured, turning on the tap at the nearest sink. She ran her hands under the water for a moment, dried them on a paper towel, and slunk out, leaving her coffee on the counter.
Angie picked it up and went to follow, but Tanya held up a hand. “Leave her be.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Angie set the cup back down and, still clutching her prop folder, pushed the door open, but Tanya spoke again, arresting her with just her voice. “Angie, don’t let me catch you up here in C-suite unless you’re with someone who belongs here. This isn’t your place.”
Angie released a shaky breath. She was caught. But what did Tanya suspect? “Right. Sorry. Never again.”
And she stole out into the hall, letting the door close with a soft rush.
***
Angie stared numbly at her computer, unable to focus on the screen in front of her. She was seething and unsure what to do. She started scanning her inbox. Screenplay pitches. Queries from writers. Agents seeking meetings. An automated message reminding her of an upcoming performance review. And a message from Charles, checking in to see how she was doing, and could she meet for a drink?
She decided it was time to set a trap now that she knew what kind of animal she was trying to catch. She had to get him talking about Scarlett. She hit reply.
Hi, Charles,
I’d love to get that drink. How’s tonight?
The response came almost instantaneously: Come up to my office at 7:00.
***
Angie’s mouth was dry and her heart hammering when she slipped into the ladies’ at 6:48. Peering at herself in the mirror only confirmed how wan she looked. She applied a little lipstick and blush and mascara, then used drops to get rid of her bloodshot eyes. By 6:54, she was shaking. She gripped the marble countertop to steady herself and met her gaze in the mirror. She had been told a number of times how much she reminded others of Scarlett. She was finally accepting that there were similarities in how they looked, and, more importantly, she felt she was developing some of Scarlett’s strength, too, if only a little.
At seven o’clock, she approached Charles’s door. Apparently, his assistant was gone for the day and his bodyguards elsewhere. She knocked. “Come on in!” His voice was gravelly yet mellifluous. It only made her more anxious.
She swung the door open and stepped inside. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t what she found. Charles sat almost primly at his desk, his hands folded in front of him, the light of the sun in the west flooding him through the tinted windows that looked over the city to the ocean. His baseball memorabilia, balls and bats, gleamed behind him, polished to a shine. When she entered, he hopped up and went to the wall, which he slid open, surprising her with a hidden bar: vodka, tequila, wine, red and white, whiskey, gin, even Kahlua. “Have a seat,” he said. “Let’s take in that sunset.”
Oh. That was when she caught sight of the settee that was facing the window. It was upholstered in a pale green and before it was a small coffee table.
“What’s your poison?”
“Vodka, straight.” Had she just said that? She didn’t really drink.
Charles chuckled.
She stood in front of the window, the setting sun warming her face. She hadn’t planned anything beyond getting closer to Charles, to gain his trust so that he’d leave himself vulnerable. Vulnerable for what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. But that meant she had to be relaxed, gracious, maybe playful. “I find a good, stiff drink at the end of the day really relaxes me.” And where did that come from?
She heard liquid being poured and a moment later, he was offering her a glass with two fingers of vodka. He raised his glass in a toast.
“I can think of another stiff thing that might relax you even more.”
She tensed, shocked by his disgusting remark, but raised her glass and they both drank. The alcohol scorched her throat, but she worked to keep her expression neutral. She wasn’t mousy, ineffective, frightened Angie. She was assured, determined Angela.
“Why don’t we have a seat.” Charles indicated the settee and they sat. He left only an inch of space between them, placing his free hand on her knee. “So. We finally get some time alone. I’m glad you came around.”
“I’ve been looking forward to getting to know the boss.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” His hand moved up to her thigh.
She could smell onions on his breath. Her stomach roiled, already sour from the vodka. “Now, Charles. We’re just having a drink,” she said coquettishly with a little smile.
“That’s right. We’re just having a drink. At the moment.” He sat back and took in the floor-to-ceiling view. “This always makes me hard. You know? Being king of the world, the city spread out in front of me for the taking.” He angled his eyes back to Angie. “Just like you.”
Oh, fuck. She was in over her head. She was certain there were still people in C-suite, but would they hear her if she screamed?
She stood, approached the window. The sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon. Soon, the twilight and then the darkness would engulf them.
Charles approached, standing behind her. “You know, Angie.” She didn’t turn back at his voice. “I’m having a fantastic year. I feel like Rogers Hornsby. Maybe I’ll hit four-twenty-four this year.”
Then she felt his erection pressing against her ass. He nudged it in a circular motion.
Shit. “Charles. I think this is inappropriate.”
“Honey, this is what you came for.” When she hesitated, he added, “Don’t you want to be like your sister?”
She froze. That was why she was there. Her sister. She couldn’t acquiesce, but she couldn’t scare him off either. She sipped more of her vodka and finally turned to him. “How well did you know Scarlett?”
“Oh, very well. She and I were very close.”
“She never mentioned you. Aside from getting the part. You know, in Catapult.”
“Maybe she’s not the type to kiss and tell.”
