Famous Last Words

  Reed thundered through the hall as I sprinted across the tile toward the gate down into the citrus orchard.

  While I ran, I tried letting out a blood-curdling scream — but screaming used up energy I needed to outrun someone who was stronger and faster than me.

  The shaky rock steps leading down to the first terrace wobbled beneath my feet, and I nearly lost my balance. The next terrace was a six-foot drop, so I ran along the edge, toward the stairs on the far side.

  I should have jumped.

  Reed did.

  By the time I got to the stairs, he was already down at my level, only a few yards away. His face and hair were bloody, his eyes lit up with fury.

  There wasn’t time to run.

  I had to stay and fight.

  I raised the towel bar and went to hit him with it again, but he caught my wrist in midair and wrenched my arm behind my back, yanking the towel bar away and tossing it down the hill.

  I tried to scream, but he pulled me back against his chest and clapped his hand over my mouth. A bitter, awful scent flooded my nostrils and burned my throat, and I realized he was holding a wet rag over the lower half of my face. I tried to fight him off, but already my arms and legs were quickly growing heavy. I ended up clawing weakly at his wrist with my free hand, drooping back toward him like a rag doll.

  He released my arm and then gently lowered me to the ground, the cloth still resting on my face.

  The worst part was that he didn’t even have to hold on to me — all I could do was lie there on the ground, inhaling pungent fumes. It was my last chance to fight, but I didn’t even have the strength to try.

  Behind the rag, I opened my mouth to try to shout, but the sound that escaped was like the mewl of a scared kitten.

  Reed leaned over me, a smile on his blood-spattered lips. “You’ve been a bad girl, Willa,” he whispered. “A very bad girl.”

  Then I closed my eyes.

  Drip … drip … drip …

  A headache drilled into my skull. My back felt tight, my stomach queasy, and my lungs like someone had gone over them with sandpaper.

  I couldn’t move.

  I opened my eyes.

  I was in the den, propped up in a chair that had been wrapped in a black plastic trash bag. The floor below me was covered with more trash bags. My hands were pulled behind me and taped together, and my legs were taped together at the ankle, and then taped to the crosswise supports of the chair.

  My head felt hot, and my scalp itched. Was I … was I wearing a wig?

  When I tried to call out, my voice was muffled. A piece of tape held my mouth closed. If I tried to move my lips, it pulled at my skin painfully.

  Someone was whistling.

  Reed came into the room. It took me a second to understand what I was seeing — he wore a tuxedo, and his face was clean, with no sign of any injury or blood.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” He leaned against the side of the bookshelves. “I thought I clocked that guy in the head with a piece of rusted metal. But making movies is all about the illusion, Willa. A little makeup goes a long way. Want to see?”

  No, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to see. But he disappeared and came back a moment later with a hand mirror.

  “For instance, look at yourself,” he said, coming closer. “You’re lovelier than ever. If I hadn’t left my phone at home — they can track your movements by your phone, you know — I’d take a picture.”

  I flinched and closed my eyes, but the foreign sensation of the wig on my head made me desperate to know what he’d done to me.

  When I saw my reflection, I gasped.

  The girl in the mirror had flawless wavy golden hair, a perfectly smooth ivory complexion, and sleepy eyes with thick lashes that looked about a half-inch long. I couldn’t tell you what her lips looked like, though, because there was a piece of blue masking tape over her mouth.

  “To be truthful, when I first met you …” He leaned down closer to me, his voice softening. “I didn’t picture you like this. I thought you were pretty, but not leading-lady pretty. No offense.”

  His words made me feel like throwing up. Even with my eyes shut, I could still hear his breathing — a relaxed in-out-in-out, only a foot away.

  “But then you changed. You got stronger. And then, after that picture of you surfaced on the Internet, I saw you as more than just a little girl. See, it’s about vision. Vision and keeping an open mind. Trusting your instincts. Attention to detail.”

  I sensed him moving behind me, but I couldn’t tell where he was. So when I felt him take hold of my wrists, I whimpered into the tape.

  “I’d like to cut you free, but I can’t trust you anymore, Willa. You really messed things up.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I chose yet another girl who decided to mess things up. The last time I tried this scene it went so badly I had to pull the plug.”

  I realized he was talking about Paige.

  “But don’t you worry — that’s not going to happen. You’re nothing like … that girl. We’ll get through this, and it’ll be wonderful — my best effort yet.” Knowing he was behind me sent a wave of terrified shivers down my entire back.

  I let my head fall until my chin touched my chest.

  “No!” he snapped. “No crying! You’ll wreck your eye makeup.”

  Being ordered not to cry by the serial killer who’s about to kill you isn’t all that effective. I felt the lump rise in my throat in spite of his warning.

  Reed grabbed my jaw and tilted my head back so I had no choice but to look up into his eyes. “I said no crying.”

  I blinked furiously, trying to suppress my tears.

  “Good,” he said. “Now you hang tight for a few minutes. I’m almost finished setting the scene. Then we’ll get you into your wardrobe and start rehearsals.”

  Left alone, I focused on trying to free my hands or legs. But Reed returned before I’d made any actual progress.

