Page 45 of Pretty Threats

After a beat, I remember I’m rich, too, now. I can buy Raine a machine that makes tea lattes as well as Espresso Yourself’s does. It’s not a film project, but along with the necklace, it’s a start.

Malenus drinks his coffee. “Everyone who works on this is going to sign a confidentiality agreement. It’s standard for me. I like to release details on my own timeline, not see them as a headline in Film Voice or Entertainment Now.” He drones on for another five minutes in between sips.

The cup Miller gives me has no fancy foam in it, which suits me. I drink my coffee black anyway. I gulp it down as Malenus stands.

When he leans over to talk to Raine, he says, “There is gonna be some content that’s tough, but Carpet was gritty, so I know you can handle it.”

My eyes narrow. Tough content, meaning what? Also, Raine, gritty? Since fucking when? The girl’s sunrise on a white sand beach. I need to watch her short film. She must have made it using GU’s equipment and stored it on its network because I never spotted raw footage or the final product on her devices.

“All right, Leighton, take us on a tour of the other floors,” Malenus says.

“Not the basement. That’s excluded from filming, remember?” Miller says tightly.

Malenus argues for access but finally relents when Miller gets testy. Apparently, in Miller’s mind, blue blood and a trust fund trump an Oscar nomination.

My gaze immediately locks onto the heavy wooden door that leads downstairs, wondering what the Lambda Deltas have to hide. At one point, this place housed a future sadistic killer. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a dungeon with bondage furniture, but it could just be an archaic meeting room where they do their hazing.

Once the basement question is settled, Miller takes us upstairs, saying he can only show unoccupied rooms. That’s gotta be most of them, not that I care. So far, Wilson’s the only Lambda target we’ve been assigned to kill. The rest of them are free to go on breathing.

The bedrooms are standard-looking and boring. Bed, dresser, lamp. Beige paint. The crown molding is the only thing that’s a nod to the house’s reputation for power and privilege.

We cross a large open area on the second floor that looks down on the great room and front entry. I run my hand over the smooth bannister, enjoying the vantage. I like heights.

When we reach the opposite end of the floor, there’s an old stairwell. Dark wood panel and the musty smell make it feel original to the house.

Wood steps creak underfoot as we descend. Framed photographs line the walls, and I’m two-thirds of the way down when I spot a familiar face.

I stop and study it. Dark brown hair that’s just starting to prematurely recede. Lips so thin they disappear when he smiles. He’s younger in the picture by six or seven years at least, but it’s him.

Fucking NightOn from the Side app.

20

RAINE

I’m excited as we walk back to the car, and Killian actually smiles a couple of times.

Smiles. It may seem like nothing to ninety-nine percent of the population, but smiling is a big deal from Killian Callahan.

Considering I’ll soon be working closely with another man, Killian’s seeming happy for me is surprising.

Once we’re in the car, he holds out his phone to show me a picture he took while we were in the house. It’s of one of the frat guys whose picture was on the wall of the stairs.

“Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Look closely. It’s an old picture.”

I study it for a moment then shake my head.

“Not associated with the theater where you worked on Cabaret?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“Maybe nothing. I’ll see.” He slides his phone away.

The drive to the waterfront is quiet. My curiosity about the picture quickly fades as I focus back on the opportunity of working with Owen Malenus.

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