She was outraged at how glibly he was talking about a woman he had driven to suicide, how he was implying she had been into it, that it had been an affair, not rape. She slipped out from her place between Charles and the window and made like she was heading to the bar, but before she got more than a few steps, he gripped one of her wrists, pulling her back toward him.
“Oh, no. Don’t think you’re getting out of here that easily. We still have some business to attend to.” His gaze skimmed down her body and back up. “I mean, you’re not Scarlett, but you’ll do. In a pinch.”
She wrested her wrist from his grasp. “Charles. You’re right. I’m not Scarlett. I do things differently.”
He stared into her eyes for a prolonged moment. “You look a lot like her, you know.” Then he headed to the bar himself. “Actually, you’re more like her than you think.”
“What does that mean?”
He spoke over his shoulder while he refilled his glass. “She took some convincing, too, you know, to play nice.”
Angie’s heart pounded in her wrists, her feet, her throat. “What kind of convincing?” Her voice sounded like that of a frightened child’s, weak, vulnerable, breakable.
“Ah, you know. Sometimes you gotta show ’em what they like before they realize they like it.”
He suddenly stopped. Angie followed his gaze to find Tanya standing in the doorway, a folder in her hand.
“Charles.” Tanya’s enigmatic smile was gone. “Hello, Angie. I see you’re making the rounds today.”
Oh, fuck. “Charles wanted to meet . . .”
“What do you want, Tanya?” Charles was clearly not pleased.
“Oh, I don’t want to interrupt your . . . meeting, though I may have some information you might like.”
Shit fuck piss. She’s referring to Kristy. She must be. A scalding rush of panic shot through her temples, and she staggered toward the door, hoping she didn’t look crazed. As she slipped past, Tanya gave her a withering look. “Have a good night.”
Angie didn’t wait for the elevator and instead rushed to the stairwell, her feet making too much noise on the concrete steps as she raced away. Once she got to her floor, she practically ran to her office, and that was when she realized she was still holding the tumbler of vodka.
***
When she got home, Angie took a blisteringly hot shower, wishing it would wash her skin off. She felt like she’d never be clean again, like she was destined to taste the shitty flavor of vodka and Charles’s sexual aggression for the rest of her life. She had been with men who overstepped, who were entitled, who were flat-out repellent, but they had been nothing compared to Charles Weaver. She scrubbed her face, her body, her hair and came out feeling only somewhat less dirty.
She then scoured her teeth, hoping it would wash away the residual revulsion.
It didn’t.
Finally, she was ready for a Xanax and a night of dreamless sleep.
Then: Nicole.
She showed up unannounced, fueling Angie’s suspicions. Had Charles instructed her to go keep an eye on her? Specifically, that night? What might he have told her? And had Tanya told Charles about her conversation with Kristy?
God, she really wanted that Xanax.
But despite needing to be alone maybe more than she ever had in her life, she let Nicole in. She wanted to keep an eye on her as much as she suspected Nicole was there to keep an eye on her. Thankfully, Nicole didn’t press her to chat or for sex. She seemed content to just be there. Which confused Angie even more. Did she really just want to spend time together? Or was she there just to report back to Charles? Or maybe she truly did want to be there, and she was also doing her job, which meant simply being in Angie’s presence, nothing more required.
They curled up in bed and Nicole drifted off quickly, but Angie tossed and turned despite the Xanax. She so desperately needed sleep, she needed to rest, to refuel. She didn’t know how she’d have the strength to get through the following day without it.
Finally, sinking into a shallow, restless slumber, she dreamed.
She found herself in the middle of a forest. The trees were so tall, she couldn’t see where their tops vanished into the sky. Hearing shouts and the thunderous hoofbeats of horses, she ran to hide behind a particularly large trunk, flattening herself against it to stay out of view.
The sounds grew louder and then abruptly stopped. When she peered around the tree, she saw riders on horseback in a circle formation. A heavyset man with his face obscured rode in and took his position in the center. He was followed by two lines of women. The man lifted his face and Angie gasped. It was Charles. A bow and arrow materialized in one woman’s hands. She drew back and fired, hitting Charles, who vaporized, his smoke curling toward the sky. Angie started rising, too, until she was floating above the clearing. Suddenly Charles was floating across from her. “Have you seen enough yet?” he asked, breaking into laughter.
Angie looked down and started plummeting back to Earth.
She shot up in bed. Nicole turned over but didn’t wake up. Angie quietly crept out of the room and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, poured a glass of cold water, and peered through the sliding doors into the night.
Angie realized she needed her sister’s strength more than ever. Please look out for me, Scar. Hot tears trickled down her face, but she didn’t wipe them away. She wanted to feel them. This was her life now. Not a break from her real life. This was it. She was a woman in LA in a relationship with another woman who had been commissioned to spy on her and enmeshed in a high-stakes game of chicken with one of the most powerful men in the film industry.
Inhale, two, three, four . . .
“What are you doing?”
Angie jumped. She turned to see Nicole, clad in an oversized football jersey, padding down the stairs, and she squinted when Nicole flipped on a floor lamp.
