The Last Take

CHAPTER 1

Clara

The woman across from me is famous enough to have three bodyguards and terrified enough to come alone.

That is never a good sign.

She sits on the edge of the client chair in my office, knees pressed together, sunglasses still on even though the blinds are closed and the only light comes from my desk lamp and a strip of late-afternoon sun cutting across the carpet.

Her publicist told me she wanted discretion.

Her manager told me she wanted efficiency.

Her attorney told me nothing, which is usually how I know the problem has teeth.

On my desk, between us, sits a manila envelope thick enough to ruin a career.

I don’t touch it yet.

People in Hollywood always expect you to touch the envelope first. They think the object is the emergency. The photos. The texts. The recorded call. The thing someone sent at 2:13 a.m. with a payment demand and a deadline.

The emergency is never the envelope.

The emergency is what the person did before they walked into my office and decided I was safer than the police, their spouse, their agent, and God.

I slide a glass of water toward her.

She looks at it like I might have poisoned it with relevance.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” I say.

Her mouth moves once. Not a smile. More like her face trying to remember the shape.

“That obvious?”

“You’re wearing sunglasses indoors, your left hand hasn’t let go of your purse strap in twelve minutes, and your publicist called me ‘babe’ twice on the phone, which means she’s panicking.”

“She calls everyone babe.”

“That’s worse.”

The woman lowers her chin. Her name is Celia Hart, twenty-eight, streaming darling, perfume campaign face, recipient of one public breakup and one private disaster. The tabloids have been trying to make her cry in public for six months. So far, she hasn’t given them the courtesy.

“I made a mistake,” she says.

I glance at the envelope. “Most people do.”

“This was a big one.”

“Most people think that too.”

She finally takes off the sunglasses. Her mascara is intact because expensive makeup can survive everything except honesty. Her eyes are red in the corners, the kind of red that comes from not sleeping, not from crying.

“I sent videos to someone I trusted.”

I nod once.

“They’re threatening to release them.”

“Do they want money?”

“Two hundred thousand by tomorrow.”

“Specific.” I pick up my pen and write the number down. “Do they prove they have the material?”

She hesitates.

There it is. The small gap where the story gets worse.

“They sent a clip.”

“To you?”

“To my manager.”

I stop writing.

Celia’s mouth tightens. “I know.”

“Your manager has seen it?”

“He says he didn’t watch the whole thing.”

I let that sit there for one quiet second.

Outside my office, someone in the next suite laughs too loudly. A printer jams and makes a hard grinding noise through the wall. Los Angeles continues being Los Angeles: traffic, money, denial, iced coffee sweating through paper sleeves.

Celia rubs her thumb along the seam of her purse. “You think he watched it.”

“I think men who say they didn’t watch the whole thing are usually proud of themselves for stopping at ninety percent.”

A small sound leaves her. It almost becomes a laugh. It doesn’t make it all the way.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, it’s…” She shakes her head. “It’s nice. Not nice. That was a terrible sentence. I mean, it’s nice that you’re not doing the soft voice.”

“I charge extra for the soft voice.”

“You have one?”

“Several. None of them are good.”

This time she does laugh, one quick break in the tension. It fades fast, but it changes the air. Her shoulders lower half an inch. People confess better when they remember they still have a body.

I open the envelope.

Printed screenshots. A burner email address. A blurred image from what looks like a hotel room. A message typed with the fake calm of someone who has practiced cruelty in drafts.

PAY OR EVERYONE SEES WHAT HE SAW.

I read it twice.

Not because I need to.

Because the wording matters.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “What he saw.”

Celia looks away.

My lamp reflects off the glass wall behind her, turning the office into a dim little box with both of us trapped inside.

I keep the place modest on purpose. No gold signs.

No dramatic city view. No leather couch where clients can perform breakdowns for themselves.

A desk, two chairs, a locked file cabinet, a coffee machine that makes coffee taste like old batteries, and a narrow shelf of case binders arranged by year.

My business card says VANE CONFIDENTIAL SOLUTIONS.

It does not say private investigator. It does not say fixer. It does not say former horror actress who learned too young that screaming on command pays better than telling the truth.

“What he saw,” Celia repeats.

I wait.

She presses two fingers under one eye, careful not to disturb the makeup. “My ex. He found the videos before I deleted them. I thought he was the only one who had them.”

