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