Chapter Two
Two
I look up from my phone, and suddenly New Avalon is there, looming before the boat, as if it sensed our impending arrival and moved closer to bridge the gap between us.
Up close, it seems bigger than the island I saw on my phone’s screen this morning.
Wilder, too. A mini wilderness surrounded by miles of water.
From lake level, the island appears eerily asymmetrical.
Starting at the southern tip, the brush-covered land gradually rises about fifty feet to a plateau of dense forest that covers two-thirds of the island.
Through the trees, I spot flashes of white that I assume to be buildings.
When I squint, I can barely make out slivers of walls and the peaks of roofs hidden among the branches.
Instead of another moderate slope back to the water, the northern edge of the island abruptly stops, plunging into a sharp cliff.
Below it is a beach studded with boulders, which have been whittled by erosion into jagged points that look like teeth.
Not a welcoming sight. Even Loretta seems taken aback by them.
Finally looking up from her phone, she eyes the beach with dread, as if she’s worried Pete will lose control of the boat and send us directly into the rocks.
But Pete’s hand remains steady at the wheel as he steers the boat sharply to the left, sending us directly into the island’s shadow.
It’s colder there, the change from sun to shade so stark that a shiver zips down my spine.
Or maybe the chill is caused by the text I just received, still visible on my phone if I dared to glance at it, which I don’t.
There’s no need. Its message is loud and clear.
This is a bad idea.
One the actress who previously had my part likely realized ahead of time and backed out because of it. Probably because she was smart enough to ask for more details. Not me, though. I just blindly went where I was told.
I drop the phone back into my pocket and tap Loretta on the shoulder. “Are we really going to be doing this on New Avalon itself?”
“Yes,” she says. “I could have sworn Ronan and I told you that.”
They absolutely didn’t.
“Or maybe we just assumed you knew,” Loretta adds. “I mean, where else would we do it?”
I want to reply with the obvious answer, which is anywhere else. Literally anywhere. Instead, I say, “Don’t you think it could be—I don’t know—dangerous?”
Loretta cocks her head. “How so?”
“Those women vanished,” I say. “Allegedly killed by something evil. Do you think it’s wise for all of us to spend a week where it happened?”
“You don’t really believe all that, do you?”
I don’t. Not really. Despite the claims of Pete’s grandfather and despite my own past experiences.
Tell me a story.
A ghost story.
It’s more likely that those poor women got lost or drowned or fell into a cave and starved to death. Which is the real reason why this strikes me as a bad idea. This is an island we’re talking about. One miles from the mainland.
“I just worry about being so far from civilization. What if something goes wrong?”
“It’ll be fine,” Loretta says. “I know the island has a reputation, deserved or not, which makes it seem ominous. But people have spent summers here for decades, and not a single thing went wrong. If there was even the slightest hint of danger, the studio lawyers wouldn’t allow it.
Besides, Ronan and I will be here with you the whole time.
I’m actually looking forward to it. It’ll be just like summer camp! ”
There’s that enthusiasm again. I pretend to share it, even though, as Pete guides the boat parallel to the shore, all I can think about is how he’s likely right. Those women are probably still on that island, dead for a century.
That strikes me as another reason to want to avoid the place. It’s like having a picnic in a graveyard. Sure, you could do it, but why would you want to?
Pete steers the boat to the island’s far more welcoming southern end, where a dock juts into the water. Another, smaller boat with an outboard motor is moored to it, gently riding the swells of the lake. A man stands beside it, waving as we pull up to the dock.
The way he’s dressed—T-shirt, cargo pants, and Red Sox cap—screams Young Steven Spielberg, making it clear he hopes to someday become a director.
From the spray of freckles across his youthful face, I suspect he’s right out of film school, hungry for success.
He radiates energy as he helps Loretta out of the boat.
“You must be Marin,” he says, ready to do the same for me. “I’m Brad Brillstein, the production assistant. Welcome to New Avalon.”
