“What are you doing?” I heard. I jerked upright so quickly I nearly smacked the back of my head on the underside of the table. I slapped one hand over my heart.

“Oh my gosh, you scared me,” I said, trying to give myself a southern accent, with no idea why. I pinched my finger and thumb together and held them up like I was holding something tiny between them. “My contact lens.” I gave a nervous, breathy laugh. “They’re new and I don’t really know what I’m doing. They keep popping right out.”

The woman, who was adjusting her zombie costume, appeared to have just come out of the bathroom. She looked unconvinced, but she also looked like she didn’t have time to press it.

“Can I use the mirror to put it back in?” I asked. “It might take me a while.”

“I guess,” she said. She leaned down to check her reflection, pressing her fingers gently under her eyes to smooth her makeup. Satisfied, she started to head toward the set.

“I’m supposed to drop this in the director’s office?” I said, pointing to the Fat Sal’s bags. She looked at the bags and then took a few steps back to look at the blond man, and for a moment I feared she was going to call him over. But instead she just pointed in the direction of the set.

“That guy right there,” she said.

“Yeah, but I have strict instructions not to bother him on set. I’m supposed to leave it on his desk. He already paid.” This was the sketchiest-sounding story, even to myself, but fortunately, the zombie girl was too worried about getting back to filming to think it through. Part of me wanted to just ask her who he was, if she’d ever heard of Luna Fairchild, if she had any idea what his connection was to her. But she looked impatient and annoyed to even be talking to some sandwich delivery girl, and the last thing I wanted to do was arouse suspicion again—or worse, make her call him over. I felt lucky enough to have gotten away from him last time.

“Down that hall,” she said, pointing toward the dark hallway where the blond man had caught me before. “Go left. His is the first door.”

“Thanks,” I said. I leaned over and pulled down my lower lid, bringing one finger up to my eye like I was getting ready to insert a contact. She wasted no time hurrying away, and I wasted no time grabbing my shit and getting out of there.

The hallway was quiet. My footsteps sounded loud in comparison. Every wrinkle of the bags I was holding sounded like a crack of thunder. I could hear my heartbeat. I chewed my bottom lip as I scurried to the left, and then stopped and gave a quick look around before I pushed open the door.