“Tony?”

“I feel like I’ve put down the last bit of toast and now I can’t find it. I know I haven’t eaten it, but it’s gone and that unfinished feeling is driving me bugfuck!” Unable to remain still, he leaped to his feet and walked over to the window. He laid one hand against the glass and stared out at the lights of Vancouver. “She shouldn’t be dead.”

“People die, Tony. They die for a lot of reasons. Sometimes, it seems like they die for no reason at all.”

The glass began to warm under his palm. “And I should just accept that?”

“Just accept death? I think you’re asking the wrong person.”

“I think I’m asking the only person I have a hope in hell of getting an actual answer from.” When he turned, Henry was less than an arm’s length away. He hadn’t heard him move. “I don’t need more platitudes, Henry.”

“All right. What do you need?”

“I need . . . I need . . . Damnit!” He tried to turn again, but an unbreakable grip on his shoulder held him in place.

“What do you need, Tony?”

He fought for a moment against relinquishing control then surrendered and sank into the dark, familiar gaze. “I need to remember.”

“Remember what?”

Impossible not to answer. His mouth moved. He wondered what he was going to say. “Remember what I’ve forgotten.”

The dark eyes crinkled at the corners as Henry smiled. “Well, that’s a place to start.”

In a business where twelve-hour days were the norm and seventeen not unheard of, Chester Bane often stayed late at the office. His third wife had divorced him because of it. He’d enjoyed her company, but he’d preferred to walk around the soundstage, around the world he’d created, without the distraction of actors and crew. Over the years, security and cleaning staff both had learned to avoid him.

Tonight, fish fed, he walked across the dark production office and stood outside the basement door. His set PA had been down in the basement the day after he’d distinguished himself at a second unit shoot.

The day after something had gone wrong at a second unit shoot.

The day a young actress had died, the body found by that same set PA.

Individually, the first was unusual, the second unexpected, and the third a tragedy. Together, they added up to something. CB didn’t believe in coincidence.

In the seven years since buying the old box factory, he’d seldom gone down to the basement. He could have. Nothing stopped him. He just hadn’t. Arra Pelindrake provided him with inexpensive special effects and he in turn provided her with a way to exist in this new world. They never spoke of how the air had torn above his head and she had dropped through the rent stinking of blood and smoke. They never spoke of flames that didn’t burn and squibs that used no gunpowder. They never spoke of what she did or how she did it as long as his shows came in on budget. In under budget; even better.