Page 99 of Romance Is Dead

I’d failed them, even worse than I’d failed myself.

Trying to distract myself from yet another post-mortem of my entanglement with Teddy, I ran my mind down our list of suspects for the last time as I picked my way along the rocky path.

Scott and Natasha were out—they both had alibis for the night of Trevor’s murder. It was obvious Natasha had been annoyed with Brent, to put it mildly, but if she was already stressed about the production being slowed down, it wouldn’t make sense for her to kill him and make it worse.

Chloe certainly would have had motive to kill Brent after the way he had treated her. I was living it right now, the rage and despair that came with a man betraying you when you thought he cared about you. But why would she want to hurt Trevor? And she was already gone by the time the killer broke into my room and tampered with the tree.

Audrey would have had motive to get rid of Trevor if he’d figured out her identity and was threatening to expose her on his TikTok account. But other than Brent being obnoxious and hitting on her, there was no reason for her wanting to get rid of him.

It didn’t make sense. Something had to be missing.

After I got back to the cabin and showered, my dad and I ordered pizza for dinner. It was lukewarm by the time we drove all the way out to the restaurant and back, but neither of us had felt like cooking. After, we both grabbed some hard apple cider from the fridge and headed out back to the porch.

The late September evening was lovely as we stepped outside, the air cool and the sky orange-tinted from the sinking sun. The breeze rustled the leaves of the towering oaks as I sank into one of the Adirondack chairs, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my sweater tightly around myself.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the sounds of the day slowly slipping away. I wondered how long I was going to feel like a rotten piece of trash left on the side of the highway. Probably for the foreseeable future. At least I was already one day down.

Finally, my dad broke the silence.

“You still upset about that Teddy guy? Or are you bummed about the movie this time?” He let out a long whistle. “You’ve had a run of bad luck, Squish.”

He had no idea.

“I don’t know. All of it.”

“Listen.” He balanced his cider on the arm of his chair and leaned forward, resting his arms on the tops of his thighs. “I know a thing or two about getting your heart broke. It’s awful, and I know nothing I can say will change that. But if you let me, I can try to help with the next steps in your career. Have you been putting any feelers out for a new agent?”

“Not exactly.” I squirmed in my seat, taking a long gulp from my bottle.Tell him, a voice in my head whispered.Not yet, my heart whispered back.

“And my buddy’s still interested in you starring in that project of his, you know. Not just interested, to be honest, his heart’s dead set on it. If you’re on board, that is.”

“I’m thinking about it,” I hedged. I was being a coward—no wonder my life had fallen apart.

My dad sighed, his lips settling into a hard line. “I wish you could see what I see. I know it’s easy to be critical of your own work, but you’re so good at it. You absolutely shine on camera. You’re the best thing in every film you’ve ever made.”

Oh God, he was making this so much worse. Ok, I had to do it. Like ripping off a band-aid.

“Dad, I—”

“No, I’m serious. If you could just—”

“I’m quitting. Acting. I’m quitting acting.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, relief loosened my shoulders and unclenched my stomach. I’d done it.

“Oh.” My dad leaned back in his chair, temporarily at a loss for words. “You mean. . . for good?”

I swallowed, my mouth dry. “Yeah.”

“I see.” He rubbed his beard, taking a moment to absorb this new information. “When did you decide this?”

“In July.”

He whistled, long and slow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

So I told him everything—how I’d been afraid of disappointing him, afraid that our relationship would change. Afraid that by admitting it out loud, I was giving up some integral part of my identity that I wouldn’t get back. My dad listened, silent, his face growing more and more concerned by the second. When I stopped, he waited to make sure I was done before speaking.

“Squish, have I ever done or said anything to make you think I’d be disappointed if you stopped making movies?”

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