Page 100 of Romance Is Dead

Wordlessly, I shook my head.

“Good lord, I hope not. Listen, I meant what I said about being proud of your work. But I don’t love you because you’re a horror actress. I love you because you’re you. Nothing could ever change that. And hey. . .” He elbowed me gently on the arm. “If you quit, that’s just another thing we have in common.”

Tears burned my eyes, threatening to spill over. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not acting.”

“I know. But I also know you’ll figure it out.” My dad reached out to squeeze my hand. “And I know whatever it is, you’ll be great at it.”

Grateful, I squeezed his hand back. We once again lapsed into silence, crickets starting to wake up and chirp in the trees around us. Mentally, I chided myself for waiting so long to tell my dad. Of course it had gone fine. Just like Teddy had said it would. My heart squeezed, wishing I could reach out and tell him. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Innumerable moments that I wanted to share with him but couldn’t?

“Oh!” My dad stood suddenly. “I have something for you. Let me go get it.” He retreated into the cabin, leaving me thoroughly confused. Moments later he reappeared, carrying what looked like a picture frame.

“I found this a couple months ago while going through some things in storage.” He handed me the frame, which was heavier than I expected. “Been waiting for the right time to give it to you. Now feels right. A nice bookend, if you will.”

Wiping the dust off the glass, it took me a moment to place where it had come from. It was a group photo of people I didn’t recognize, and judging from some of the fashions, it seemed to be from some time in the nineties. Why we ever thought neon color blocking was a good idea, I’ll never know.

Then it came to me: it was a cast photo from my very first movie, the one I’d been in with my dad when I was eight. The director had gathered the entire cast together on the very last day.

“Oh my gosh,” I gasped. “I totally forgot about this.”

As I scanned the faces, I remembered the first note I’d received after Trevor’s death:

Back in your very first role,

Did you know this would be the toll?

My first movie. . . Everyone was right here in this photo. Pulse quickening, I started examining the faces closer, jumping from one to the next in search of one I recognized. Was the answer right in front of me? I found little me, grinning with my dishwater blonde hair pulled into pigtails. And there, right next to me, was a very familiar face.

I was staring at the killer we’d been looking for.

“Squish? Are you ok?”

Frozen, I couldn’t reply. My heart raced as I tried to catch up with this new information. Should I call them to confront them? Go back to the hotel and look for them? Call the police?

Call the police. Yes. That’s what I needed to do.

Pulling out my phone, I was ready to make the call when I noticed I had a text. It was from Teddy. Heart jumping into my throat, I clicked it open:

Teddy: You have until midnight to get to set. If you call the cops, he’s dead.

Below it, there was a photo. It was Teddy, tied to a chair with his wrists and ankles bound. I squinted, trying to make sense of it. The chair was on a dusty floor, and a pile of junk was behind it. Was this a joke? But then I noticed his eyes, wide and scared.

Not a joke.

I needed a new plan. Calling the cops was out the window—there was no way I was going to risk it. I needed to get to set. Now.

Chapter Thirty-three

“You’ve got a lot of ’splaining to do.” Mara climbed into my car, raising an eyebrow as she pulled on her seatbelt. “Starting with where we’re going and followed by why you’ve been lying to me for weeks.”

I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, swallowing. “I know. I’m so sorry. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, let’s get going. You can tell me as we drive.”

As I pulled out of the hotel parking lot and headed to set, I did.

“Ok, so, after Trevor died, I was pretty sure his death was actually a murder, so I convinced Teddy to help me figure out who killed him. We thought it was Brent, but then he was murdered too, and then I started getting notes from the killer—”

Mara’s mouth gaped as she took in these revelations. “You what? What kind of notes?”

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