I continued reading. By the time I looked to see what page I was on, I was well into act two—page 53. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t put it down.
I realized I was quite possibly in the middle of that rare September snowstorm. If I knew it, others would, too. I was told I had the script exclusively through the weekend, which meant I had until Monday to make an uncontested offer.
I recalled Al Pacino’s brilliant line from The Godfather about keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer. If this writer’s potential to discover the truth made him my enemy, did that mean I’d be wise to keep him close? Or was I just grasping for a reason to buy this script?
I wanted this scary reporter out of my life, but I was competitive, and we needed scripts. I could probably get it for a song—the guy was not exactly a known quantity, and unlikely the agent knew how good it was, big agents very rarely read. I could secure it with a lowball option, then never look at it again. Producers bought and buried scripts all the time just so no one else could have them. But if I bought it and sat on it, that might piss this potential enemy off, give him a reason to want to hurt me. And that was the last thing I wanted.
I closed the script. I wouldn’t finish it.
Because I already knew what I was going to do.
I looked at the pile of other scripts to “consider.” And I settled in to read.
PART 3
HOLLY
Three months ago
Savannah stood behind me as I cried my way up the stairs.
Our apartment was on the fourth floor. We didn’t have an elevator, so there was no other way to get to it except one agonizing step at a time.
My left knee was bound in a rigid, full-leg splint that was cinched so tight the flesh above it bulged out like bread dough. Any sudden movement sent a shockwave through the incision site so intense it was like getting hit in the eye with a hammer. So I leaned on the rail, took deep breaths, and exhaled my way up.
I reached the first landing, and Savannah handed me my crutches. “You’re doing great, Mom,” she encouraged. “Just two more flights to go.” I hated crying in front of her, but there was no point trying to hold it in. Savannah understood it was all I could do just to stay upright.
I gave Savannah the crutches back as I braced to mount the second flight. Pain was tearing through my leg like a siren, so piercing and relentless it trampled out the possibility of any thought other than How long until I can rest? Deep down, I was grateful for the pain. Because on the other side of the physical pain was heartbreak that hurt an order of magnitude worse.
“We’ve got to get that leg elevated, Mom,” Savannah said sternly. I looked down at my foot. It had swelled to the size of a cantaloupe. I nodded and steeled myself to keep going.
After twenty grueling minutes we finally reached the front door to my apartment. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t see. Savannah opened the door and helped me inside. She directed me toward the couch, then ran to the kitchen to get an ice pack.
She propped my leg up on pillows and snugged the ice around my ankle. Then she held up two bottles. “Tylenol or Vicodin?” she asked. I saw she had been crying, too. I took her hand and squeezed it.
“Ice cream?” I responded, and she smiled through her tears. She went to the kitchen and came back with two spoons and a pint of H?agen-Dazs vanilla—the only ice cream worth eating. We always ate ice cream when one of us was down, and a double dose was certainly called for.
“I can’t go up and down those stairs again,” I warned. “You’re going to have to do everything.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t mind.” She took a bite of ice cream, then passed me the pint. I scraped some off the top, then flipped the spoon upside down to let it melt across my tongue. I felt guilty asking my daughter to take care of me, but I couldn’t accept help from anyone else. Two friends from my old Bakersfield crew had come to see me at the hospital. They’d brought white carnations, a pan of baked ziti, and a whole bunch of questions—How did it happen? Did they catch the guy who did it? Are you going to be OK for money? I guess my mom told their moms what had happened, and they were sent to get details and report back. It was nice to see them, but I couldn’t eat their casseroles with one side of my mouth and lie to them out of the other. I’ll be OK, I told them. I just need to rest. The police are on top of it. Go home.
“Thanks for all the goodies,” I said to my daughter, who’d already stocked the fridge with all my favorite foods. She was still sucking ice cream off her spoon, so I took another bite. As the sweet cream slid down the back of my throat, I added, “We need to be careful about money. Even more than we used to be.”