Chapter 21
Emily stepped out of Polly’s front door and jogged down the steps to the waiting Cadillac Escalade. If it was up to her, she’d still be in bed. She’d barely slept the last three nights, and it had everything to do with Ryan.
But no, she wasn’t in bed feeling sorry for herself. She was outside, freezing her ass off and heading to a work meeting.
She slipped into the back seat. “Hey.”
Faye twisted in her seat on the passenger side, a wide smile on her face. “Good morning, superstar. Brought you coffee.”
Emily groaned as she took the to-go cup. “You are my favorite person today.”
“Hey, I’m picking you up,” Preston grumbled.
“You can be my second favorite.”
She sipped the warm liquid, expecting perfect Bloom coffee to fill her belly.
It didn’t.
Argh. What was that? She coughed, almost spitting the stuff out. Too strong. Far too strong.
She read the cup—The Pancake Bar.
“I got you a double shot,” Faye called, turning back to face the front.
Preston grinned at her through the mirror as he pulled onto the street. “She thought you looked tired yesterday.”
Great. So everyone knew she wasn’t sleeping. “Lucky we’re not filming then.”
He scoffed. “I bet my entire career Roscoe’s called this meeting to tell us we’re resuming filming.”
“No.” Emily shook her head, because absolutely not.
“The studio wouldn’t do that. Not until the person terrorizing us is caught.
” She absently traced the wound on her abdomen.
She hadn’t needed any pain medication this morning, and the cut was healing well.
Didn’t make her feel any better about what had happened.
Faye turned her head again, guilt darkening her brown eyes. “How’s the cut?”
“It’s fine. It’s also not your fault.” Something she’d told the other woman a dozen times.
“I was holding the knife. I should have known it was real. I—”
“The prop was weighted and felt real. And you had no reason to question anything.”
Faye swallowed and nodded before turning back to the front.
“Everything’s been fine at the inn?” Emily asked, almost scared of the answer. Hoping no one else had been attacked. Or threatened or chased.
“It’s all been quiet,” Preston said. But there was something about his voice that hinted he wasn’t as cool, calm, and collected as he wanted her to think.
She glanced out the window, only to frown. “Wait, I thought the meeting was at the inn?”
“Nope.” Preston turned right onto a dirt road. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, darkness seeping into his expression. “There is no meeting. We’re the killers, Emily. And we’re taking you out here to die.”
Faye whacked his shoulder. “Shut up, Preston! We have enough shit going on, we don’t need you adding to it.” She glanced back at Emily. “Roscoe changed the location and sent us an address for the meeting.”
“What address?”
“This one.” Preston leaned forward to look out the windshield. “How fucking cool is this place?”
Emily leaned forward too. Only “cool” wasn’t exactly the word she’d use to describe it.
Creepy. Old. Probably haunted.
Yeah, they all fit better.
It was a big old mansion-looking house, but it obviously hadn’t been updated or lived in for years. The windows were boarded over, the paint peeling…
“When was the last time someone lived here?” Faye breathed.
“Decades ago, I’m guessing.” Preston stopped at the end of a long line of vehicles.
“We shouldn’t be here.” Emily climbed from the car and wrapped her arms around her middle.
“Got to do what the boss says,” Preston replied, as he pulled on his sunglasses and walked past her.
Faye remained at her side, fiddling with the pendant on her bracelet almost nervously. “Do you think we’re going to have to finish the film before they catch the person?”
Emily shook her head. “No. It’s not safe. The studio would never allow it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They both headed over to where a crowd had gathered around the director.
“Look at this beauty,” Roscoe gushed, studying the house like it was a masterpiece and not a deserted, decrepit, old mansion. “I found her on an old map and she’s just…she’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Emily asked.
“Our final scene.” He looked at her like she was stupid. “The scene where everything comes together. The killer’s revealed. His motives are exposed.”
“But we’re not filming right now.”
Roscoe scoffed. “This is a small pause. We’ll get back to it within the month. Come on, let’s go in and I’ll show everyone where we’ll be filming. Use the flashlights on your phones. There’s no light and the windows are boarded up.”
People started heading toward the house.
Really? Everyone was just following him? They weren’t questioning whether stepping into a creepy-ass deserted house when someone was out to hurt cast members was a good idea?
Emily forced her feet to move, keeping in step with the group. “Where’s Ryan or any of the other guys?”
