He takes my arm, and as we start toward the cars, a swarm of uniformed drivers races up the hill, like infantrymen armed with open umbrellas to shield us from the light rain. Nothing can ward off the throngs of gawking fans, though police have cordons to keep them in place. Nothing can protect people like us from the press. Flashbulbs sparkle across our vision as Leon waves photographers away.

“Smile, Ginger!”

“Fred!”

“Over here, Miss Stanwyck!”

“Hey, Coop!”

We avert our eyes and hurry past. We know the press is merciless and always will be. The relationship between the press and the picture business is that of mutually voracious cannibals.

Our driver shepherds us to the Rolls, closes the door behind us, starts up, and drives off. We all fall back into the plush seats, sighing. Jonathan passes around his hip flask. Irene, in her cool, blonde, graceful way, takes a genteel swig from it. Gordon prefers to sip from a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Leon declines the flask. I take a gulp. Walter finishes it off and hands it to Florence, who doesn’t notice that it’s empty. Everyone but me opens their sleek cigarette cases, gets out a smoke, and lights up.

Leon takes my hand in his. “I’m proud of you, Honeybee. You did fine. Julia would have been proud too. You are a credit to her, to me, to Empire Pictures.”

Leon always talks like that, as though Empire Pictures is actually a living thing that can have credit bestowed upon it—or conversely, that can be diminished. He always reminds me I am a daughter of Empire, and while I recognize the benefits, I’m tired of the responsibility. I retrieve my hand from his, roll down the window, and breathe in. Deep.

Chapter Two

The next day the family rode together in the Bentley to a lawyer’s office in a shabby downtown district. Garbage blew along the gutters. Irene and Gordon both commented on the general decay, and Florence wondered aloud why Julia would have chosen this nobody lawyer.

“Mr. Wilkie,” said Leon with a tight jaw.

“What’s wrong with Melvin Grant?” asked Florence. “He’s been your attorney for eons.”

Leon did not reply. I too said nothing, though I knew very well why Julia chose someone else to represent her interests. Melvin Grant would protect Leon even if it meant protecting Denise Dell as well.

Our driver stopped in front of a dingy, four-story building. The street was packed with big cars illegally parked, and uniformed chauffeurs who stood by their vehicles, smoking. “We must be late,” Gordon remarked. “It looks like everyone else is here.”

“Well, they can’t start without us, can they?” asked Leon.