Page 26 of Romance Is Dead

“He ended up getting fired halfway through filming. Never forgave me, though, for turning him in to production. Best to just avoid him, if I were you.”

My stomach sank, a dark picture of what could have happened to Trevor forming in my mind. “Got it. I will.”

I hated lying to my dad.

Thankfully, there was no more talk of my career as we decimated the spaghetti and a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream for dessert. Daffy even woke up in time for me to make her a special dessert of strawberries and the tiniest squirt of whipped cream. It made her like me for a whole forty-seven seconds. The sky had darkened by the time I put on my shoes to leave, and my dad walked me to my car even though it was a mere ten feet from the house.

He leaned through the open window of the passenger side door. “Thanks for visiting, Squish. It’s always good to see you.”

“Of course. It was good seeing you, too.”

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

“And listen. . .”

I tensed, knowing where this was going.

“Will you at least think about calling my buddy? Just to chat?”

I sighed. “Sure, Dad. I will.”

But as I backed out of the driveway and took off down the road, getting in touch with my dad’s friend was the last thing on my mind. Dots were starting to connect, and I was convinced I’d found our first lead.

Scott had a motive, and apparently a history of lashing out when people damaged his props. And now, we had photographic evidence that he was near Trevor shortly before his death. Did Trevor go to apologize, but Scott snapped and hurt him? Or could Scott have planned the entire thing—rolling back the fencing before following Trevor and pushing him into the ditch? He could have even moved some rocks, making sure Trevor didn’t have a safe landing.

Either way, I would have to forget whatever happened between me and Teddy while rehearsing the lap dance scene. We needed to regroup, and then Teddy and I needed to talk to Scott.

Chapter Ten

“Well, that can’t be good.”

The next morning, Brent and I were standing in the foyer of the house, fresh out of hair and makeup. It was early, the sun just creeping through the windows and suffusing the set with a warm glow. Scott and the rest of the props crew were bustling around, prepping for the day’s shoot. And in the dining room to our right, a clean-up crew was scrubbing at the wall where someone had spray-painted graffiti overnight.

“Quick, what are the odds Natasha’s already found some poor PA to fire?” Brent smirked, his black leather jacket and dark jeans a sharp contrast to his usual tees and athletic shorts.

Despite believing this was a very real possibility, I laughed. The odds game was a relic from a bad vampire movie Brent and I had starred in together two years ago, a way for us to kill time on long days of shooting. We bet on everything from how many takes our hungover co-stars would blow to how many times our fake fangs would fall out over the course of a day.

Brent usually won because he’d actually taken a statistics class in college while my guesses were based purely on vibes.

“I’d say. . . ninety-two percent,” I wagered. “It’s only day four and we’re already dealing with the death of a crew member and vandalism? Please. She’d need to blow steam somehow.”

“Ninety-two? This is a serious game, Quinn. I give it a solid twenty-three percent chance. Not impossible, but unlikely since Trevor dipped and we’re already down one.”

“Dipped? He didn’t leave—he died!”

“Well, he definitely left this life.”

“That’s awful.” I shoved his shoulder as he winked mischievously.

Things hadn’t always been this cordial between me and Brent. We first met nearly ten years ago, both of us freshly in our twenties and starring in the same zombie movie. What started as on-set flirtation quickly led to late-night hookups. It ended how you’d expect: with Brent hitting on one of the extras and me getting unreasonably jealous.

I may have stolen his guitar and smashed it in front of the entire cast and crew.

All of this made it incredibly awkward when we found ourselves working together again a few years ago. Thankfully, we’d both gained a little more maturity by then, even if he’d needed it more than me. The odds game became a way for us to co-exist without expressing blatant contempt for each other. And eventually, with something resembling friendship.

Chloe and Audrey filed in behind us, the two of them letting out identical gasps when they spotted the mess in the dining room.

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