I pause at the side of the boat, reluctant to take that final step onto the dock.
If I do, will I regret it, as that ominous text promised?
I’m more likely to regret not getting out of the boat.
Refusing to take part in this boot camp will cost me the part, which might be what happened to the actress who had it before me.
Are any reservations I have worth losing a role in a movie directed by Ronan Peters and starring Violet Wright?
The answer, of course, is no. Especially when it also means giving up a hundred thousand dollars, a SAG card, a screen credit other than Bridesmaid with Eczema.
Filming that commercial was one humiliation after another.
Spending an hour in makeup as an unsightly rash was painted onto my upper arm.
The way the other actors kept their distance, as if I were somehow contagious.
The strange looks I still sometimes get on the subway when people recognize me from that single commercial.
I think about the first time my parents saw it. How they watched in embarrassed silence, my father speaking for both of them when he said, “Well, now I hope you finally realize how stupid that acting dream of yours was.”
This movie could change that.
All I need to do is step off the boat and spend five days on an island where something bad once happened. Which doesn’t mean it will happen again.
As for the texts I received, maybe this actress, whoever the hell she is, is the one full of regret.
Maybe she feels stupid for giving up the opportunity I’m now allowed to take.
Maybe that’s the reason she sent those texts.
To scare me off, hoping that my departure will allow her to squeeze her way back into the movie.
On the dock, Brad clears his throat, waiting for me to make the next move.
While I was waffling, Pete had piled my bags onto the dock and now sits behind the wheel of the boat.
The way he looks at me makes it clear he senses my hesitation and even seems to understand it.
But instead of reassurance, Pete simply shrugs. The choice is mine alone.
I step off the boat, and the dock wobbles slightly beneath my feet. I try not to take it as a sign I’ve made the wrong decision, which of course I do. By then, though, it’s too late. Pete’s already pulling the boat away from the dock, the gap of water between the two widening.
“Are we ready?” Loretta says, standing on the dock with a hand on her hip.
I nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.
“Good. Before we start, I need you to sign these.”
Loretta pulls two documents from her bag and hands them to me. A quick glance reveals several pages of legal jargon that will take me hours to decipher.
“What are these?”
“The first one indicates that you have been notified of and accept all risks associated with spending time on New Avalon.”
“You just told me there weren’t any risks,” I say with rightful annoyance.
Loretta adjusts her sunglasses, irritated.
“I told you that everything will be fine. Because it will. This is just a standard waiver the studio makes everyone sign when they go anywhere off the lot. It doesn’t mean the island is dangerous.
It just means that, like literally anywhere on earth, there’s the potential for danger. ”
“Such as?”
“Beats me,” Loretta says. “Tripping over tree roots? Snakes? You’d have to ask the studio lawyers.”
An impossible task now that I’m already on the island. I hold up the second document. “And this one?”
“That’s an NDA,” Loretta says. “Forbidding you from talking about the next five days without express permission from me, Ronan, or the studio.”
“Why would I need permission?”
“Some directors, Ronan included, think certain aspects of the filmmaking process should remain private. This is a way of guaranteeing that you’ll check with me or someone from the studio before revealing any details about your time here, especially to members of the press.”
“And what if I don’t?” I say.
“Then the studio can sue you,” Loretta replies. “I’m not saying they will, but violating an NDA certainly opens up the possibility of a lawsuit. And trust me, you don’t want that.”
I stare at the documents, wondering more than ever if I should have stayed in the boat with Pete.
The answer, despite the legalese on the pages in my hand, remains no.
Refusing to sign the documents—just like refusing to set foot onto New Avalon—would end my career before it even begins.
I’d instantly be branded “difficult,” a label that never affects men but has destroyed the careers of too many women to name.
“Again, it’s standard,” Loretta says with pronounced impatience. “There’s nothing sinister about either document.”
Having no choice but to trust her, I lay the papers flat against my suitcase and, using a pen borrowed from Brad, sign on the dotted line. Without another word, I hand them back to Loretta.