Chapter 3
The jarring sound of my cell phone jolts me from sleep.
Dim, barely light outside. A ceiling looming high above me.
Where am I?
My vision clears, and the room sharpens. Lavish bed, large room, armoire by the wall. The pieces coalesce into a memory.
I’m in Paris. Maison Marteau.
Still groggy, I roll over in the fresh-smelling sheets. I reach out, slapping my hand on the night table until I find it. I don’t bother to check the screen. “Hello?”
“Brooke, morning.” Lin sounds too alert and awake for . . . what time is it, anyway?
I hold the phone away from my ear to check. Eight in the morning, which means in LA it’s . . . I have no idea.
I sit up and rub my eyes. My brain is buried in sand and I’m sifting for clarity.
“I wanted to call,” Lin says. “Make sure you got there, got inside all right.”
“I did.”
“And,” she pauses, “no trouble?”
I snap awake. Trouble could mean anything—planes, trains, emotional baggage. But I know what she’s really asking. “Nope.” I release a breath. “No one recognized me.”
“Good. Good.” A low hiss comes from her end, and I wonder if she’s vaping again. “So, you’re settled into the apartment, got all you need.”
“Yep.”
“How are you doing?”
“You know, staying positive.” I try to sound lighthearted, try to convince her of an optimism I don’t feel.
“Listen, I know the producers canceling the movie is a kick in the gut. I get it. But with filming on hold, you have time to devote to other things.”
“I hope it’s not too much time.” I don’t want to languish until I’m forgotten, waste energy and momentum until I’m written off. Like so many once-promising actors that studios now overlook.
I dread the idea of people saying, Whatever happened to her?
The Last Wave was the role I’d been waiting for, working toward for years. A respectable role in a meaningful film, and my supposed big break.
But I’ve lost it all.
Maybe for a few months. Maybe forever.
“Do you really think I need to stay here for two weeks?”
Lin’s low chuckle rasps from the phone. “What, you’re not enjoying that swanky Parisian apartment?”
“It’s amazing,” I say, glancing around. Morning sunlight streams into the bedroom, shining on creamy silk wallpaper and expensive antiques. I couldn’t ask for a better hideout.
“Maison Marteau is one step below a palace. And in Paris. I mean, I’m living the dream. Right?” More of that fake enthusiasm seeps into my voice.
“But?” Lin says. She knows me too well.
I nibble on my thumbnail. “With everything falling apart back home, being here . . . I don’t know. It just feels wrong.”
Lin sighs. “You aren’t the only one who’s lying low. Everyone else is doing their best to pick up and move on with their lives.”
Except those whose lives can’t move on. Not in the way they had before. I itch to know what’s happening in Los Angeles, but I don’t ask about rumors. I don’t ask what she’s heard.
I don’t ask about Mackenzie.
“Lin, do you think . . .” Clouds cover the sun, and the room dims. I pull the duvet up to cover myself. I’m by myself, all alone, yet I feel naked before a thousand eyes. Exposed, vulnerable, powerless. But most of all, I feel judged.
Because that’s what guilt does to you.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
A weighted pause falls between us.
After a moment, Lin answers, her tone flat. “You’re not asking about being in Paris.”
“No.”
“Brooke,” she sighs, “don’t waste time beating yourself up. These things happen.”
“Not these things,” I say. Although they always have.
My mother’s words whisper through my head. Hollywood makes its own rules, Brookie. If you want to get ahead, you have to get along. An actress since childhood, she raised me to follow her lead, giving guidance and tips I didn’t always understand.
Now that I understand, I don’t always agree.
Lin’s tone is moderated, steady and unyielding. “I’ve worked with a lot of actors. Talented actors. But you and I both know talent isn’t the only thing that counts in this business.”
I nod as if she can see me.
“You also need to be smart and play the game. It’s not my job to tell you what’s right or wrong, but I can tell you the risks.”
I murmur a sound of agreement. Even today, Hollywood masters hold the careers of many in their tight, iron fists. The last thing I need is to put myself in the spotlight, drawing the attention of the silver-screen elite. Wealthy and connected people. Powerful people.
The kind that could crush me like a bothersome bug.
I lean on the quilted headboard and sigh. “You’re right. And I appreciate all you’ve done for me. Honestly, this place is so nice I expect someone to show up any minute and kick me out.”
