Sarah had stopped at that particular coffee shop. She had refused the coffee. It had been raining when she had exited the coffee shop, her head tucked into her jacket collar in a feeble attempt to ward off the torrents of rain thundering down. And as she turned left toward her car, she saw in the shadows, out of the corner of her eye, a desperate young woman tugging on the arm of a burly trucker. “Please, Mister, wanna give me a ride?” The man was leering down at her, and Sarah could tell he had nothing but smut on his mind. Sarah had told herself, Keep walking; not your problem, but as Sarah passed, she noticed how young the girl was. Too young to be at a truck stop by herself, in the pouring rain, talking to strange men. Couldn’t be more than fifteen, sixteen max. Why was she on the road? What was she running from?

That was her misstep. She had seen the ghost of herself rather than the young woman for who she was. Sarah’s first instinct was correct. Jade was trouble. Sarah should have kept walking, but instead, the girl ended up riding shotgun, filling the interior of Sarah’s car with the smell of unwashed body, malodourous BO, and Wrigley’s spearmint gum. And Sarah found herself headed to Santa Monica, California, because Jade had said her folks lived there.

“No good deed . . .” Sarah murmured to herself. “You’re such a patsy.” She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself. Then she opened her purse, took out her wallet, and rifled through the contents. Great . . . She had to shut her eyes again, exhaling slowly. Once she’d dropped Jade off, Sarah had planned to head back toward Northern California to find another sleepy town off the beaten track that she could disappear into. That was no longer an option. She was in LA, and that’s where she would have to stay, with only half a tank of gas, a cat, and $136 to her name.

2

Mick Talford sat at the back of the theater feeling slightly numb as the final credits for Retribution rolled. The usually stuffy and sedate crowd at the Directors Academy were on their feet, stamping and cheering, whistles piercing the air. Holy shit. Another hit. He felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turned. A young woman from the studio’s publicity department whispered discreetly in his ear, “If you’d follow me, sir.” He staggered to his feet, feeling slightly dazed. How the hell did he keep churning out these hits? And the next thought was, how long before it all crashes down? Because it would. This was Hollywood after all. Nothing they liked better than kingmaking, raising some poor schmuck up, and then, once he felt invincible, the bloodletting and public disemboweling would begin.