Page 15 of Romance Is Dead

It takes a lot to shake me up.

Maybe growing up with a constant reel of horror movies playing in the background had desensitized me. The kind of things that happened in the movies just didn’t happen in real life—there was no evil clown waiting to lure you into that nearby storm drain. No matter how wild your little niece or nephew acted while you were on babysitting duty, they were almost certainly not the actual spawn of Satan.

And during my two decades in Hollywood, it became clear that you’re much more likely to be hurt by someone close to you than a man who hunts you in your dreams. See also: the guy who dumped me as soon as our relationship made him famous enough to snag a role in the latest superhero movie, or the “friend” who swore she wouldn’t audition for a part I particularly coveted but then did anyway. And got it.

I’d take Freddy any day over that kind of pain.

The point is, I wasn’t the anxious type. But that scene Chloe had reminded me we’d be filming the next day? Her character is pushed off a balcony by the ghost of the witch, and even though Chloe’s character survives with a minor knock to the head, it was eerily similar to Trevor’s so-called accident. Maybe too similar.

After fleeing the lunch tent, I’d returned to the spot where we’d found Trevor. Just like I’d remembered, a swathe of the bright orange temporary fencing that ran along the ditch had collapsed where Trevor had tumbled in. But it wasn’t torn, like Trevor had broken through when he accidentally ran into it, and it wasn’t lying flat, like the wind had ripped it from its proper place. Instead, it had been cut, neatly rolled up, and set to the side. Like it had been intentionally removed.

Hours later, once filming had wrapped for the day and I was back at the hotel, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“What do you think, Jacques?” I asked my stuffed crow, who stared at me balefully from my hotel room desk. A prop I’d salvaged from one of my movies, he was a real taxidermized bird that a crew member had found at a flea market. One of its legs pulled away to reveal a switchblade, and I always brought him to a new set for good luck. It didn’t seem to be working this time. “Would someone want to hurt Trevor?”

Unsurprisingly, Jacques didn’t answer.

Still, the question remained. It was entirely possible that his death had been an accident. Trevor had seemed like the sweetest, albeit clumsiest, cinnamon roll the few hours I’d known him. Although, I supposed, that was the thing—I didn’t really know Trevor, did I? It seemed like a little too much of a coincidence that Trevor would meet his demise in an accident so eerily similar to one of the earliest scenes in the movie, and that’d he’d just so happen to fall into a ditch at the precise spot the fencing had been removed.

I joined Jacques at my desk and opened my laptop. It was time for some good old-fashioned Internet stalking.

Facebook ended up being a bust. Trevor’s profile was private—the only thing visible was a photo with two people who looked like they might be his parents. He wasn’t on TikTok, and even though he had a Twitter account, his most recent post was from three years ago—a retweet of Quentin Tarantino saying he wished he’d been the one to write and directLove Actually. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a parody account.

Finally, I hit the jackpot when I pulled up Trevor’s Instagram. His feed was full of photos of himself with celebs and crew members on previous film sets, the most recent posted just yesterday. It was a selfie in front of the set house, the camera angled to fit as much of the mansion in the frame as possible. It was posted at 7:36 p.m., just hours before we found his body.

I studied it closer, desperate for a clue. Trevor’s face offered no insight—his eyes looked tired after a long day of shooting, but he was still wearing a big smile. He’d taken the photo alone, no one else in the frame. There was no sign at all that everything was about to go terribly wrong. But then I noticed the background. Behind Trevor, you could just make out the end of the props trailer, the end of it jutting into view.

Next to it, just poking into the frame, was a face.

I stood up from the desk, my heart pounding in my ears. It was like the face had appeared out of nowhere, even though clearly it had been there all along. I peered closer, trying to make out who it was. The face was small, and when I zoomed in, the resolution was grainy. All I could tell was that it was a man, glaring in Trevor’s direction.

My stomach chilled. Who was it, and why did he look so angry at Trevor?

Antsy, I jumped to my feet. If his socials were anything to go by, all poor Trevor had wanted was to be a small part of making movies alongside his heroes. And the industry had chewed him up and spat him into a ditch. Whoever was responsible, I wasn’t going to let them get away with it. And there was one person who could help me. Before I could talk myself out of it, I stormed out of my room, walked quickly down the hall, and rapped on the last door on the left.

A moment later, the handle rattled and the door flew open.

“Hey, it’s Jigsaw.” Teddy stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his hips and an amused expression. I’d already seen him half-naked, but seeing his chiseled chest and perfectly sculpted shoulders again in person made me irritated with just how familiar I was becoming with his naked form.

I pushed the thoughts from my mind. “I need to talk to you. I think Trevor was murdered.” I whispered the last word, holding up my hand to shield it from anyone that might be passing by.

“What”—Teddy cocked an eyebrow—“the hell are you talking about?”

“I found something.” I pulled out my phone, ready to show him the Instagram photo, but my anxious jitters sent the device flying out my hand instead. It landed unceremoniously at Teddy’s feet.

“I got it.” Teddy squatted down, his towel creeping up his thighs, threatening to expose what that banana hammock on his reality show had barely been able to conceal. As he went, the towel kept inching higher, like a curtain rising at the beginning of a very X-rated show.

I reached out an arm, unable to bear the thought of being caught staring at both his nipple and lower appendage within the same twenty-four hours. “Wait!”

But a moment later, the towel parted to reveal. . . a pair of swim trunks. Of course. The towel, the wet hair. He’d probably just gotten back from the pool. My anxiety was turning me into a sex pervert. Why couldn’t I stop embarrassing myself in front of him?

I knew why, of course. The swimsuit, the water running down his pecs. It all reminded me of the night we’d met. When both of us had been wet and nearly naked, and his lips were very much all over me.

Back in July, Mara had dragged me to the wrap party for a film she had just finished working on. Unfortunately, her ex, Austin—who had unceremoniously dumped her very recently—was also going to be there, so Mara made me tag along for emotional backup.

It was a swanky, ritzy affair—filled with stuffy, pretentious industry types. And I did not want to be there any more than Mara did.

Mere weeks after my movie had flopped and my agent had dumped me, I was facing the task of finding new representation. I knew I should be networking and setting up meetings, but I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. Did I really want to convince someone to represent me just so I could continue taking the same old roles in the same old movies? So I could keep meeting people that would eventually let me down or betray me? So tabloids would continue to invade my privacy and spread lies about me?

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