Training Grounds (Refuge Cove #5)

Prologue

Rowan King rolled her shoulders and exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension that had settled there hours ago.

You’re stiff, Rowan. Completely unbelievable.

As she sat in her dressing room, she stared back at her reflection in the mirror.

Director Vince Furlough’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and dismissive.

She closed her eyes, no longer wanting to see her own image. Her flaws were too easy to pick apart.

Vince’s words shouldn’t have this kind of power over her. She’d heard worse in this industry. She’d told herself that a hundred times today alone.

But this movie set was different.

Vince was different.

He was legendary in the business, and his words cut deeper than others.

Anyone ever tell you you’re not pretty enough for the close-up?

You’re replaceable. You know that, right? You’re nothing special, Rowan.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t new to this industry, nor was she fragile. And she certainly wasn’t replaceable.

Not when she was the lead in Silent Witness—the project Vince himself had called “career-defining.” The director had a reputation for being condescending and hard to work with—but the payoff was usually worth it.

She simply had to endure him for the next year of her life.

Then when her career took off, she could move on.

But four months into filming, something had flipped, and Vince made it sound as if he’d made the wrong choice when casting her. Rowan had thought he actually might fire her at one point.

The tension on the set was palpable. Other people—cast members and crew—had watched Vince humiliate her. It had become bad enough that she’d gone to her doctor, who had given her some meds for the anxiety she experienced from Vince’s humiliation.

Something about his criticisms made her feel like she was back in high school again, second-guessing everything and trying to prove she belonged.

Tonight, that would stop.

She reached up and absently touched one of her earrings—small, gold teardrops. They’d been a gift from her mother years ago. Rowan wore them when she needed to be reminded of her roots . . . something that felt long forgotten at times.

Her life today was night and day to that from her upbringing. Guilt filled her at the thought. How had she gone astray so badly?

She drew in a breath to calm herself.

You’re going to walk into Vince’s office and say what needs to be said. You’re going to stand up for yourself—and any other woman Vince has cut down this way.

She glanced at the far hallway that led to the production offices.

Most of the overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only a dim path of illumination from a few glowing fixtures.

The rest of the cast and crew had left probably an hour ago, but Rowan had lingered in her dressing room, trying to sort her thoughts and calm her trembling hands.

If she didn’t talk to Vince now, she wouldn’t do it at all.

Rowan squared her shoulders and stepped toward his office. Her footsteps echoed as she walked down the corridor, each thud filled with purpose.

She reached the admin wing and slowed.

Vince’s door stood slightly ajar at the very end. A line of light spilled from his office, cutting across the dark floor.

She was right—he was still here. That was what she’d been counting on. He was generally the last one to leave.

Rowan hesitated.

This was ridiculous. She’d faced down live audiences, critics, and on-air interviews designed to trip her up. One difficult director shouldn’t make her feel this kind of self-doubt.

You’re not doing this for yourself, she reminded herself. You’re doing it for every actress who will eventually sit across from Vince, for every actress who might hear the same cutting rebukes, absorb the same dismissals, and go home feeling like a failure.

It wasn’t right. His words were a power move. His statements were designed to make people feel small so he could feel bigger. That made him one of the worst kinds of bullies. Though he had a reputation, he was far worse than she’d ever anticipated.

Drawing in a deep breath, Rowan continued forward.

As she got closer to Vince’s office, voices drifted through the opening.

She froze. Everyone else hadn’t gone home after all.

“You can’t just brush this off,” a familiar male voice said, the tone tight and strained.

She took another careful step, keeping to the shadows along the wall.

Vince answered, his words low but edged with irritation. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting. I’m telling you this isn’t right.”

Rowan’s pulse kicked up. She knew that other voice. It was Thayer Holt, the director of photography. He’d always been a calm and steady presence on set.

Unlike Vince.

Thayer had asked Rowan out a few weeks ago. She’d told him no, told him that the timing was wrong. He’d seemed to understand and hadn’t held any ill feelings.

Rowan hesitated. She should leave.

