Basically, I have three options now.
One: I go down to the station and I tell them everything that happened, beginning to end, and face the possible consequences of what happened to Marla.
Second: I call the police anonymously and say I saw something in the ravine under the sign. Just like the hiker who found the actress that jumped did in 1932. Then I would leave them to find Marla’s body and construct a narrative themselves.
Or third: I pack, make my excuses, and go home. After all, I’ve been involved in a car accident; no one would begrudge me leaving LA on the basis of that. I’m sure even Kathryn Mayer and the studio will understand.
I know which option I’d prefer. Every instinct in my body is telling me to go home, right now. There is no way I can meet Kathryn Mayer or the producers looking like this. And I have no intention of handing myself in at a police station. I have the perfect excuse to leave LA today. A bruised face and body. A damaged voice. A trauma.
I fire up my laptop and wander into the living room with it. Outside the sun hangs low and sickly over the smog of the city and yet somehow, it’s still beautiful.
My phone pings. A message from Nick, oblivious to all that has passed, thanking me for a wonderful night last night and asking if I want to grab a coffee later.
I feel a deep twist of shame. I was so quick to assume the absolute worst of Nick on that dusty hillside last night—that he could have done such terrible things—when the truth is he might be the kindest man I’ve ever met. I have no idea what to say to him right now, though, so I leave the message unanswered. I remind myself that I still have something of his—but I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.
I set about searching for a flight back to London. I’m leaving, there’s no two ways about it and I’m not waiting for permission. I find a possible red-eye and call the airline and book a ticket for 9:05 tonight.
I check the oven clock in the kitchen. I need to be at the airport by 7:05 to check in.
That doesn’t give me much time to do what I need to do.
I dash back into the bedroom, haul my suitcase onto the bed, and stuff everything I own into it. I tip everything from the bathroom unceremoniously into the mess of the suitcase and close it up. I shove my laptop, passport, headphones, and book into my handbag and drag everything out into the hall.
I sweep the rest of the apartment for left items, scoop the remaining contents of the fridge into the bin, and place the Audi keys and welcome pack into a cloth bag to leave at reception. Ready to go, I pull out my phone and dial.
Cynthia picks up after two rings. It’s the middle of the night back in London. Her voice is thick with sleep but her tone is suddenly alert. Calls in the dead of night are rarely a good thing.
“Cynthia, hi. It’s Mia,” I croak. It’s the first time I’ve heard my voice out loud since last night and it almost sounds like a joke, a crank call. I try to gently clear my throat before continuing but it makes no difference to my voice. “Listen, don’t worry, I’m fine but I had a car accident last night.” I hear her shift up in bed on the other end of the line.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I answer but the sound of my own voice loosens something inside me and the intensity of everything that’s happened over the last few days hits me. I try to stop it but my voice is emotional as I speak. “I’m fine. I’m just a bit banged up and not exactly audition-ready but…I’m alive,” I answer, relief heavy in my voice.
“And the other guy?” she asks. I know she means the other car in the crash but I think of Marla nonetheless. I force myself back to my story. “I rear-ended a garbage truck,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s my own flat delivery, my relief at speaking to a friendly voice, or the bizarre facts of the situation but I let out a laugh and Cynthia does too. I welcome the second of levity it affords me.