CHAPTER 3 #3
Malcolm says my name under his breath.
Warning, maybe.
Plea, maybe.
I ignore it.
Victor steps slightly closer. “I know tonight must be painful.”
“Careful.”
He stops.
The word comes out soft.
That is why it works.
For the first time, Victor looks at me like I might not be the damaged actress he prepared for.
Good.
Let him update the file.
I point toward the wardrobe trailer. “Who authorized the original coat?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Continuity. Legacy. Audience recognition.”
“Laurel died in that coat.”
“She died wearing wardrobe from a film, yes.”
There it is.
The room without rooms. The place inside me where sound gets thin.
Malcolm moves one inch.
Not in front of me.
Beside me.
I hate that I notice the difference.
“Say that again,” I tell Victor.
He gives me a sympathetic look, which is braver than intelligence recommends. “Clara, I’m not interested in reopening old pain.”
“No, you’re interested in monetizing it without getting blood on the invoice.”
Victor’s eyes harden.
Diana says, “Victor, stop talking.”
He doesn’t look at her. “We are cooperating with all reasonable efforts to locate Avery.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Then open her trailer.”
His face stills.
Tiny.
There.
Malcolm sees it too.
“Avery’s trailer is being held for security review,” Victor says.
“Great. I review security.”
“You are not law enforcement.”
“No. I’m the person your missing actress named before someone taped her mouth shut.”
The words hit the group.
Teresa’s hand covers her lips.
Diana’s face tightens with anger.
Victor’s mouth opens, closes.
Malcolm speaks before Victor can recover. “We’re going to Avery’s trailer.”
Victor turns on him. “That is not your call.”
“It is until LAPD arrives.”
“You called them?”
Malcolm’s silence answers.
Victor’s polished calm cracks enough for me to see the panic underneath.
Not fear for Avery.
Fear of arrival. Witnesses. Procedure outside his reach.
A vehicle rolls in the distance. Not sirens yet. Maybe security. Maybe crew. Maybe the beginning of the night refusing to stay private.
Victor tucks his phone away. “I’ll accompany you.”
“No,” I say.
His brows rise.
“You contaminate rooms,” I say. “It’s a gift.”
Diana coughs into her fist. Malcolm does not laugh. His eyes, however, betray him for half a second.
Victor looks at Malcolm. “You’re allowing this?”
“There’s that word again,” I say.
Malcolm takes a key card from his pocket. “Trailer’s this way.”
I walk before Victor can answer.
Avery’s trailer sits three rows down, behind a line of potted plants placed there to make temporary housing look less like temporary housing. A strip of masking tape on the door reads A. LORNE in black marker. Someone drew a tiny star beside the name.
The sight hurts in an unexpected place.
Not Laurel.
Avery.
Young. Scared. Alive in a photo with tape over her mouth.
I put a hand on the railing before climbing the steps. The metal is cold and slightly sticky from night damp.
Malcolm unlocks the door with the key card and pushes it open with two fingers.
“Don’t touch anything unless you tell me first,” he says.
I look at him.
He looks back. “Please.”
Damn him.
I step inside.
Avery’s trailer smells like vanilla lotion, hairspray, wet fabric, and fear left too long in a small room.
The overhead light flickers once before settling.
A cardigan hangs over the back of a chair.
Sneakers sit by the sofa, one upright, one on its side.
A script is open on the table with notes in blue pen. Half a banana browns on a napkin.
Life interrupted always looks slightly ridiculous.
That is the part crime shows never get right.
Nobody vanishes from a perfectly symbolic room. They vanish with laundry out, fruit dying, a phone charger twisted around a drawer handle.
Malcolm stays by the door.
I move slowly.
The table first. Script pages. Scene 16. Scene 18. No seventeen. Avery has underlined one line three times:
DON’T OPEN THE DOOR IF YOU HEAR HER VOICE.
I do not like that.
Beside the script are three sugar packets.
White.
Aligned perfectly.
My body notices before my brain does.
One.
Two.
Three.
Edges squared with the table.
Not Avery’s habit. Mine.
My skin tightens under my sleeves.
I hear Malcolm step once behind me, then stop himself.
Good.
He is learning.
I crouch to look without touching.
The packets are from the coffee shop on the lot. Green logo. Crimped edges. One has a tiny brown stain near the corner.
A message, then.
Not to Avery.
To me.
“Clara,” Malcolm says.
“I see them.”
“Did Avery know you do that?”
I look over my shoulder. “Did you tell her?”
His face changes.
Not offense.
Pain.
“No.”
It should satisfy me.
It doesn’t.
“Someone watched interviews,” I say. “Old behind-the-scenes footage. Or someone was there.”
Malcolm’s gaze moves around the trailer, cataloging access points, vents, windows, the small bathroom door.
I keep scanning.
Makeup bag. Receipts. A book of crossword puzzles. Protein bars. A Polaroid of Avery and Diana on set, both covered in fake rain and looking annoyed. A folded hoodie with the production logo. A bouquet of flowers wilting in a plastic cup because no one bothered to find a vase.
I open the closet with the back of my pen.
Empty hangers clink softly.
No red coat.
A tote bag sits on the floor.
I kneel.
“Bag,” I say.
Malcolm moves closer but not close enough to crowd.
“Yours or hers?”
“Hers. Initials.”
A.L. stamped in gold near the strap.
I use the pen to lift one handle and peer inside.
Wallet. Lip balm. A pack of gum. Folded call sheet. Loose receipts. A small black notebook. Sunglasses. A charger.
And something silver.
My mouth dries.
No.
The thought arrives too clean.
No.
I set the pen down on the closet floor and reach in with my gloved hand. Malcolm inhales behind me, then says nothing. I pull the object free.
A lighter.
Brushed silver. Scratched along one side. Small dent near the hinge.
I know its weight before it rests in my palm.
I know the cheap little click it makes when opened, the way the flame used to catch too high if you filled it wrong, the engraving on the bottom Laurel got in Venice from a man who swore it was vintage and probably bought it in bulk.
My thumb turns it over.
There it is.
L.W.
Laurel West.
For a few seconds, I am very calm.
That is the worst version of me.
Behind me, Malcolm says, “Clara.”
I close my fingers around the lighter.
Hard.
The metal presses into the center of my palm until pain gives me one honest thing to hold.
“This was buried with her,” I say.
Malcolm does not move.
The trailer light buzzes overhead.
Outside, someone calls for Diana. A radio crackles. A siren starts far away, not loud yet, not near enough to save anyone.
I look at Malcolm.
His face tells me before his mouth does.
He did not know.
But he knows something.
Still.
Always.
My voice comes out too polite.
“Tell me why Laurel’s lighter is in Avery’s bag.”