This wasn’t her conversation or her business.

But something about what these two men were saying felt off, and her feet remained rooted in place.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Vince snapped.

“I think you’re crossing a line,” Thayer shot back. “And if this gets out—”

“It won’t.”

A beat of silence followed, heavy and charged.

Rowan edged closer to the door, just enough to see inside but remain undetected.

The office lights were bright, casting sharp shadows across the room.

It was larger than it had any right to be for a working production office—more like a carefully staged display of power.

A wide desk dominated the center, flanked by high-end artistic prints of Vince’s most celebrated films. Behind-the-scenes photographs featuring Vince with famous actors.

Trophies and movie props lined a bookshelf.

Along the far wall sat a deep leather couch, the kind that had probably witnessed more than one conversation that never made it into anyone’s official account.

Several pieces of equipment from the set were scattered near the door as if Vince himself were examining them.

She’d heard before signing on that he was a control freak.

And he was.

Vince stood behind his desk, his posture rigid and his expression hard. Thayer faced him from a few feet away, hands braced on the back of a chair as if holding himself in place.

“This isn’t just about the production anymore,” Thayer said. “You’re going to get people hurt. That’s not okay. The fact is that no one wants to stand up to you because you’re vindictive and you like humiliating people. There’s so much wrong with that.”

Vince let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re being dramatic. Maybe you should have gone into acting instead of lighting.”

“No. I’m being careful. Something you should try sometime.”

Rowan felt the subtle change in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Vince stepped around the desk, his nostrils flaring. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

Thayer straightened but remained locked in place. “Someone needs to.”

“I don’t know who you think you are! I brought you on when you were a nobody! I made something out of you. And this is the thanks I get?”

“You’re such a narcissist, Vince! Someone should have stood up to you years ago. People always let you get away with whatever you want. It’s sickening to watch. But that ends now. You’re crooked, and everyone deserves to know the truth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tired of looking the other way and letting you get away with treating people the way you always do. You can join your friend Weinstein in prison for all I care.”

Vince bristled and let out a little growl.

The next instant, Vince lunged forward and shoved Thayer.

Thayer stumbled backward, clearly not expecting Vince to get physical. His foot caught on the leg of the chair. For a split second, he tried to recover.

Instead, he fell. His head struck the corner of a small granite-topped coffee table with a sickening crack.

Rowan’s hand flew to her mouth.

The next instant, Thayer collapsed. His body crumpled against the floor, and blood trickled from his temple.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Vince stared down at him with a scowl. “Stop being dramatic. Get up.”

No response.

Vince stepped closer and nudged Thayer with his foot. “Stop messing around.”

Still nothing.

Something cold slid through Rowan’s chest.

Why wasn’t Thayer getting up? Why wasn’t he moving at all?

Rowan’s pulse roared in her ears. Why was Vince just standing over Thayer and staring at him?

Then something in Vince’s expression shifted.

It wasn’t grief or horror.

No, it was calculation.

He crouched beside Thayer and pressed two fingers to his neck. Held them there. Muttered something indecipherable under his breath.

Rowan watched, unable to breathe, unable to move, as she waited to see what he’d do next.

He stood. Ran a hand over his face. Sighed.

Then he glanced around.

With the shake of his head, he leaned toward Thayer again.

Vince lifted the man’s arms and began to drag him across the room.

Rowan squinted. What was Vince doing? He should be calling 911!

Maybe she should call 911. Yet she felt frozen, unable to move.

Vince stopped by a light stand near the edge of the office. It was a portable unit they’d used on set—one of the pieces of equipment that seemed out of place in the room.

Why was it even in there? Had Thayer brought it in to discuss a technical issue with Vince? That made the most sense.

Vince pulled the stand closer, his movements precise and deliberate.

Then Vince stepped back, studying the scene like a man solving a problem.

He adjusted Thayer’s position again, placing him beneath the light with one arm bent at an unnatural angle and his head turned.

No . . .

The word formed in Rowan’s mind but didn’t make it to her mouth.

