Page 59 of Romance Is Dead

Teddy stared at me blankly. “You just told me he might literally be the one who sent you death threats and killed Trevor. You’re not talking to him alone.” His voice was firm. “And I also think it’s time we called the police.”

“Police, fine, but I at least want to be there when you talk to Brent.”

“Oh, come on.” Teddy rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I just want to make sure we’re asking him the right questions!”

“You know, you need to trust people more.”

“What?” The accusation took me aback. I trusted people just fine. When they gave me a reason.

“You asked me to join this investigation so I could help, but this whole time, you’ve barely given yourself a break.” He softened, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re exhausted, not to mention in real danger. I’m going to talk to Brent. I can let you know what I learn.”

Despite myself, I leaned into his touch. His hand hovered on my cheek and I savored the feeling, my body loosening and relaxing as I took a deep breath.

“I. . . Fine.” Pulling away, I checked the time on my phone. “Look, I need to get to hair and makeup. You can talk to Brent as long as I can be there when you talk to the police.”

“Of course.”

“Now let’s get out of here—my knee is cramping.”

Pouring out of the closet, some of my panic started to ebb. We had a plan, and hopefully getting the police on board would help. And even if I preferred to talk to Brent myself, I had to grudgingly admit that Teddy would probably do just fine.

“We got this, I promise,” Teddy whispered, squeezing my elbow before he disappeared down the stairs. His breath in my ear sent tingles down my spine. I watched him walk away, trying to remember why I’d stopped the kiss in the closet, and imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t.

“Can someone tell me,” Natasha said, slowly rising from her place behind the camera, “if I look like someone’s genitals?”

No one moved.

We were in the middle of shooting a scene in which the witch’s spirit is lurking in the background—creepy and dread-inducing like those scenes inHalloweenwhen Mike Myers is standing in the bushes in the middle of the day.

We’d gone through several takes, and then several more, botching them all. No, we hadn’t botched them. Brent had. Something was wrong with him—he looked haggard, even more than when I’d seen him just a few hours earlier. He’d had a hard time focusing, screwing up his blocking and not listening to Natasha’s directions. And between takes, he’d started hitting on Audrey, even though she was clearly uninterested. It was worse than when he’d screwed up the scene in the boathouse.

Meanwhile, I was struggling not to have a tantrum of my own.

Every second on set was excruciating. I kept analyzing everyone’s face, wondering if they’d been the one to slip the envelope under my door. Brent or Chloe? Natasha or Audrey? Or maybe a member of the crew, whose name I didn’t even know? It felt like Teddy and I were on the cusp of uncovering the truth, but it was possible we were nowhere close. I wanted, needed, this scene to be over as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, Brent seemed bound and determined to drag it out as long as possible.

Natasha stared at us expectantly, and when no one replied, Chloe stepped up. “Um, no?”

“Then why are you all fucking me on this!” Natasha ripped off her beanie and threw it to the ground, her short blonde hair sticking up in clumpy spikes. She marched toward Brent, one long finger pointing straight at his chest.

“You.” She stopped a few feet away from him, her outreached arm shaking. “You need to get your shit together. What did I tell you?”

I prayed Brent would listen and not continue to try Natasha’s patience. But to my horror, Brent laughed. And shrugged his shoulders. And rolled his eyes. I swore smoke eked out of Natasha’s ears. If we’d been inCarrie, Natasha would have been Sissy Spacek and Brent would have been the dude she electrocuted with her mind.

Instead, Natasha did the opposite. She became eerily, scarily calm. Closing the gap between them, she stepped forward and pressed a sharp fingertip into Brent’s chest.

“Get off my set.” Her voice was so low I could barely make it out.

Brent kept smirking. “What, are you firing me?”

“We’re breaking for lunch, and when we get back, I’m giving you one more chance. If you fuck up again, you’re done.” Then she stormed off the set.

No one moved. Even Brent, seemingly taken off guard, was quiet. But a moment later, the spell lifted and he shrugged his shoulders yet again, like he was trying to shrug off the entire encounter.

“Good. I can’t stand being in this freak show house, anyway.” Holding up both middle fingers and waving them to the rest of the cast, he left, hopping into one of the golf carts and waiting with his arms crossed for one of the PAs to escort him to base camp.

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