  “Time to go to set,” he said. “First you need to get into costume.”

  He held up a dress — the same cherry-red dress I had worn to the premiere.

  “Like it?” he asked. “I borrowed it from a mutual friend.”

  From Marnie … where is he keeping Marnie? My heart sank. Had he already killed her?

  “I’m going to cut your arms loose first, then your legs, and you’re going to change. Don’t worry, I won’t look. But don’t bother trying anything, understand?”

  I nodded. Where would I go, with my ankles still tied together?

  When I’d finished, he clucked approvingly and grabbed my wrists, quickly wrapping a zip tie around them. “It’s not the most accurate dress for the film,” he said, “but I rather like it on you. Sit, please.”

  I sat back down in the chair.

  He went around behind me, tilted the chair back, and then dragged it, the plastic wrap, and me toward the dining room, talking as he went. “It’s important to be flexible, Willa. To be willing to interpret things. What’s important is the big picture, not the petty details.”

  I stared at the table.

  It was set for a romantic dinner. A vase of roses was placed off to one side, and all the chairs had been removed except the ones on the opposite ends. There were white porcelain plates and ivory cloth napkins, gold flatware and crystal goblets filled with wine.

  Straight out of The Dinner Party.

  This was my scene.

  My death scene.

  Reed set my chair at one end of the table. On the plate in front of me were four pages from a screenplay, laid out side by side.

  “You’ll be playing Charice.” He tapped her name. “A beautiful but wicked young woman who enticed Henry into marriage and then proceeded to make him the most miserable man on the planet.”

  I couldn’t focus at all. The words on the pages might as well have been written in a foreign language.

  Reed crouched down next to me. “Willa. I’m going to take the tape off. But you have to promise me you won’t
scream.”

  I was desperate to be able to breathe through my mouth again … but I didn’t honestly know if that was a promise I could keep. It was like my whole life boiled down to a two-item to-do list: Try to get away and scream.

  But I nodded.

  “It wouldn’t do any good, anyway,” he said. “No one is going to save you. No one is going to find you — not until Jonathan and Joanna get home Monday. As soon as we finish up here, I’ll text Jonathan to tell him I’m on my way, drive the computer out to Palm Springs, and then come back to LA.” He raised his eyebrows playfully. “Gonna be a busy weekend for me. Would you believe I double-booked myself?”

  I breathed in sharply. So Marnie was still alive.

  And Reed was still planning to drive all the way to Palm Springs. He’d left his phone at home, so he didn’t know that Jonathan was actually planning to meet him halfway — my stepfather had probably texted him to suggest it. And if Jonathan didn’t get a text back from Reed, then there was a chance he would keep driving and make it all the way back to the house.

  And Reed had no idea.

  I felt a dim surge of hope.

  “Listen,” he went on. “I’m an artist. What I’m going for is the integrity of the scene. So I don’t want to have to force you to cooperate … but I will, if you make me. Do you understand? If I hurt you, it will be your fault. You’ll only have yourself to blame.”

  He reached up and gently peeled the tape off of my face. The feeling of being able to stretch my jaw and breathe through my mouth was an overwhelming relief. And somehow I managed to contain my screams. It wouldn’t do any good to make him angry now.

  “Let me touch up your makeup,” he said, retrieving a tackle box from the sideboard. With a practiced hand, he dabbed a wedge-shaped sponge in pancake foundation and spread it lightly over my chin and lips. Then he fluffed powder over my whole face. After that, he picked up a lip pencil. “Open your mouth a little.”

  I felt nauseated. I couldn’t believe we had kissed. That I had enjoyed his kisses. Now his gentle touch — as if he had the right to touch me at all — made me want to scrub my skin off.

  “Good girl.” He wiped at the lip liner with the side of his thumb. “Now pout.”

  I closed my eyes and puckered up. I could feel him apply the lipstick with short, dragging strokes.

  “Smudge your lips together,” he said.

  I obeyed.

  “All right, now we’re going to run lines. I’ll be playing Henry.” He set the makeup kit back on the sideboard.

  The sideboard.

  There are knives in the sideboard.

  Obviously, I couldn’t do a thing until he cut my hands free. And my legs. But he’d have to, eventually. When Charice died, she was walking away from the table. I couldn’t do that if I was bound to the chair.

  If I could get a knife …

  I would have only one chance. If I failed, he’d probably be so angry that he’d kill me before we finished the scene … like Paige? Is that what he’d done to Paige?

  I forced myself to stop stealing glances at the sideboard.

  Reed went around to the other side of the table and sat down, all business. “The thing to remember about this scene is that even though she married him for his money, she’s grown to love him, in her own way. But Henry’s feelings for her have vanished. At this point, he’s stringing her along — but Charice doesn’t know that. She thinks he still loves her. So there’s this pathetic element of hope in her performance.”

  I remembered Diana Del Mar’s shining, begging eyes from the footage I’d seen.

  “All right.” He cleared his throat, then picked up his wine glass and leaned toward me. “My dear, this is a night to celebrate our past.”

  In less than an instant, he’d morphed from a crazed, twitchy serial killer to a calm, suave guy. I stared in confusion.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Remembering myself, I looked down at the script. Then I looked back up. “I’m supposed to be pouring wine.”

