I threw myself into writing. I wasn’t working on a stand-alone show, but I’d been on fire when it came to coming up with crazy ideas in the writers’ room meetings. Steve was ecstatic. “This is the kind of shit we need to be putting out on a weekly basis to compete with the other shows—you’ve really stepped up,” he told me.

“Thanks, I try,” I mumbled back. I didn’t want Steve to know how much of a mess I was when I wasn’t in the office for my fourteen-hour workday.

“You’ve been doing such a great job in the writers’ room that from now on I want you to take a more active role in the running of meetings,” Steve told me.

“Really? Are you serious?” I asked.

“I’m very serious. I can’t sit in on every meeting, and knowing you’re helping to move ideas forward is a relief.”

This was totally unexpected, and showed Steve’s confidence in my work. But there was definitely going to be some nuclear reactor–sized fallout from the other members of the writing staff. I pointed this out to Steve.

“Let me worry about them. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I replied, truly grateful.

“Say ‘thank you, Steve.’” He grinned.

“Thank you, Steve!” I answered brightly.

At least something was going right. I was still smiling an hour later as I scanned through my mail, which Azita had dropped off. I was thinking how mad Evil Janet was going to be when she heard about my new duties . . . hee, hee, hee.

Shuffling through the usual junk, I hesitated over a cream envelope with no return address. It definitely looked like an invite of some type, probably for some sort of lame Hollywood PR event. Sliding my finger under the flap, I ripped open the envelope, a little curious, thinking that whatever it was inviting me to attend, no matter how lame, I was going to go to. I needed to do everything I could to meet a man pronto.

But it wasn’t an invitation.

The envelope contained a single four- by six-inch photograph of a woman’s breast. The photo was printed in black and white with the dark border from the negative included. This was how Dave printed all the photos he’d always given me. Scrutinizing the envelope carefully, I double-checked to make sure I wasn’t missing any kind of additional note. Nothing.

Dave had very distinctive, angular handwriting. Judging by the feminine script on the front of the envelope, I knew a woman had addressed the picture to me.

The breast was lightly covered in freckles, and I knew it was a photo of Chloe.