It would depend a lot on this film. If it did well, she could hold off a few more years on going under the knife. If it tanked, there was some nipping and tucking in her near future. These sorts of concerns never entered her head back when she was the hot new Hollywood ingénue.
After breaking out over a decade ago with the romantic comedy Petals and Petulance, she’d landed the coveted lead in Marauder, the high-brow, psycho-sexual horror thriller. Her character, Chastity Ronin, was technically a victim, but she was also a badass who ultimately turned the tables on her murderous stalker.
The film was a financial and critical hit and, on the heels of Petals and Petulance, it established her as a real up-and-comer. Unfortunately, the sequel tanked. In the eleven years since, the film roles had gotten less glamorous until they dried up completely. She’d recently been reduced to hosting a prime time game show involving marginally talented children she had to pretend to find adorable.
But then she’d found that elusive golden nugget, admittedly with some assistance and well-placed pressure. The Marauder franchise was being rebooted and a lauded horror helmer from Europe, Zyskowski, had been assigned to direct a film that matched the spirit of the fairly sophisticated original. And Corinne was being brought back to play Chastity. It was juicy stuff, the sort of role that could put her back on the map if it all came together just right.
But people like Terry Slauson were screwing it up. With incompetents around her and a script she was coming to realize didn’t pack the punch she first thought it did, the movie no longer seemed like a home run. And though she liked having control, she was starting to wonder if insisting the studio hire a director she could push around was a mistake. If this didn’t pan out, then she’d be reduced to doing Sharknado-style TV movies.
Maybe I should have let them pick someone with the will to match his vision.
Her moment of introspection was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” she bellowed.
“Monica,” came the timid response.
That girl needs to find a backbone.
She got up and opened the trailer door.
“What is it?”
The girl looked like she was about to cry.
“Anton says we’re wrapping for the night. When he told Terry he wouldn’t be finishing the scene, he walked off the set. I heard him say something about filing a grievance as he left.”
“Let him,” Corinne countered. “And I’ll file a grievance about him manhandling me.”
Monica nodded meekly, clearly not wanting to argue.
“Anton says that we can’t move forward until the producers resolve it…”
“I am a producer,” Corinne shot back.
“I think he meant the studio’s producers, the money guys. Regardless, he said we’re done for the night. Your call time tomorrow is nine a.m. He hopes to have everything squared away by then.”
“Fine. I need to get a decent night of sleep anyway.”
Monica nodded. She clearly wanted to say something else but was afraid to.
“Spit it out,” Corinne said irritably.
“It’s just…do you need anything else from me tonight, Ms. Weatherly? I was hoping to get to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. They close in twenty minutes.”
Corinne fought the urge to make a snarky comment about the potential nature of the medication. Looking down, she saw that the girl was shaking slightly, apparently terrified. For the briefest of moments, Corinne felt guilty. She wanted Monica to be compliant but causing the kid to quiver with fear made her wonder if she’d gone a little too far.
“Go ahead,” she said, trying not to sound too sympathetic. “But I expect you to be here before me tomorrow, with my iced coffee. You know how I like it by now, right?”
“I have the order prefilled on the app,” Monica assured her.
“Good. Nice to see you’re learning.” She shut the door again before Monica could respond.
Sighing heavily, she made a quick bathroom pit stop, and then collected her things from the bed at the far end of the trailer.
She realized she should have told Monica to bring her car over from the parking garage. It was a five-minute walk across the lot to get there. She considered calling her back but decided to give her a pass, what with the medication thing. She didn’t want the girl to collapse from whatever pathetic ailment she had and then have the tabloids blame it on her.
She turned off the main light and moved to turn off the one for the makeup mirror. That’s when she saw it. Written on the mirror in neat, block letters with what looked like her own red lipstick was a word—a name actually. She recognized it immediately, of course. How could she not? She’d thought about this person every day for the last decade. But she had no idea how it had gotten there. The mirror had been clean when she was staring at her wrinkles earlier.
She glanced around, confused. And then in the shadows behind her, she saw movement, someone coming toward her with a cord extended. Before she could turn around or react, she felt the cord wrap around her neck and tighten. In the makeup mirror, she could see that her assailant was wearing a black ski mask, exactly like the one the Marauder wore in the scene she’d just shot.
She struggled to break free but that only seemed to make the cord constrict more. She tried to gasp for air but nothing came in. As she began to sink to the ground, her heart pounding with fear, her brain exploding with panic, she had a weird, unexpected thought: Compared to this, Terry Slauson’s fumbling attempt to wring her neck seemed almost tender.
She was dead before she had a chance to appreciate the irony.
CHAPTER TWO
Jessie Hunt hit snooze on her phone and lay quietly in bed with her eyes closed, hoping to drift back to sleep. After all, she didn’t have anywhere she had to be.
But it was no use. Her mind was already racing, despite her best efforts to slow it down. It was Monday morning. This was supposed to be a relaxing day, or at least as relaxing as she was capable of having these days. There was no job to go to. She didn’t have to rush Hannah off to school. With one exception, her schedule was whatever she wanted it to be. And yet, the gnawing sense that she had work to do ate at her. She sat up.
The action sent a wave of discomfort rippling through her body. Her bad shoulder ached, probably from inadvertently sleeping on it. And the still-raw skin on her lower back felt weird and tight, like an itch she knew she couldn’t scratch.
Looking across the small bedroom at the other bed, she saw that Hannah Dorsey, the half-sister for whom she was the full-time guardian, was still asleep, snoring softly. Jessie got up and tiptoed outside and down the hall to the bathroom. She saw that the other bedroom door was closed, which meant that Kat was either still asleep or, more likely, getting dressed for her day. Either way, it meant the bathroom was free.
Katherine “Kat” Gentry, Jessie’s best friend, was letting her and Hannah stay at her place until they found a new one. Jessie couldn’t bear the thought of living in her condo anymore. Too many awful things had happened there.
She had promised Kat that they’d be out in a month and though it had only been two weeks since they moved in, she was feeling the pressure. Part of that was because she felt bad that Kat couldn’t comfortably have her boyfriend over, a Lake Arrowhead sheriff’s deputy named Mitch Connor. They usually only got to see each other on weekends as it was. Even that was on hold for now.