  “That’s blocking,” he said impatiently. “That will come after we’re comfortable with the dialogue. You need to feel the scene before you try to act it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “My dear, this is a night to celebrate our past.”

  I forced myself to focus on the words. “And — and our future, I hope.”

  He chuckled softly and sat back. “I remember the night we met. In New York. You were leaving that nightclub….”

  “Chico’s,” I read.

  “You dropped your handbag, and by the time I picked it up, you were already in a taxi. My father told me to forget it — that there couldn’t be anything of value inside such a cheap, ugly little thing.”

  The conviction with which he said the lines made me feel like he was somehow talking about me — that I was the cheap, ugly little thing.

  “I remember.” My voice trembled and I fumbled the words as I read. “But my grandmother’s sapphire bracelet was in that bag.”

  “So I told the old man to go to Halifax, found your address, and hopped in a cab to follow you home.”

  “It’s a good thing you did, too,” I read. “Marge didn’t have the taxi fare.”

  “Madge.”

  That line wasn’t in the script. I looked up at him. “What?”

  “Not ‘Marge’ — Madge. Attention to detail, Willa.”

  “Right, right, sorry,” I said. “Um … Marge didn’t have the taxi fare.”

  “Madge, Willa.”

  I was trembling all over.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “Don’t you dare cry. It’s a five-letter word. Say it — Madge.”

  “Madge,” I whispered. “Madge didn’t have the taxi fare.”

  “Madge was never good for anything.” He picked up his wine glass and swirled it. “She was a hanger-on, a second-rate back-row chorus girl.”

  “We used to have fun, though. She was nice, in her own way.”

  “If I hadn’t shown up, you two would have spent the night in debtors’ prison.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “When I handed you your bag … the look in your eyes … I’d never seen anything like it. I’d never seen someone who looked so alive, from the inside out.”

  The script said, Charice smiles into her wine glass, pleased.

  I looked down at the table. No way was I going to be able to force a smile.

  Reed leaned forward, getting into the dialogue. “On our honeymoon, in Namur … those were the happiest days of my life. I felt that I’d plucked a jewel from the night sky, and there you were — all mine.”

  “I remember Namur,” I read. “The little boy who sold apples next to the hotel, and that old woman who kept offering to tell our fortunes.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I wonder what she would have seen. I wish I had known.”

  “You do?” He set his wine glass down. “I don’t. I’m glad I didn’t know. At least I had some happiness before I figured out who you really were — why you’d married me.”

  “Oh, no, Henry —”

  His voice sank to a growl. “Days of happiness — followed by years of misery. The peculiar misery of a man whose wife sees him as a sucker. Someone to steal from, lie to. A plain old mark to be cheated and cheated until he has nothing left to surrender.”

  “But that’s not true. I cared about you from the beginning. I loved you.”

  Reed closed his eyes. A small, rueful smile came over his lips. “You may love me now, Charice, but I’m afraid you never did back then. If you had … why, life would have been so beautiful. Such a dream.”

  “It can be one now,” I said. “The way I feel about you now …”

  He looked up at me, and I met his eyes. I didn’t need the script. I knew this line by heart.

  “This is the kind of dream you don’t wake up from, Henry.”

  There was a long, heavy pause.

  “Maybe for you it is, my darling. Maybe for yo
u.”

  The script said, Charice hears everything that’s missing from his voice — mercy, hope, and most of all, love. She fights to keep tears from her eyes.

  The next line was Reed’s. “I suppose we oughtn’t to continue this charade any longer. I’ve lost my appetite anyway.”

  “Please stay, Henry. Please let’s give it another try. I’m so different now. We’re both so different.”

  “No, my dear. It’s no good trying to keep a thing alive once it’s gone. One last toast? Raise your glass to what we might have been. In another world, another life.”

  Reed raised his glass.

  “It says I raise mine,” I said. “But I can’t.”

  “No, of course not,” he said, snapping out of character. “We’ll get to that after we run the lines a few more times. All in all, I’d say you did okay. I think we can work together and get a performance to be proud of.”

  Charice raising her wine glass was the last thing on the page — on any of the pages I had.

  The footage flickered in my memory — Diana standing and turning away from the table, her wine glass slipping from her hand, her slow descent to the floor as she realized what was happening. She had tried to grab hold of a little table. There was no little table in this room. So what if I tried to grab hold of the sideboard instead? What if I could reach the knife?

  But what if we were only going to run that part of the scene once — and what if the poison Reed used to kill his victims was already in my body at that point?

  Something inside me turned to stone.

  If I had to die, at least I could try to take Reed out with me.

  “So what did Paige do wrong?” I asked.

  Reed snapped to attention. “What do you know about Paige?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Paige Pollan could have been a great actress.” He practically spat the words out. “But she couldn’t take direction.”

  “So what did you do to her?” I swallowed hard. “She never finished the scene. You … you drowned her, didn’t you?”

  Reed’s stare was perfectly emotionless. “She deserved it.”

  “You did it here?” A horrible thought occurred to me. “Did you bring them all here?”