Page 81 of Romance Is Dead

My dreams that night were full of shadows.

I was on set in the house, except I was alone. I moved from one room to another, each one filled with more fantastical set dressings than the one before. The dining room was made to look like a vintage circus, the second-floor bedroom set to resemble a Victorian greenhouse. I was alone, except for the creeping presence of something that hid in the dark corners. Something I couldn’t see but that I was certain was coming after me. After blood.

My blood.

Waking with a start, it took me a minute to calm my racing heart. It had felt so real, like something had actually been after me. And then I realized with a start that it was true. A person who’d already proved capable of murder was after me.

I glanced at the time on my phone—time to get up. Chloe and I had made plans to grab coffee before she checked out of the hotel and headed to the airport. And considering her last day on set had included her being berated by the director and attacked by another cast mate, I doubted she wanted to stick around longer than she had to.

After quickly pulling on leggings and a sweatshirt with Candyman on it, I brushed my teeth and slipped out of my room. Starting down the hall, I heard the crying as soon as I rounded the corner. It was soft but unmistakable—and coming from Chloe’s room.

Carefully, I pushed open the door and peered inside. Chloe sat on the bed, knees pulled to her chest as she cried into her arms. An open suitcase lay next to her, like she’d been in the process of filling it before collapsing into tears. Her makeup smeared and hair pulled up in a messy bun, she jumped when she noticed me.

“Oh!” She wiped her eyes. “I didn’t know you were here already.”

“Are you ok?” Mentally, I kicked myself. Of course she wasn’t.

“Sorry, I was getting ready for our coffee date and it suddenly all hit me. This just wasn’t how I pictured this movie going.”

I laughed humorlessly. “Me either. Murder mysteries are supposed to stay in the script, not jump into real life.”

“It’s not just that.” Chloe rubbed her eyes, smearing tears across her cheek. “This was supposed to be my big break and I did a shit job.”

“What are you talking about? You absolutely didn’t.” I was being honest. Even before our scene together in the library, I’d been impressed by her acting chops.

“Natasha reamed me out yesterday.”

I rolled my eyes. “Natasha reams everyone out. I think you did a great job. Yesterday and all the days.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “It’s not you. I know Natasha and I’ve never seen her act like this. I mean, did you hear how she went after Brent?”

At the mention of our former cast mate, Chloe burst into fresh tears. She was full-on wailing now, burying her head in her arms and heaving with sobs. It took me off guard. Brent’s death had shaken me, too, but I wasn’t about to cry over it.

“I didn’t know you and Brent were so close.”

Chloe lifted her head. “Well, according to him we weren’t.”

“What does that mean?”

She hesitated, hiccupping as she tried to slow her crying.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me,” I hurried to add.

Chloe took a deep, shaky breath. “I did something stupid. Really stupid.”

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” she continued, “but. . . Brent and I were sleeping together.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage. “Since when?”

“The first night. On set, too, up in the attic.” She laughed. “I know what you’re thinking: wow, she moves fast.”

“I didn’t think that.”

Instead, I was thinking that now we knew exactly why we’d found Brent’s sweatshirt up there. That must explain why he had lied about being in the house that night—because he didn’t want people knowing about him and Chloe.

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