Page 9 of Holiday Star
Jenny’s eyes widen like she can’t believe I’m such a dunce. “Lola is the biggest, newest, most gorgeous actress in Hollywood. Come on, Gwen, you have to know about her. Six feet of pure hotness. She’s on that new hit series, the one about the lady Formula One race car driver. It’s on Netflix.”
“Never heard of it or her.”
Jenny looks scandalized by my admission. “Well, she and Caleb have been an item since he did a cameo appearance on the show. The tabloids have pictures of them draped all over each other in clubs, at parties, everywhere. They even walked the red carpet together at a charity event.” She looks at me expectantly.
“This is important why exactly?” I ask, still not getting it.
“Because they broke up. It was on the radio this morning. Word is that she dumped him. How can you not know that?”
“Why should I? I don’t follow celebrity gossip. Remember, we only met him that one time, at the wedding. And honestly, once was more than enough.” I move the puzzle pieces in front of me, shuffling them around, hoping to finish off my shark.
Jenny carries on like she didn’t hear me. “I bet she broke up with him because of that car crash a few months ago. He destroyed his Porsche on Pacific Coast Highway, right by the ocean. TMZ made it sound like he was drunk or on drugs or something, although he didn’t get a DUI. The headline of the article was ‘Lawson gets in trouble with the law.’ Isn’t that catchy?” The reporter in Jenny loves a good headline.
She scrolls through her phone and holds it out so I can see the photograph.
It’s a harrowing image. All of the surroundings dissolve into the inky blackness of night. The asphalt is slick, darkened with rain. Shards of glass lay glittering in the road. Temporary lights have been set up on tall tripods to illuminate the car in the middle of the scene.
If you can call it a car anymore. I’m guessing it used to be a red sports car, but now it looks like it’s been attacked and wrenched open by a wild beast. All that’s left is a twisted heap of metal with jagged spikes rising out of the mess.
A sour twist of nausea in my stomach. I’m transported back to my shifts in the ER as I watch the car crash victims roll in on stretchers, their blood staining the cheap hospital sheets. I don’t see how anyone could have walked away from a wreck like that.
“What do you think, Gwen?” Jenny asks. “He does drink sometimes, like at your mom’s wedding, although he didn’t seem drunk that night.”
I tease her, “Oh, I’m sure you know exactly how much alcohol Caleb had at the wedding. You probably counted how many sips it took him to finish each one since you stared at him all night long.”
Jenny doesn’t argue. She really did stare at Caleb that entire evening. At least until he had to leave early. Marjorie had made sure to brag about how he was flying back to New York because he had an interview on Good Morning America the next day.
Jenny taps a finger against her lips, still fixated on Caleb, as she muses out loud. “I just wonder what happened. Why did he crash his car?”
The shark is almost complete. I sift through the pieces, on the hunt for the last portion of its dorsal fin, as I declare, “I don’t know or care why Caleb Lawson does any of the things he does.”
Any response Jenny was going to make is lost because I found the missing piece of my shark. With gusto, I slam it into place with my fist and cry out, “Done!”
4
Ayoung Drew Barrymore holds a white telephone in one hand and a butcher knife in the other when the masked murderer grabs her from behind. She screams as he plunges a knife deep into her chest. Red blossoms, staining her sweater.Blood.
I jump, clutching my own chest, frightened even though I’ve seen the opening sequence of the first Scream movie at least a dozen times. I’m in the master bedroom, snuggled in Mom and Seth’s enormous king-sized bed with its plush comforter and goose-down pillows. It’s a far cry from the old futon I use as both a sofa and bed in my tiny Manhattan studio.
The bedroom is dark. The only light comes from the television and from the window, where occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the room. There’s a storm outside. The wind wails along the eaves, and rain hammers angrily against the windowpane, demanding to be let in.
It’s the perfect night to watch a scary movie.
With a shiver, I pull the covers up to my neck. On the TV, the parents of the murdered teen discover her mutilated body hanging from a tree. I shovel popcorn into my mouth and chew slowly, eyes glued to the grisly sight.
Pip circles three times beside me and curls into a furry ball. She’s asleep before I am, snoring softly. I must pass out right after her, still trying to make up my sleep deficit from all those long ER shifts, because when I open my eyes the closing credits are rolling.
Blinking groggily, I wonder what woke me. Why am I suddenly, jarringly, wide awake? Staring into the darkness with my heart pounding like I’ve just run a mile.
I’m scared.
The clock by the bed reads 3:27 a.m. That’s when I hear it. The thing that must have woken me. A sound from downstairs. There’s a loud crash followed by a deep masculine voice cursing incoherently, like the man tripped over something metal. Maybe the pile of paint cans by the front door?
Someone is in the house with me.
An intruder.
My heart leaps into my throat, thumping under my jaw. I’m not just scared now, I’m terrified. With a start, I realize how stupid I am. My phone is downstairs, charging on the kitchen counter. Sometimes the hospital accidentally calls me, even when I’m off shift, so I don’t leave it by my bed. This means I’m trapped alone in a house with a home invader between me and my phone.
