“It’s because of Jake’s death that you’ve been getting roles again, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Look, it’s okay. I know Hollywood loves a sob story. I mean, you practically have to be dead to get a cover of Entertainment Weekly these days, right?”

“I guess,” she finally conceded, her eyes darting to the front door as if really wishing she hadn’t answered it.

Cal must have noticed, too, as he nonchalantly moved so he stood directly between her and any chance of escape.

She shifted on her heels.

“I talked to a couple of people who worked with Jake on the set of his last film,” I continued. “Did you know that your husband was trying to blackmail Edward Pines?”

“No!” Alexis vehemently shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. “That’s not true. They’re lying. Jake would never be that stupid.”

“Why would they lie?”

She bit her lip, not sure how to answer that one.

“Pines said your husband tried to extort a hundred grand. He said he’d tell the world that Pines was into kiddie porn if he didn’t pay.”

Alexis shook her head again, but I could see doubt creeping into the gesture this time.

“Pines refused to pay,” I went on. “He said he’d ruin Jake, make sure he never worked in Hollywood again.”

Tears started to fill Alexis’s eyes.

“You knew, didn’t you?” I asked. “You knew your husband was making enemies, knew he was ruining his reputation at the studio, killing his career.” I paused. Then mentally crossed my finger I was on the right track with this. “And he was taking you down with him.”

“That bastard!” Alexis suddenly shouted. “Sonofabitch gets a chance at a real film—fucking Edward Pines!—and what does he do? He throws it away. Pines wouldn’t have touched him again with a ten-foot pole. I’ve been waiting fifteen years to get back into the business, and just when I get a chance to walk those red carpets again, he goes and ruins everything. And he wasn’t going to stop with Pines. He said he had even bigger fish lined up for the next time. The next time! God, how stupid could he get.”

“So, you killed him,” I slowly said.

“He had to be stopped! Look, you should be thanking me. Everyone in Hollywood should be thanking me. Who knows how many people he could have blackmailed. How many lives he could have ruined.”

Sure. She was a regular Mother Teresa.

“But he was your husband,” I said, feeling like a complete dope for ever having bought her grieving widow role. I had to hand it to her, the woman had mad acting skills.

She rolled her eyes. “Please. I did the world a favor. Did you see his last film? The man couldn’t act himself out of a paper bag.”

Ouch.