And if I weren’t so insistent on finding myself in this story, I would have seen that from the start.
My hands fall to my sides. “Okay,” I say. “So, logically—”
Isaiah makes a noise of encouragement.
“Logically,” I continue, “all things being equal, the simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”
“Are you quoting a movie or reciting Occam’s razor?”
I sneak a look at him from under my lashes. “I’m quoting a movie about Occam’s razor?”
He sighs. “Go on.”
“So the simplest explanation—” I break off, clear my throat. Then I draw a shaky breath and begin again. “The simplest explanation—”
“Just say it, Marissa.”
I curl my fingers into fists and push the words out through the tightness in my throat. “The simplest explanation is that Billy Lyle killed them both.”
TWENTY-SIX
Nick paces the length of the conference room, his arms swinging wildly each time he changes direction. It’s hard to believe that just last night, I thought him sharply dressed. He has to be on his third shirt of the day. He’s sweating through the arms of his cream-colored button-down in front of our very eyes.
Gavin, Isaiah, and I are seated along one side of the table, waiting while a trim man in a blue-checked sweater flips open ink pads and lays out stacks of fingerprint cards.
“Is this really necessary?” Gavin asks, eyeing the supplies.
“What,” Nick says, “you’ve never guest-starred on CSI?”
Gavin arches an eyebrow. “Just how old do you think I am?”
Nick sighs. “It shouldn’t be necessary, but since you’ve been mucking about in my crime scenes, I need elimination prints. At this rate, I’m going to have to fingerprint the whole goddamn hotel, because apparently none of you assholes knows how to listen to directions. An hour ago I caught two teenagers trying to go through one of our computers—can you believe that? And apparently no one gives a damn about telling me anything, either.” He takes a ragged breath and ticks the items off on his fingers. “Your producer has lied to me twice, your cinematographer has lied to me once, your script supervisor keeps waving around her NDA, and your line producer—whatever the hell that is—is pretending she doesn’t speak English. And now you tell me that not only was Billy Lyle on set the day of both an assault and a serious accident, but also that the stolen computer was found in the cave where Billy Lyle’s boat was docked just last night?”
Nick’s gaze settles on Isaiah. “Guys like you—guys like you, I get—”
“Tread very carefully,” Isaiah murmurs.
“—I get that you’re fucking James Bond or whatever, and that I’m just some dipshit local cop. And you know what? If we were in Iraq or Afghanistan right now, I wouldn’t give me the time of day, either. Because I’m not a soldier. But I am a detective, and you have got to let me do my job. I’m trying to catch a murderer here—and I’m trying to do it the right way, the way it wasn’t done twenty-five years ago. Which is hard enough with fucking TMZ up my asshole, but this rogue secret agent shit is not helping.”
Nick turns on me. “And as for you—”
I slink down in my chair.
“—have I heard some stories, let me tell you.”
I blink. “What? I’ve only been here for two days. I hardly know anyone.”
He pulls out his notebook and flips past the first few pages.
“‘Marissa Dahl,” he reads, “is a pain in the ass.’”
My eyes go wide. “Who said that?”
“‘No boundaries. Know-it-all. Will ask questions until you want to die.’”
“That’s clearly hyperbole—”
“‘Never shuts up.’”
A suspicion crystallizes in my mind. “You’ve been talking to the electricians, haven’t you?”
“‘Constitutionally incapable of minding her own business.’”
He snaps the notebook shut and stuffs it into his pocket. “Look, I don’t want any more trouble from any of you, okay? We have our suspect in custody—”
I jolt upright. “You found Billy?”
“—and if all goes well, this will be wrapped up and you’ll be back in Los Angeles in a matter of days. Then you can go back to doing whatever the fuck it is you do while I very happily never watch another movie ever again. How does that sound?”
We nod, wordlessly.
“Now: Is there any other crucial information any of you might like to share with the one person on this island who is in possession of an advanced degree in criminology? You know—for kicks?”
The room is silent.
“Finally,” he says, “an answer that doesn’t piss me off.”
* * *
—
The moment I’m back in my room, my phone is out and in my hand.
It’s lunchtime in Los Angeles, but the son of a bitch picks up anyway.
“This is Josh.”
“You actual piece of shit.”
“Marissa?”
“You’ve been going around telling people on this movie that I’m a pain in the ass? That I’m a know-it-all? What is wrong with you?”
“Hold on, let’s be calm about this—”
“Fuck you, Josh, I can lose jobs over stuff like that. I can’t have that kind of reputation—I can’t have any kind of reputation. Except as someone who quietly gets her shit done on time and under budget, which I do. Always.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Nothing I said was that bad.”
“That doesn’t make it okay! I’m not hot, Josh. I’m not charming. I’m not cool. I don’t get leeway—I don’t get a pass. Not that bad is still bad.”
“Jesus, do you always have to be so fucking dramatic?”
