“Of course. All hail the stylists. You’ve got plenty of time. Life isn’t always linear. I’m a perfect example—one way or another, I’ve been telling this story since I was five. And now it’s done. On a shoestring, because that’s what I could afford, but it’s a real thing that exists. I know I’m not supposed to say this, but it means so much to me. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“It will mean something to a lot of women.”

“I hope so,” Phoebe said. Without a distributor, it was hard to see how that would happen.

“Do you know that you’re a bit of a cult celebrity?” Rona asked.

“Me? No.”

“Sure. People have been wondering where you’ve been.”

Phoebe laughed. “I’ve been in Oakland, teaching. I’ve been confiscating cell phones during fifth period.”

“Yeah, but after #metoo, it’s almost like Missing Person notices have gone out for all the women who disappeared when they were on top.”

Phoebe scanned the perimeter. The Tarantino bros were at the bar now. Ten yards away, a woman was talking on the phone. A waiter swept by with a tray of empty glasses. Phoebe heard her pulse thumping away in her ears. “On top? I don’t know about that.”

“You’re being pretty modest, aren’t you? To have worked on such an important film back then? You must have some stories.”

Phoebe heard an agenda in there somewhere, the necessary but crude push into a relationship that hadn’t yet been earned, but she had her own agenda, to sell her film. Maybe this interview would help her do that. Take it easy, she told herself. See what she wants.

“Ha, I guess,” she said.

“You and Ted must go way back.” There it was. Rona was looking for the scoop on Ted.

“Sure. But it’s been ages since I saw him last.”

“When was the last time you saw Jerry Silver?”

The muscles in Phoebe’s back stiffened. If she were a bird, she would have thrust out her wings—Snap!—but that was the problem. She wasn’t a bird. She had no defenses, no way to make herself bigger or more terrifying, no way to fly.

“What—?” Phoebe tried to make the words come but couldn’t.

“Jerry Silver?” the woman repeated. “I’m doing a story on Jerry Silver—”

“Ah, I see.” I am a bird, Phoebe told herself. A bird of prey circling in the sky. “A bit late on that, aren’t you?”

It had been two years since the Hollywood Reporter published the first accusations of sexual assault, forcing Jerry to step down from his company, Silvertown, and setting off an avalanche of revelations about other famous men. Phoebe was shocked when prosecutors actually brought charges against Jerry. Arguments would start in his criminal trial next week.