I wonder if I should call Officer Cortez, tell her everything that’s happened. Surely we should involve the police at this stage. I decide I should wait until the actress comes back. I realize I don’t even know the woman-playing-Emily’s name.
I slide the padded envelope closer and there it is on the address label. Joanne Prince. I pull out my phone and google her name. Her face appears in Google Images, it’s definitely her. I scan down through her credits: guest appearances on popular shows, a couple of CSI something-or-others, and a ton of theater. I see her Marilyn credit. She is who she says she is. At least that part of the mystery is solved.
I slide my phone back into my pocket as she returns.
“The company paying me is paying through a personal account apparently, it’s not even a company, and my agent can’t get through on their number. It just keeps going to voicemail. Which is not a great sign—but I gotta say, at least they paid. She’s going to keep trying and she’s emailed them to say I’m pulling out of the job. They’re going to realize whatever they’re doing has gone wrong.” She looks worried. “Why would someone want to do this?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping there’s still some kind of rational explanation,” I say. She looks unconvinced and I suppose I have to agree with her. “But it’s getting harder to think that.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. The kitchen descends into silence for a moment, and when she speaks again the sound makes me jump. “Right, so my agent said to just leave it with her, she’ll get me out of the contract. If it’s okay with you I’m probably going to go now.” She heads back into the living room.
It takes me a second to make sense of what she’s saying. She’s going to leave without getting to the bottom of any of this. “Er, okay,” I manage as I follow her through. “How should I get in touch with you? About all of this?”
She’s down on one knee again rooting for her things under the sofa. She pauses to look up. “Yeah, I’d actually prefer if you didn’t contact me. I mean if that’s okay? I’ll just follow up through my agent, I think.”
She pulls out a faded denim jacket and a pair of worn trainers from underneath the sofa and shakes them out. Her own clothes.
She’s genuinely just going to go.
“But how will I find out who was paying you? Or…anything?”
“My agent said it was just an account number. No name on the transfer.” Joanne sits on the edge of the couch and tugs on her trainers. “I mean, if you’re really worried about this girl you could report it or something? Listen, I’m just going to leave the apartment keys here on the table and get going.” She hesitates, taking in my expression. “I mean, it’s up to you if you want to stay and get involved but I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”
Her words throw me. Do I want to stay and get involved? Do I have a choice or am I already tangled up in this?
I realize Joanne is waiting for me to say something.
“Yeah, that’s fine, I’ll stay a minute and lock the door when I leave.”
She rises, now shrugging on her denim jacket. “Great. Okay then. Good luck with…everything.”
“Can I at least get your phone number, in case? Your agent’s?” I ask, even though I’m certain a quick Google search will supply me with the latter.
“No offense, but no way am I giving you my number,” she says over a shoulder as she breezes out the door, disappearing into the fading evening light.
The door clunks shut behind her and silence falls over me and Emily’s empty apartment.
19
All That Is Left Behind
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13