Chapter 4
Warm light splashes on the bedroom wall. Did I fall back to sleep? If so, good. I needed it. I stretch my arms and legs—relaxed, languorous, and more rested than I’ve felt in days.
Then memory surges, and my eyes go wide.
The script.
I bolt upright as the early-morning call with Lin rushes back.
My phone sits on top of the manuscript. Both lie beside me in the bed, where I left them when I fell asleep.
Grabbing the bound pages, I run my hand over the title. I recall some of what I read this morning, mostly the opening scenes—good dialogue and intriguing setup—the first hallmarks of an elevated horror story.
I flip to the first page again to refresh my memory, but I only read a few lines before my stomach gurgles. Now that I’m awake, I’m hungry all the way to my bones.
When did I last eat? The cold sandwich on the train? The German salami on rye I barely picked at?
I need a good breakfast. And coffee. So much coffee.
According to Lin, the apartment has been unoccupied for months, so I doubt there’s anything to eat downstairs. But Paris is the land of street cafés. I’ll go grab a bite, get my bearings, and then stock up on groceries.
Once I have necessities, I can dive deep into the script.
After one more glance at the title page, I set aside the screenplay. Earlier, I couldn’t stop myself from reading, but I need to wait and start over fresh. I should be clear-headed and focused for the initial pass, because I only have a few days to prepare for the audition.
And I need to nail this role.
I make a quick, mental list of all I need to do—read the script, research my character, analyze scenes, choose an outfit, pick a place to film. And that’s only the prep work.
Grabbing my phone, I type the list in a note-taking app. Organization and efficiency are key, because I’ve got no time to waste. This audition could turn everything around for me, and I’m thrilled by the possibility of working with Joyce Sandman.
And yet . . . worry niggles at the base of my brain.
I think of my previous role and the lost opportunity. How could a horror movie measure up to The Last Wave? The director once characterized the film as “a meditation on the nature of truth and history.”
A description my mother would have loved.
Long after the money dwindled and her fame faded, she maintained religiously high standards. She turned down roles for a variety of reasons—location conflict, required nudity, amateur production, bad script.
I can imagine what she’d say about a slasher movie.
My shoulders tighten in an involuntary cringe. It’s true more highbrow scary films have gone mainstream, but the old Hollywood adage remains: horror movies can be where careers are born.
Or where they go to die.
But Joyce Sandman as director? No matter the genre, working with her would be a dream.
Curious, I pick up my phone and type The Whisper House into the search bar. I find scant information online, other than a short article listing writers and producers. Not surprising, since production hasn’t started yet.
But studios usually make social media accounts for movies. I open Instagram and search the title. Nothing yet. Then I try the screenwriter, but his last post is two months old.
Out of habit, I click the icon for my home feed, scrolling through videos and photos from accounts I follow. A few pictures make me miss sunny California, and one of my cousin’s pugs brings a smile to my face.
I scroll a little further and stop, my finger hovering.
A picture from The Last Wave fills the screen, a few of the crew gathered on the last day of shooting. Over two hundred likes and forty comments. I waver with indecision.
I want to read what people are saying.
But I’m afraid to look.
Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’m torturing myself, I click on the post and go to the page. The crew photo is the last one shared. No one has posted since the movie shut down.
It’s like the whole experience is frozen in time, all the previous shots of actors on set, the camaraderie and smiling faces. A dream come true for so many.
For others, a nightmare.
My gaze lands on another picture, and I suck in a breath.
Mackenzie and me, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning like fools for the camera.
She’s radiant with joy and hope. Unlike the last time I saw her—jaw clenched, eyes haunted, hope ruined.
Regret coils in my belly like a newborn snake.
Where is Mackenzie now? How is she doing? If I texted her, would she respond?
Lin warned me to stay off the grid, explicitly ordering me not to contact anyone in the business. But especially anyone who worked on The Last Wave.
Tossing down my phone, I slide from the covers, blocking out any thoughts of Mackenzie.
And the guilt that follows like a shadow.
I take a quick shower before pulling on comfy jeans and a T-shirt. No need to “glam up,” since I’m trying to be incognito.
With a frown, I dig in my bag for the ball cap and glasses Lin insisted I bring. Just a precaution. A quick and easy disguise employed by celebrities.
I’m not a celebrity, not on magazine covers, and probably the last person paparazzi would try to track down. There are far more famous people embroiled in the scandal, but it’s smarter not to take chances.
Sun brightens the world outside and pulls me to the window.
The street in front of the mansion ends at a permanent blockade, metal bollards blocking cars from the park.
Only a small section of the park is visible, but I can tell people are out in droves—children playing, a woman reading on a green metal bench, and busy pedestrians on the walking paths.
Everyone’s moving. Except for one person. A blonde woman beside a lamppost across the street. Her stiff posture stands out in the buzzing activity. She’s rigid, intense, and staring at Maison Marteau.
There’s nothing remarkable about her clothes. A black ball cap and jacket with a red and gold patch emblazoned on the sleeve.
But there’s something about her body language, the tension and unwavering stare.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t glance around. Doesn’t check her phone. She leans casually against the pole, as if she’s exactly where she wants to be. Waiting. Watching.
Like paparazzi.
I whirl from the window and press close to the wall. Is she a photographer? A reporter? How did she find me? Lin said she’d handled everything discreetly.
I risk another peek out the window. The woman is still there, still leaning against the lamppost, but her head is turned the other way. No longer fixated on Maison Marteau.
And probably not stalking the B-list actress no one even knows is here.
The quick shot of panic drains to my bare feet. Humility returns, and I rub my face. I need to get a grip on myself. Paranoia’s not helpful.
As I grab my shoes, phone, and purse, I shake my head. Paparazzi aren’t searching for me. Reporters don’t want an interview.
Why would they?
They don’t realize how much I know.