Scarlett crawled out of her hiding space rubbing her head and answered.

“Messenger,” Murray growled. “You gotta come sign. I’m not sendin’ him up. He’s got a motorbike runnin’ outside. Can’t have that bike outside.”

When she got to the lobby, she found a motorcycle courier in a white helmet waiting for her with a clipboard. He tipped up the visor on her approach.

“AAA?”

“Yeah,” Scarlett said, taking the clipboard and signing. She was passed a thick envelope.

“Can’t idle that bike outside my door…” Murray was saying, as Scarlett crept off to take the package upstairs. She carelessly ripped it open in the elevator, remembering her last ride upstairs one hour before, when Eric had been by her side. So this was how her brain was going to be—constant replay.

She yanked out some papers as she reached the nineteenth floor and looked at them ruefully. Some other dumb script to file somewhere on Mrs. Amberson’s desk.

And then she noticed the front page: CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, EPISODE 391, “CROSSFIRE.” SHOOTING COPY, DO NOT DUPLICATE. There was another paper attached, a list of times and locations, and a name at the top: SPENCER MARTIN.

Success Comes Calling

Demo version limitation

THAT SPECIAL SOMETHING

Scarlett showed up at the appointed time the next day, malice in her heart, and twenty-five of the promised fifty dollars in her pocket. Chelsea lived in an old building in the East Thirties. Not a massive, fancy one like Mrs. Amberson’s. A smaller one, with no doorman. The elevator was one of those ridiculously small ones that only held two people. The hall was dark, and there were only three doors. One had been left ajar, and Scarlett pushed it open, feeling it make cushy contact with what must have been a bunch of coats hanging on the wall behind.

“Is that Scarlett?” Mrs. Biggs said. “Come in!”

Scarlett stepped into a tiny hallway, which was halved in size by all the coats. The living room was absolutely packed, every inch of space used to death. There was a full-size sofa, bookshelves, a set of drawers, a crowded console with the television and stereo equipment, stacks of DVDs of musicals, and books on acting. The space around it was taken up by an electronic keyboard, an exercise ball, free weights, and piles of music. It seemed like an excessive amount of activity went on in here—a lot of living.

Mrs. Biggs was sitting at a tiny table over by the kitchen alcove, doing something on a computer. She was wearing the dress that Scarlett had seen Chelsea in when they met. It also fit her perfectly. She and Chelsea were almost identical in size.

“Chelsea will be home in a minute,” she said, waving Scarlett to the sofa without even looking up. “Give me just a second. Chelsea got two fan mail letters today. I’m just answering them. Have a seat.”