CHAPTER ONE
Chastity Ronin settled in on the couch.
She had her popcorn, her white wine, and her remote control. She hit play and pulled the blanket up to her chest as the opening theme to her favorite show started.
The lights were dimmed in the den and it was pitch-black outside, perfect for watching a light sitcom and forgetting about her boyfriend, Brad, who had never called her back about tonight. At thirty-four years old, Chastity thought she’d finally hit the jackpot after years of cycling through a collection of losers, deadbeats, psychos, and, in a couple of cases, unfortunate murder victims.
But now it looked like Brad had turned out to be just another flake, bailing on their evening without even calling. Whatever. Chastity had been through far worse in her life than another lame boyfriend.
She was just getting into the show when her phone rang. It was Brad. Part of her wanted to send it straight to voicemail but she decided to give the guy one last chance.
“This better be good,” she said curtly after picking up. For several seconds there was no response, only what sounded like soft wheezing.
“Brad? Is that you?”
“Get out,” a raspy voice said.
“What?” she demanded, getting annoyed.
“Get out of the house.” It was Brad, though his voice sounded weak, faltering. “He’s inside.”
Suddenly there was a soft banging sound over the phone that she heard in the hallway too. She got up and moved in its direction.
“Brad,” she said quietly. “Stop messing with me. You know what I’ve been through. This isn’t funny.”
“Hurry,” Brad moaned softly. “He’s close.”
Chastity stood in front of her hall closet. She could hear the same voice on the phone coming from behind that door. Without pausing to think too much, she yanked the door open, but found only coats. She was about to close it when she noticed movement near the floor.
Two loafered feet stuck out below the coats, flailing limply. The shoes rattling against the flimsy closet door must have been the banging sound she’d heard. She moved the hangers with the jackets to the sides. On the floor in front of her, sitting against the back wall of the closet with a knife protruding from his stomach and blood bubbling on his lips, was Brad.
“Run,” he groaned one last time before his eyes went blank and his head slumped forward onto his chest.
It’s happening again.
Chastity fought back the urge to scream. If the person who did this was in the house, she needed to get out quickly and quietly. She’d been in situations like this before and knew that panicking was the worst thing she could do.
Instead, she grabbed the first weapon she saw, an umbrella from the closet, and made her way down the hall toward the front door. Then she stopped in her tracks.
That’s what he’s expecting.
Quickly she turned and headed back to the den, ignoring the TV as she hurried over to the sliding glass door leading to her backyard. She was just steps from flipping the latch when she sensed that she was not alone in the room. She turned around.
Standing in the hallway, staring at her with cold, dark eyes through the eyeholes of a black ski mask, was the Marauder. She thought she was finally free of the horrors he’d inflicted on her. But she was wrong. He was back.
Chastity turned and lunged for the sliding door lock, flipping it and yanking the door open. She was almost outside when he was on her, turning her around to face him, his hands clutching her throat, squeezing, draining the life from her.
“Dammit, Terry,” she shouted, exasperated. “How many times do I have to tell you to be more gentle? I bruise easily. Can’t you just fake choking me? It’s called acting, dumbass.”
“Cut!” yelled a voice from across the room.
The director sighed heavily. Anton Zyskowski was a forty-something man from Poland who was directing his first English-language picture after moderate success with several Polish thrillers. He was smallish, with wispy hair and an unassuming demeanor. As he walked over to her, Corinne Weatherly smiled nastily.
After all, part of the reason Anton had been selected to direct the film in the first place was that, as a relative newcomer to the Hollywood studio system, he was at a disadvantage when it came to these points of contention. As the star of Marauder: Rebirth, and the woman who had originally brought Chastity Ronin to life, Corinne could make his life very difficult if she chose to. And she had chosen to.
“Anton,” she hissed when he came over. “What the hell? Do I really have to put up with this idiot? That’s the third take this guy has ruined by manhandling me. I mean, can’t we have any muscular goober play this role? It’s not like you see his face.”
“Corinne,” Anton said diffidently in slightly broken English, “you know Terry is important for scenes without mask before Chastity knows he is killer. We must have a strong performer. It will not be able to believe if the killer in mask is another actor. Audience will know. But I will remind him to be soft on the neck.”
Corinne was unmoved.
“How many times does the dolt have to be reminded?” she demanded. “I swear I’m surrounded by morons. I thought you were supposed to be the Polish Ari Aster.”
She could see crew members shaking their heads out of the corner of her eye. Behind her, someone grumbled, barely intelligibly.
“At this rate we’re gonna have another Olivet-style breakdown.”
She spun around, ready to give the rumor-monger a tongue-lashing too. But before she could identify the culprit, Anton stepped forward.
“Corinne, please…” he began.
“Please, nothing,” she cut him off. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to my trailer to decompress. You find someone other than Terry Slauson to choke me without leaving permanent contusions on my trachea. And if you can’t do that tonight, then we’ll just have to pick the shoot back up tomorrow. It’s getting late anyway. And while you’re at it, maybe you can tell your crew to keep their sneering and grumbles to themselves until I leave the set. I may be a bitch, Anton. But I’m the bitch in charge. Don’t you forget that.”
She stormed off the soundstage, her assistant, Monica, scurrying to keep up. Corinne looked back at her derisively.
“Maybe you should work out a little more, Monica,” she chided. “Then you wouldn’t be huffing and puffing so much. Plus, you could fit into those slacks better. You look like you’re hiding a loaf of bread under that waistband.”
Monica said nothing, which made Corinne happy. The girl was dumpy but she was a fast learner who was picking up the most important lessons: Do as you’re told. Keep your mouth shut.
They reached Corinne’s Star Waggon trailer just behind soundstage 32, next to the New York back lot at Sovereign Studios. Corinne opened the door, stepped up, and looked back at Monica, holding up her hand to deny her entry.
“You tell Anton that he’s got ten minutes to find a new Marauder for the scene. After that, I’m going home.”
“But Ms. Weatherly,” Monica pleaded.
“The clock is ticking,” Corinne said, holding up her phone before slamming the door in the simpleton’s face.
She moved over to the makeup chair, sat down, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her dyed blonde hair looked brittle. In the harsh light, all the lines she’d tried so desperately to hide seemed to glow. Her body was still tight, but it was getting harder to keep it that way. For half a decade now, she’d fought the urge to get work done. No matter how good the surgeon might be, when a face was plastered on a multi-story movie screen, she could almost always tell who was getting a little extra help. But the time might have finally come.