“Help!” Margaret cried. “He’s kidnapping me!” Heads turned. Wolff slapped a hand over her mouth. She shook her head from side to side. Wolff employed his acting chops and Hollywood charisma. “It’s true!” He laughed. “I’m kidnapping her!”

Margaret looked around wild-eyed, hoping to find a friendly face. But the actors, dancers, stagehands, and producers backstage were unsure about the sincerity of her panic and happily smiled back at Wolff, who was well-known and who, they knew, could make or break their careers. He pushed her past a cluster of official-looking men and women at a table full of gold statuettes.

“Help me!” she said, turning away from his big, hot paw. He kept his hand over her mouth, smiling at the people glancing over at them. “She forgot to take her pill this morning,” he said and shoved her through an exit door. It shut behind them and they entered a silent corridor beside a dark stairwell with an open door at the end of the hall.

Margaret bit his hand. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. He slapped her face, stunning her silent. “If you want to survive this,” he said, “you need to behave.” He grabbed her arm again, pulled it back behind her, twisted it harder.

The open door down the staircase led to organized chaos—theater ropes and bright lights and women with clipboards; some kind of press area for Oscar winners?

With her free hand, Margaret rubbed her reddened cheek. “Big studio boss going to kill me yards away from paparazzi?” she asked. “Seems unwise.”

“You’d be amazed at what journalists don’t cover,” he said.

A tall young man in a black suit entered the stairwell from backstage. He had dirty blond hair and was clean-cut and chiseled, a Tab Hunter knockoff.

“Oh, good,” Wolff said. “We need to figure out a way to get her out of here.”

“Who are you?” Margaret asked. He ignored her.

“You need to move. Whoever wins Best Supporting Actor will come right through here in about ninety seconds,” the young man said. He hopped down the stairs, then peered out the open exit door. “Easy path for us as long as she keeps her mouth shut.”

“Which she’ll do if she wants this to end well,” Wolff said. “She’ll give us the file too.” With his free right arm, he suddenly grabbed her purse and violently yanked it from her, breaking its strap. He tossed the purse to the young man, who began rummaging through its contents. He plucked out a roll of papers as if he’d found the Dead Sea Scrolls, unspooled it, skimmed through, and gave Wolff a thumbs-up.

“So you did bring the real ones,” Wolff said.

“Where is Sheryl Ann?” Margaret asked.

“We can tell you that as soon as we get out of here,” Wolff said. “You and the congressman can go back to Washington, and everything’ll be hunky-dory.”