I do know, but there are some things I can’t even tell Ethan—especially not now. He reports to my agent, so it’s his job to tell her whether I’m all right or if something is wrong in my life and how to make it better. But those are questions I don’t know how to answer. He’s my best friend and my secret-keeper, but it isn’t his job to be burdened with all the self-doubts in my head.

He shifts slightly, a little uncomfortably, and says, almost in a whisper, “Hey, Jess? Are you…are you happy?”

At first, I don’t understand the question. I blink once, twice, and the words sink in.

Are you happy?

Of all the interviews and online questions and magazine articles, this is one question I’ve never been asked. Perhaps because, in everyone’s mind, it’s never been a question. It’s always been a statement:

Jessica Stone is happy.

She has to be.

I open my mouth to tell him the truth when—

My phone dings. Ethan looks at me expectantly but I wave him off. “Twitter notifications. Someone’s leaking a fake script again.”

“Again? Wasn’t there one last week?” he asks. Thankfully he doesn’t push the “are you happy” question.

“Yeah, they’re being ridiculous—”

Suddenly, the Jaws theme shouts from Ethan’s front pocket. We both glance down to it. The duuuuuun-dun, duuuuun-dun is so loud it would be almost comical if we didn’t know who he assigned the ringtone to.

My agent.

But…I just talked to her. Why would she be calling Ethan so soon?

We exchange the same questioning look before Ethan pulls his phone out and answers. “Diana, good evening.”

I sit quietly, straining to make out whatever Diana is saying. Ethan tries to keep his face impassive, and to most people it would look like he succeeds, but I know him better than I know anyone. I know that the left side of his lip twitches when he hears something he doesn’t want to know; his breathing becomes even, deep, almost like a trance.

This is not a good conversation.

“Yes, she’s here,” he says, and hands the phone to me.

I have to talk to her; I don’t have a choice. Is it about the script? Is she calling to say that I am in the sequel as some pointless five-second flashback? Or am I free?

Please let Amara stay dead, I think as I bring his phone to my ear. “Diana?”

“Do you still have the script?” she asks tightly.

What script? “Yes.” I lie.

“Oh, thank God.” She lets out a breath. “Because it’s leaked, and as long as we know it isn’t you, that’s all we care about.”

Dread slithers down my spine. The tweets. Are they real?