“You look like you’re in a trance.”
She spun away, the glare of the lamp and the sight of Nicole too much to take. Angie didn’t feel sad anymore. She felt rage. Rage that she had been deprived of her sister. That Scarlett had been deprived of her life. Because of a monster.
“Scarlett left me here alone. There’s no one now to count on. And I just don’t know how this could have happened. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I’m the one who should be dead. Me. Not her.” She addressed Nicole’s reflection on the sliding door. “I was the one who was sad. I was depressed. I didn’t have the promise of a brilliant future. But I’m still here, more alone than I’ve ever been.”
“You’re not alone.” Nicole approached and turned Angie gently so they were face to face. “I’m here. I love you. And I’m not going anywhere. I know I’m not Scarlett, but I’m here. Only you have to let me in.”
Angie strode to the kitchen and pulled Nicole’s rose gold hoop earring out of a drawer. She held it up as she returned to the living room. “Oh, I think you already let yourself in.”
Nicole gaped at the earring for a few seconds. “It’s been missing for days. Where did you find it?”
Angie couldn’t tell if she was honestly surprised or just concentrating on what she should say next. “In the spare room. Got any questions about my whiteboard?”
Nicole gave her an odd look. “Really. I was looking for toilet paper and I popped my head into that room. And, yeah, the board got my attention. Who are all those people?”
“Actresses. Actresses who were manipulated and assaulted and then blacklisted.”
Nicole looked confused. “Assaulted? Blacklisted? What are you talking about?”
Angie wanted to believe that Nicole’s reaction was sincere. That she really didn’t know. But if she had been sent to track her, of course she’d be pulling lies out of thin air once confronted. Maybe if Angie threw it all out there, full force, Nicole might be overwhelmed enough to tell the truth.
“Hey.” Nicole took one of her hands. “You do know I’m not the enemy, right? You’ve been really distant the past few days and now you’re being really sketch.”
“I’m being sketch? You’re the one who was caught snooping in my office. And it’s awfully convenient how you befriended and then seduced me.”
Nicole dropped her hand and stepped back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I thought this was mutual. You didn’t think you had to do this for your job, did you? Did I ever put any conditions on our relationship?”
Angie didn’t know what to say.
“I am real. This”—Nicole gestured in the space between them—“is real. I could lose my job if this went sideways. Do you really think I would risk that?”
Angie let her shoulders sag. Nicole sounded genuine. And it was true she had never expected anything from Angie. And she was risking far more in the relationship than Angie was.
“I don’t even care what the whiteboard is about,” Nicole continued. “We need to fix us. Or break this off now.”
Shit. Angie didn’t want to lose her. Not until—unless—she found out for sure that Nicole was just using her.
“So, what do we do? Right now?” Nicole gave her a soft, imploring look.
“You’re really on my side?”
“Who else’s side would I be on?”
“I don’t know.” Angie sat on the sofa. Nicole joined her but kept some distance between them, holding a throw pillow in her lap. Angie wanted to believe her. But she needed leverage. “All right. I’ll tell you. But just remember what you said. You have more to lose than I do.”
“God. Okay. My lips are sealed.”
Angie took a breath and dove in. “I’m out here because I think something or someone pushed Scarlett so far that she killed herself. And I think that someone is Charles. The whiteboard is a chart of actresses who refused Charles, refused to sleep with him, to be overpowered by him, so he made sure they didn’t work anymore. Not for DreamWeaver or, essentially, for anyone.”
Nicole had a look of shock on her face. “Wow. Okay.”
“It’s a lot, I know.”
“I mean, Charles can be a tyrant. I’ve seen him lose his shit on sets, in the office, even at parties. But I have never heard of him outright assaulting anyone.”
“There’s a pattern. And I have someone, a private eye, doing some investigating. He’s made some connections himself.”
Nicole scoffed as if in disbelief. “You have a private eye investigating Charles?!”
“Welcome to my mind.”
“Jesus Christ, Angie. Do you know what he would do if he found out!”
“That is why he can’t find out.”
“Fuck.”
“Scarlett never told us anything about her difficulties out here or her depression. She hid everything. You had to know her. For her to commit suicide is just unfathomable. So, yes, I came out to see if I could figure it out.”
“I don’t think most people ever know why someone commits suicide.”
“Well, I also got a weird message in New York, an anonymous note that said Scar deserved better and pointed me toward a police report that I wasn’t able to track down. It was enough to convince me something had gone on that we knew nothing about. So I had to find out what I could. And here I am!”
“I don’t know what to think.” Nicole pulled at the fringe on the pillow in her lap. “I mean, like I said, Charles is temperamental and demanding and can micromanage things on set, and everywhere else, but that’s how a lot of powerful men are. And he’s a creative genius. But actual assault?”
“I’m reaching out to those actresses, trying to build a case. Because it seems, yes, there have been actual assaults.”
“Fuck.” Nicole shook her head and then looked deep into Angie’s eyes. “You have to be very careful. This isn’t just fire you’re playing with. This is a runaway firestorm.”