I pull out the rest of the papers and inspect them. They’re scene breakdowns. My eyes scroll through them.
? Proposed car collection scene. Emily retrieves her rental car from outside a casting studio after disappearing for two days. She may meet a concerned receptionist, whom she’ll need to reassure. The receptionist may express concerns over Emily’s sudden disappearance. Emily should appear rushed and under pressure to return her rental car before her parking lapses.
That was the morning Joanne collected the car from North Hollywood. My eyes leap to the next.
? Avis rental return. Emily returns the pre-paid vehicle and explains she no longer needs it for the full period. She asks for her card to be refunded if possible. If this is not possible, she is willing to lose her deposit.
God, Joanne must have thought this was the weirdest and most boring job in the entire world. I turn back to the previous page.
? Proposed café scene. Emily meets Mia （an actress she met at an audition） to collect her wallet and her car keys. Emily thanks Mia for her help but is reticent to talk about her personal problems. She may allude passingly to family or relationship issues.
I stop reading. It didn’t happen in a café. This is exactly what happened at my apartment two nights ago. Joanne played out this scene with me without my realizing. Aside from a different location our interaction was almost exactly this. Someone planned our meeting ahead of time. A chill runs through me and I spin around suddenly, feeling phantom eyes on me. But of course I am alone. At least I am right now. This is fucking weird. My fear for Emily is now wholly superseded by fear for myself. How far does this story go? How does it end for me? I desperately flip through the scenes looking for more containing my name. And for a horrifying moment I get the feeling I might find one describing exactly what I’m doing at this moment. My heart pounds and everything else slips away except for the words in front of me as I skim. Breath held, I turn to the final page and read.
But the scenes don’t make it to where I am now. The last page in Joanne’s stack relates to a potential police scene she “acted out” the other night. Whoever organized this pack thought of everything. Well, everything up until the police verifying her ID. I imagine they assumed that after that verification, I would be satisfied. I would stop. But I didn’t.
I wonder if they know I am here. But the only way they could know that is if I’m being watched. I head back to the laptop and flip open the lid. The screen remains lifeless, not even turned on. Then I bend and search under the desk for a camera, but there is nothing except laptop wires. I move on to the bookshelves searching for recording equipment, following my instinct through the living room and into the bedroom.
I check the wardrobes, behind the curtains, under the bed. Stuck to a lamp on the bedside cabinet, I find a photograph. Two women hiking. Emily on the right, and beside her another woman about the same age. A friend perhaps, or a relative. Though why this other woman hasn’t noticed Emily’s disappearance, I do not know. Or perhaps she has noticed? I give the photo a tug and the adhesive putty holding it in place loosens, coming away. I flip the picture over; on the back are the words ME + MARLA. I pocket the photo and keep searching the bedroom. But there’s no filming equipment, no tiny filament camera holes in the paintwork or light fittings. No one is watching.
Whoever hired Joanne probably won’t realize something is amiss until they get the email from Joanne’s agent. I pause. Unless…
I turn on my heels and head for the front door, pulling it open and staring up into the stairwell. No CCTV cameras. I scan the other apartment doors, listening for inhabitants within, but I hear only the low hum of the 101.
I look out toward the street, but the view is shielded by the overhanging trees. There are no windows looking back in this direction. No one is watching. I remind myself that whoever sent Joanne to my apartment two nights ago knows my name, and they know where I live.
Back in the kitchen, I notice rotten fruit in the fruit bowl, obscured by Joanne’s chair earlier, bruised and furred. Perfect spheres of green and white fluff, once apples, or oranges, now just the ghosts of them. Emily hasn’t been here for days.