“Nah, don’t worry about that. The apartment is almost always unoccupied.”
“How does anyone own a home like this and leave it sitting empty?”
“Who knows why the super-rich do what they do?” Lin sucks in hard and blows out. Definitely vaping. “I arranged the lease with the owner’s husband. He said his wife likes her privacy, so I didn’t ask questions. The important thing is that you have a place to lie low for a while.”
“A place with coffee, croissants, and charming cafés.”
“Right, well, don’t get too used to the good life.” An edge of something I can’t name lifts her voice. “There’s a chance you’ll soon be roughing it again.”
“Roughing it?” A fluttery sensation builds in my chest before traveling down my arms. “What do you mean?”
She chuckles again. “You should check your suitcase.”
The luggage Lin had packed for me before I left. Last night, I only pulled out a few toiletries.
“Hold on.” I scramble from the bed and to the suitcase open on the floor. Setting down my phone, I dig through the contents.
My clothes cover two items at the bottom. A thick brown envelope and a large black box. I pick up the envelope, recognizing the weight and feel. A stack of pages that can only be one thing.
A screenplay.
My heart goes weightless, floating higher in my chest. And I’m fully awake now, buzzing from a shot of excitement-fueled adrenaline.
I pick up my phone again. “Lin?” Hope and anticipation lift my voice as I climb back into bed. One leg folded beneath me, I tear open the envelope and pull out a manuscript.
I read the first page. The Whisper House.
The title gives me my first clue. Then I notice the screenwriter’s name.
My heart drops back down like a lead ball. “What is this?”
“It’s a working title.”
“It’s a horror movie.”
“Hear me out,” she says, using the tone I know better than to argue with. “This film is a great opportunity. Well-written, well-produced, and rumor is, they’re talking to Joyce Sandman about directing.”
“Joyce Sandman?” The thrill I felt before tries to flutter back to life. A relatively new voice in the movie world, she’s quickly become known for films that are both socially relevant and entertaining.
But still.
“I’ve never done horror. Even in the early days.” A time when so many actors take what they can get.
I try to swallow but my throat is dry. “Is this a step back for me?”
“Did Toni Colette take a step back?”
“No, but—”
“John Krasinski and Emily Blunt?”
“Of course not, but those were standout horror films.”
Lin’s silence is her only reply.
The script sits in my lap, suddenly as heavy as my pending decision. “You think this movie is on par?”
“I absolutely do, and if they get Sandman, this could be as good, if not better than, The Last Wave. And with a wider audience.”
Which means more eyes on my face. More people learning my name.
“And it’s based on a true story, which always sells better,” she says. “Remember all the trouble in Maryland? A supposedly haunted estate?”
“Hmm.” I make an affirmative sound as I scan the pages of the script.
“Anyway, it’s not an open call. They’re only auditioning a select pool of candidates, and you made the list. The black box contains your tripod, ring light, microphone, and an external lens for your phone.”
“They want a video audition?”
“In three days.”
“Three days?” I sit up straight, mentally running through a checklist. I can do it. I have to do it. Because if Lin is right, this could be a lifesaving jolt for my dying career.
“Do you know who else is on the list?”
“I feel good about this, Brooke.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’ve got a blank calendar and a private place to work,” she says, still avoiding the question. “A place I made sure you got into, because I thought the environment would be… inspiring.”
“You mean creepy?”
“Whatever it takes. So while you’re in that big old, empty place—like your character is going to be—you need to dig into the script, learn the character, and decide how you can make her yours. This movie has scare factor, but it also has heart. I think it could be big.”
“Okay. I hear you.” I sigh into the phone and melt into the soft headboard. “A horror movie.”
Lin makes a noise in her throat. “Joyce Sandman.”
“Right.” I remember Sandman’s Oscar nomination two years ago, and excitement starts to trickle back in. “Thank you, Lin.”
“Thank me by getting the part.” She chuckles again and hangs up.
I drop my phone on the bed and flip through the pages, hardly able to believe what’s landed in my lap. Literally.
A new script.
Another chance.
Tucking myself in, I turn to the first page and trace my hand over the paper.
My finger stops on the main character’s name. “All right, Claudia, tell me your story.”