“Was the threat sent from him?”

“No. He says no.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I believed him when he said I was too insecure to handle a public relationship, so my record is not impressive.”

“That was almost a joke.”

“It was a joke. It limped, but it made an effort.”

“I respect effort.”

She looks at me then. Really looks. Most clients take longer to get there.

They stare at the hair first, because mine used to be darker in posters.

Then the face, because people like checking whether women age out of the version they bought tickets to see.

Then the scar near my hairline if the light catches it. After that, the memory hits.

Blood House. Final girl. Red door. Blood on tile. Clara Vane screaming without sound in a trailer that played before every R-rated movie for a year.

Celia’s gaze lands on the scar, moves away with manners she probably had to purchase.

“I didn’t know if you still did this,” she says.

“This?”

“Help people.”

“I bill them.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A phone buzzes on my desk. Molly’s name lights the screen with three texts stacked under one another.

MOLLY: emergency MOLLY: not office fire this time MOLLY: actually could become office fire depending on your emotional stability

I turn the phone face down.

Celia follows the movement. “Should you get that?”

“No.”

“What if it’s important?”

“It will become less important if I ignore it with confidence.”

“That’s not a real strategy.”

“It is in this town.”

She almost smiles again. Better. Not good, but better.

I sort the screenshots into three piles: threat language, proof of access, emotional leverage. Celia watches me line their edges with the side of my palm. I don’t notice I’m doing it until all three piles are squared to the corner of my desk.

Her eyes drop to my hand.

I still my fingers.

Stupid old habit.

Laurel used to tease me about it. She’d nudge a crooked paper cup out of place before a take and watch me suffer for five full seconds before fixing it herself.

You’re not anxious, Clara. You’re geometrically haunted.

The memory shows up without asking. Laurel in fake blood and smudged eyeliner, grinning at me through a mouthful of gum she wasn’t supposed to have on set. Laurel alive in bad lighting. Laurel twenty-three forever because Hollywood loves women best when they can’t contradict the footage.

I move one screenshot out of alignment on purpose.

Celia notices. She is too scared to ask.

Good.

Questions are doors. I prefer walls.

“Here’s what happens now,” I say. “You don’t pay. You don’t call your ex. You don’t let your manager negotiate. You don’t let your publicist draft a statement about privacy, healing, accountability, or any other word she found in a celebrity apology generator.”

Celia blinks. “She already drafted one.”

“Of course she did.”

“It says I’m taking space.”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m sitting in your office trying not to throw up.”

“Stronger opening.”

She covers her face with both hands for one second, then drops them. “What do I do?”

“You let me trace the email. You let Gideon Park look at your contracts and your ex’s NDA if he signed one. You tell your manager that if he keeps a copy, I will make his next job a podcast about the ethics of hummus. You sleep somewhere that isn’t your house tonight.”

Her expression shifts. “You think they know where I live?”

“I think anyone who can reach your manager can reach your address. I don’t like easy doors.”

“Do you ever tell people not to be scared?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because scared people lock windows.”

She swallows.

The phone buzzes again. Once. Twice. Then a call.

Molly.

I decline it.

Celia’s voice gets smaller. “Can you stop it?”

The soft voice comes close then, the one I tell people I don’t have. I hate it because it is never useful unless something has already hurt.

“I can make it harder for them,” I say. “I can make them regret choosing you. I can give you options that don’t involve handing over money and praying a cruel person develops boundaries.”

“That doesn’t sound like yes.”

“It’s better than yes.”

She studies me for a long moment.

“People said you were difficult,” she says.

There it is.

I hear that word the way other people hear their name called in a hospital waiting room.

Difficult.

Not grieving. Not cornered. Not furious with reason. Difficult.

The old headlines breathe under my skin. Clara Vane Meltdown. Set Sources Claim Actress Was “Unstable.” Blood House Star Refuses To Cooperate. Final Girl Falls Apart.

I cap my pen.

“People are very creative when they owe you an apology.”

Celia’s lips part. She doesn’t answer. The sentence has landed somewhere useful.

My office door opens without a knock.

Molly Keene slips in sideways holding her laptop, two phones, a paper bag, and the expression of someone who has already decided whatever I’m doing is less important than whatever she knows.

She freezes when she sees Celia.