Kristy Wong powered her way across the asphalt of the studio lot in new knock-off Jimmy Choos, which were killing her, a tablet in one hand, her cell phone in the other. Goddamn it, Scarlett was never late.
The movie had wrapped that afternoon. Champagne flutes lined the table, platters of sushi were chilling, waiters were readying trays of steak tartare bites, shrimp satay, and edamame dumplings. But no Scarlett. Charles had made clear he wanted to toast the completion of the film, which he’d announced in the press would continue DreamWeaver’s reputation as a place that made great movies, meaning money and art. Yet he couldn’t toast without his star, and Kristy could tell he was getting impatient—and no one wanted an impatient Charles. He was bad enough when he got what he wanted.
Kristy knew she was lucky to have landed her job at the studio. But as glamorous as it seemed from the outside, it was work. Hard work. And sometimes demoralizing work. That was a detail she never mentioned to her parents back in Michigan. Once she’d started at the studio, she soon learned what everyone in Hollywood knew—working for Charles Weaver wasn’t easy and definitely not fun, but much was forgiven because he had built the largest of the mini-majors from nothing. And he’d done it through constant hustle, a genius for understanding how to produce and package the right movie at the right time, and a vise-like grip over his company.
As she made her way across the lot, Kristy felt confident in her new turquoise silk blouse, unbuttoned to the point of being sexy but still professional—the unspoken DreamWeaver dress code for female employees—and her slim white skirt. She wanted to look good at the wrap party, her first.
Skittering up the few short steps to Scarlett’s trailer, she knocked on the closed door. “Scarlett?”
Super-loud music blared from inside, which wasn’t typical of Scarlett.
“Scarlett, hey! Can you hear me?! It’s Kristy. Charles and everyone are waiting for you.” She waited for a response but wasn’t sure she would be able to hear anything over the music. She could barely hear her own voice. “Are you ready? C’mon, the party’s starting.”
Nothing. She knocked one more time, paused a brief moment, then opened the door and leaned in. “Scarlett?”
A vase of red poppies on a table caught her eye first, before her gaze fell to the body on the floor. Scarlett’s wavy dark hair and makeup were still as they’d been for her final scene of the shoot earlier, but now sticky blood pooled behind her head, a gun near her hand.
Kristy gasped.
Then screamed.