He was going to make this look like an accident, wasn’t he?

A moment later Vince stepped back and surveyed the scene again.

Then he walked toward the door.

Toward her.

No! Vince couldn’t find her here.

Rowan ducked into another office, praying he hadn’t seen her.

She held her breath and remained perfectly still as she waited.

A moment later, he walked by her, headed toward the other end of the hallway.

If Rowan was going to act, it had to be now.

Be brave, Rowan. Be like Eliza Stephens.

Eliza Stephens was the character she was portraying in her current film. Eliza hadn’t listened to others when they told her to remain quiet in a massive corporate takedown.

Rowan hurried into Vince’s office and dropped to her knees beside Thayer.

She pressed her finger to his neck and waited, praying she’d feel something.

There was nothing.

No . . .

She shifted and tried again. Her own pulse was so loud in her ears she wasn’t sure she’d be able to feel Thayer’s even if it was there.

But it still wasn’t.

Just as she’d feared, he was gone. Dead.

Before the reality could fully sink in, a footstep sounded behind her.

Vince. He was coming back!

Rowan glanced around. She had to hide.

Only one place made sense.

On instinct, she rose and ducked behind the couch, flattening herself to the floor.

Her heart pounded out of control as she prayed the furniture concealed her enough.

Vince came into view as he stopped in the doorway.

Her lungs froze as she watched from the gap beneath the couch.

She could see most of him. Could he see her? Did he know she was there?

A long moment passed.

Then another.

Her heart continued to race.

What was he doing?

She watched as he paused near the lighting bar and lifted a screwdriver he’d brought back with him.

He loosened a screw on one of the fixtures near the top.

Using his finger, he grabbed one of the can lights and nudged it.

It fell, landing on Thayer’s head with a sickening thud.

Her breath caught.

Vince took one more slow look around the room, and his gaze stopped on something.

He slipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down the table where Thayer hit his head. Then he walked toward the door.

Her heart pulsed in her ears as she struggled to remain silent.

A few minutes later, the sound of his footsteps faded. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed.

Rowan stayed where she was and counted.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

She didn’t hear anything else. Vince should be gone . . . right?

She had to get out of here. Was this her opportunity?

She scrambled from behind the couch and paused for only a moment beside Thayer.

Grief clutched her heart as she stared at his lifeless body.

“I’m so sorry, Thayer,” she murmured. “So sorry.”

Wasting no more time, she sprinted through the door, down the hallway, and away from the office wing. Her shoulder bumped the wall in her haste to leave, and pain shot through her.

She ignored it.

The exit door opened onto a side alley.

She burst outside, and the night air hit her like cold water.

She kept moving around the corner of the building until she reached the edge of the parking area.

She paused and pressed herself against the exterior wall. Panic threatened to overtake her. She couldn’t afford to have an anxiety attack right now.

Instead, she focused on breathing—slow in, slow out.

It wasn’t working. Her lungs wouldn’t fill.

Her hand moved to her ear to fiddle with her earring—her nervous habit.

But the hole was empty.

The left earring was gone.

More panic raced through her. Where had it fallen out? Had it happened while she was crouched beside Thayer? When she’d bumped into the wall while fleeing?

She looked back at the exit.

She couldn’t go back inside. It was too risky. Vince was still in there, and if he caught her—

The side door swung open.

Rowan yanked herself flat against the wall, heart slamming against her ribs.

Vince stepped outside. He stood motionless a moment, scanning the lot with the calm, unhurried patience of a man who had nothing to fear.

Then his gaze found her.

Her throat tightened.

He didn’t move. Didn’t call out.

He simply looked at her—the way he sometimes looked at a scene that wasn’t working—calculating, repositioning.

Then he reached into his breast pocket and held something up between two fingers. A clear bag.

Even in the dim light, she recognized the contents of the bag.

The small gold teardrop earring caught the glow from the streetlamp above him.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

He knew she’d been there.

And Rowan knew, without a doubt, that he would frame her for Thayer’s death.

She didn’t know what else to do—so she ran.