Roscoe stepped onto the porch, wooden boards groaning beneath his feet. “We’re not in the forest and we’re not filming, so we don’t need them.”
Uh, except there was still someone out there hurting people, and they were in the middle of nowhere with no protection. Sure, they weren’t security guards, but they could be protection.
Roscoe opened the door and stepped inside. Everyone followed, while Emily hesitated. She was the only one who did.
Faye turned from just inside, phone in hand with the flashlight on. “Are you coming?”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
Faye lifted a shoulder. “There’s a ton of people around. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Besides, I’d rather be in here with people than out there alone.”
Emily cast a glance behind her. At the forest surrounding the house. The eerie quiet, only interrupted by the whoosh of the wind in the trees.
Dammit.
She tapped the flashlight on her phone and stepped inside.
And yep, the inside was just as creepy as the outside.
A huge wooden staircase dominated the hallway, with a thick coating of dust on the railing. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and there was a massive chandelier above their heads. The only furniture was an old couch and a coffee table in the living room to their left.
“Who owns this place?” she asked, as she ran a finger across the staircase railing.
“Hell if I know,” Roscoe called from the living room.
Emily spun to face the director. “Then how did you get permission to be here?”
“I’m working on the mayor.”
Working on the mayor? She dropped her hand from the railing. “So we’re breaking and entering?”
Roscoe crossed the room to stand in front of her, an angry glare in his eyes. “It’s an abandoned house, Emily. No one lives here. The back door was unlocked and the house is probably owned by the town.”
“Just because a back door is unlocked doesn’t mean you can enter. The studio could be sued for this.”
He huffed before shouting at the group, “Upstairs, everyone. Now.”
Everyone followed. Again, no one questioned Roscoe. Not a single one of them. Even though they’d all just heard that he didn’t have permission to be here.
Faye lifted a shoulder as she passed Emily.
“You too, Prior!” Roscoe called from the top of the stairs.
Emily eyed the front door, then the stairs. She didn’t have a car here, and she didn’t exactly want to stay down here alone.
Jesus.
She hurried up the stairs. As the group headed down the hall, into the last room, her gaze caught on a bedroom to the left. She stopped, the hint of pink bedspread making her pause.
Slowly, she pushed the door open. The room looked completely untouched. Like twenty or thirty years ago, someone had woken up, made their bed, left, and never returned.
A young girl, maybe?
She stepped into the room, staring at a pale pink pillow on the bed with yellow flowers. As if her hand had a mind of its own, she opened the bedside table. Empty. So she’d taken her stuff. Had she left in a rush? Why?
“Prior!”
She jumped at Roscoe’s shout from down the hall.
“Get your ass in here now,” he called.
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the door.
But something barely poking out from beneath the mattress caught her attention. It was between the bed and the bedside table, so easy to miss.
The corner of a book, maybe?
She reached down and pulled it out.
An ivory-colored diary.
She should leave it alone. It wasn’t her business.
But the place was abandoned. Maybe this would tell her who’d lived here.
She opened the diary to see pages of perfect cursive handwriting. Her gaze skimmed over words about school and friends and a brother, sister, and parents. Each entry was dated.
Emily turned to the last page.
“Thirty years ago,” she breathed, before reading the entry.
I saw something in the sky last night. A thin white streak of light.
When I told Mama, she said it was a shooting star.
But I don’t believe that. I’ve seen shooting stars.
They’re magical and fleeting. If you blink, you miss it.
This was different. This was like a straight line drawn across the dark canvas.
It was slow, and even though I can’t prove it, it looked planned, like someone had shot something up there.
I’m going to stay up tonight and see if I can spot it again.
She jumped when her phone vibrated with a text.
Quickly, she shoved the diary back between the mattress and box spring. As she rejoined the cast and crew in what looked like a master bedroom, she pulled out her cell.
Roscoe was talking about what would be filmed in this room. Emily ignored him and read the text.
Ryan: Hey. Joel said you have a work meeting this morning. Everything okay?
Even though things between them were rocky, he’d been checking in on her every day. Texts. Calls.
Emily: He said it was a meeting. But then we arrived at this creepy old house. He basically admitted to breaking in. Now he’s telling us we’re going to film here.
Ryan: The old Connoway mansion?
Emily: Maybe?
Ryan: Be there in ten.