“When it comes to my career—yeah. It’s one of the reasons I actually have one.”
He laughs in a way that’s depressingly familiar. “You and I both know your career isn’t what you’re upset about.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Look, Marissa, I know this sort of thing is hard for you. I know you have trouble seeing the romantic connections between people. Real people, anyway. Someone could fuck right under your nose and you still wouldn’t pick up on it—I mean, you probably thought Tony and Liza May were just good friends, right? So please, take some advice. Don’t make the first move. Let them come to you. Otherwise, you’re just going to keep embarrassing yourself with people who obviously aren’t—”
I hang up and toss the phone on the nightstand.
Then I topple forward onto the bed, press my face into the pillow, and scream.
I’ve never in my life spoken to someone like that. I expected to feel triumphant. Fierce. Powerful. But I don’t. I just feel small and helpless and shitty, and I know, deep down, that I’ve probably just made things much worse.
My best friend is probably going to marry this man.
It hits me a second later.
Did he just suggest that Tony was sleeping with Liza?
That can’t be possible, can it? How would Josh know something like that? He isn’t nearly as connected as he thinks he is—is he? No, he’s probably just messing with me. Setting me up for failure. Trying to sabotage my career—again.
Or maybe—
Maybe he just gave me information that changes everything.
I crawl across the bed and fish my script out of my backpack. I rifle through the pages until I find it: the Post-it Paul left behind.
It’s time to find out once and for all if my best friend’s awful boyfriend is full of shit.
* * *
—
“I don’t know how you got this number, but I suggest you forget it.”
The smoky, faintly accented voice is unmistakable. It’s Annemieke. Guess
that 1 in 17.3 million longshot paid off.
“Please don’t hang up,” I say.
“Who is this?”
I take a deep breath and adjust the pillow behind my back.
Don’t screw this up.
“My name’s Marissa Dahl,” I say. “I’m the editor on Tony’s new movie. I got your number from Paul Collins?”
There’s a pause—a pause just long enough, just loaded enough that I want to put my fist through a wall. Actors.
“Yes,” she says, finally. “I know Paul. What did you say your name was again?”
“Marissa Dahl. Dahl as in Roald, not as in—”
“Dear God, you’re the girl from Venice.”
“No, actually, I’m on the east side. Well, I’m between apartments at the moment. But I was in Echo Park.”
A hesitation that can only be called delicate. “Italy,” she says. “Venice, Italy.”
“Ah.”
“You fell into the fountain and pulled Tony down with you.”
I wince. “Yes, well—”
“Oh, no, don’t apologize. It was, truly, one of the highlights of the festival.”
“You know he’s never brought it up once?”
She laughs, a sound so bright and musical I almost forget what we’re talking about. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s just saving it for the most painful possible moment.”
“If he’s so awful, why’d you marry him?”
I belatedly register the deep inappropriateness of the question. With a regular person I would promptly walk it back and probably never speak to them again. But I know I don’t need to worry about that with Annemieke. She’s been answering inappropriate questions her entire professional life.
“I married him because he’s very good at what he does,” she says. “And I was very tired of men who aren’t.”
I straighten the edge of the duvet and trace the stitching along the border. “So what changed?”
“Did you see his last movie?” she asks, breezily. “It was dreadful.”
“Annemieke,” I say, gently. “That film won the Palme d’Or.”
“There may have been one or two other reasons.”
I scoot forward and loosen my ponytail so I can lie back on the bed. “Was one of them Liza May?”
“Oh, that’s the least of his offenses—but yes, I suppose that’s part of it.”
“Was Paul the one who told you Tony was sleeping with her? Is that why Tony fired him?”
She makes a sound I can’t identify at first.
Did Annemieke Janssen just blow a raspberry at me?
“I didn’t need Paul to point out the obvious,” she says. “As soon as I saw Liza’s headshot, I knew he was going to fuck her. He’s nothing if not consistent.”
“Then why did Paul need your number?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Please,” I say. “I’m just trying to understand.”
She sighs. “He contacted me because he was convinced Tony was orchestrating a series of on-set accidents so he could keep Liza in a state of constant distress. Paul thought I might be able to stop him.”
I stare up at the ceiling, feeling faint.
The lights. The roller coaster. It wasn’t the 2nd AD after all. It was Tony.
“But why?”
A low laugh; this one isn’t musical at all. “There are no limits to what he’ll do to get the performance he wants. And for this film, what he wanted was fear—it’s a favorite of his, really. I’m sure he told Liza he would never put her in any real physical danger. He wouldn’t let anything hurt her. And if it did, it wouldn’t take more than two or three days to heal. I’m sure he told her that she should be grateful, really—because without his help, she could never realize her full potential. Only he could help her find the best version of who she is.”
I’m shaking my head. “I had no idea.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Of course not. You think I would—”
“But you’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? You’ve seen his movies. You’ve laughed, maybe, about his fastidiousness. Read essays, probably, about his exquisite attention to detail, about his deep, unmatched psychological insights, about the tremendous, heroic lengths he goes through to prepare his actresses—and they’re always ‘his’ actresses, aren’t they? I can’t count the hours I’ve spent sitting silently beside him while he answers question after question from the press about how it is he understands women so well, no matter that he’s only ever made movies about one incredibly specific sort of woman.” The silence that follows is, somehow, more pointed than anything anyone’s ever said out loud to me. “You knew, even if you didn’t know the particulars. You chose to work with him anyway.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just below-the-line talent. And a woman. I can’t be picky about my projects.”
“At the beginning of your career, maybe.” She takes a deliberate beat, and I picture her as she was in Venice, admiring the toe of her shoe, brushing her bangs back with the tip of her pinky. “But you’re not at the beginning of your career, are you?”
The truth snaps out of me. “Fine, you’re right, I took the job because I wanted it. I wanted the credibility. The prestige. I figured this could get me a guild nomination. Maybe change my career. I didn’t care if he was an asshole so long as he was a great asshole.”
Annemieke makes a sympathetic noise. “I know. That’s how they get you.”
“Do you think he could have killed Liza?”
“No,” she says after a moment. “I don’t think so. He was desperate to make this movie, and he was very clear from the beginning that she was the only actress he would consider for the part. But perhaps I’m only saying that because I was married to the man. I’m not sure I would like to think about what his guilt would mean for me.” A pause. “In any case, if you’re really worried, you should talk to Anjali. She knows him better than anyone.”
“Can I trust her? They’re so close.”
She mutters something in Dutch I suspect I don’t want to know the translation for. “You really don’t know anything, do you? He’d be twenty times worse if it weren’t for her. Find her. She’ll tell you everything.”
“Wait, wouldn’t it be easier if you—”
The line goes dead.
Actors!
But then the phone rings again, almost immediately, thank God. It wasn’t a dramatic flourish after all—we were just cut off.
“Annemieke—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Oh. Not Annemieke.
It’s Amy. And she knows.
I press a knuckle between my eyebrows. “I really can’t do this right now.”
“You kissed him?”
I’ve tried very hard not to imagine how this particular conversation would go, but I don’t think I’ve ever responded faster to anyone, to anything. The words spill out, messy, barely distinguishable.
“It was a misunderstanding. I misunderstood.”
“You misunderstood what? The distance between two faces?”
“Don’t blame him,” I try instead. “Blame me.”
A second passes. Ten. Twenty. I press the phone to my ear so hard it’s going to leave a mark—but I don’t hear anything. Not a click. Not a huff. Not a flutter.
I don’t hear anything at all.
When she finally speaks, I suppose it’s only what I deserve.
“Oh, I definitely blame you.”
I close my eyes. Josh. Fucking Josh.
“Do I also have to explain why this is fucked up?” she asks.
“No, I know—I know. I let you down.”
“Dammit, Marissa, that’s not what I’m saying at all, will you just—”
I block out whatever she says next,
because, Jesus Christ, I just can’t. I know I deserve everything she has to say to me, but I simply don’t have the psychological wherewithal at the moment to navigate a love triangle, lopsided though it may be—much less face the realization that I might have lost my best, closest friend over a guy named Josh.
I search my mind frantically for a way out of this hell.
It’s Nell’s face that flashes behind my eyes.
“Amy,” I say. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait, are you even listening? It’s—”
I snap the phone shut.
Then I open it back up, power it all the way off, and pitch it against the wall.
There’s a noise in the room, a low, rhythmic sound, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from me. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, squeezing so hard my shoulder blades dig into my ribs, but better to focus on that than the hot shimmer in my throat, the panic that will take over if I let it.
When I can breathe again, when my thoughts have settled and my ears have cleared and my skin feels like skin again and not some conductive oxide, I remember something a therapist once told me.
“You can only worry about what’s in your circle of control, Marissa,” she said, drawing a narrow circle around her even narrower waist.
At the time, I thought, That seems about right. I have mastery over my belts and not much else.
But I understand now. There’s nothing I can do about Amy. Honestly, there was probably nothing I could ever do about Amy. We were always going to end up this way. With me as a main character, there’s only one way that story ends.
I pull myself to my feet. Tony, though—maybe I can do something about that.
SUZY KOH: Today we’re very pleased to welcome Annemieke Janssen, who’s calling in from her home in Amsterdam.
ANNEMIEKE JANSSEN: Hello, ladies, it’s such a pleasure, I’m a huge fan of your work.
GRACE PORTILLO: Thank you so much for being here. I’m not allowed to see most of your movies, but they look really impressive and smart.
ANNEMIEKE JANSSEN: Thank you, that’s quite the endorsement.
SUZY KOH: Annemieke, I was hoping you could tell us—what went through your mind when you received that phone call from Marissa?
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