The Night She Died
Late on the night of November 10, Genevieve Cresswell called Simone for the third time. The phone rang until Simone finally picked up. Before Genevieve could speak, Simone hurried to say she was coming down and asked her to wait a few more minutes.
“You’d better actually be coming down. I’ve been standing here for almost half an hour. My feet are killing me.”
“I know, darling. The elevator’s coming. Just stay where you are.”
“Where else would I go? Shopping?”
Simone didn’t laugh and snap back the way she usually did. Genevieve heard muffled voices, then the call ended abruptly. She frowned at her phone. She was in the underground garage of an office building, surrounded by a handful of cars that looked as though they hadn’t moved in ages. The air smelled of damp concrete and motor oil. The overhead lights were spaced several parking spots apart, and the distant drone of a ventilation fan was making her more irritable by the minute.
This whole meeting was absurd.
That afternoon, Simone had called to say someone was willing to hand over the original footage from the day of the on-set accident, along with an equipment log that might change the outcome of the investigation. The source had worked on the production and was afraid of retaliation if their identity became public. They wanted to make the exchange in private, away from the press and everyone else on the crew.
Genevieve had insisted on sending her lawyer, but the source refused. After several rounds of negotiations through Simone, they had finally agreed that she would come herself, establish whether the material existed, then leave the rest to her lawyers.
She knew the arrangement was risky. Still, so few people were willing to help now, and this was the first useful lead she’d had in ages.
At last, she heard the elevator.
Simone Treadwell stepped out in a dark gray suit, carrying her usual black briefcase. Her hair was neatly arranged, but even through her makeup she looked tired. Before looking properly at Genevieve, she checked her phone.
“Where are they?” Genevieve walked toward her, dropping her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can. “I’m meeting the lawyers tomorrow morning. I wasn’t planning to spend the night in a parking garage.”
“A little longer. They’ve asked to change the handoff location.”
Genevieve stopped. “Again? They changed it this afternoon, and now they’re changing it again? Simone, are you sure this person actually wants to help me?”
“I’m dealing with it. Don’t lose your temper yet.” Simone put her phone into her bag and reached up to straighten Genevieve’s windblown collar. “Why did you wear those shoes? Didn’t you say they rubbed at that event?”
“I thought we’d be sitting in an office for half an hour. I didn’t know we’d end up somewhere like this.” Genevieve stepped back, out of her reach. “Forget the shoes. Have you actually verified this material?”
Simone said the source had indeed had access to the footage shot on the day of the accident, but wouldn’t send any files ahead of time. She had spoken to the lawyers. If they could obtain the complete footage and the relevant records, they could at least review exactly how the equipment had been operated that day.
Genevieve relaxed a little.
Two years earlier, a serious accident on one of her films had injured a member of the camera crew. Someone had subsequently accused her of deliberately interfering with the equipment. Clips of past arguments with crew members had surfaced, suggesting she routinely used her status to bully people.
She had already been caught in a storm of rumors about bullying newcomers and making improper deals. As the accusations piled up, people who had been willing to defend her began to back away. Studios reassessed their contracts. Brands sent one termination notice after another.
She had spent months dealing with lawyers, reporters, and investigations, with painfully little to show for it.
“Once we have the complete record of that day, we can actually get somewhere.” Genevieve took out her phone and opened the message her lawyer had sent that afternoon. “I’ve booked nine tomorrow morning. Whatever they give us tonight goes to the lawyers first. Make sure they know we’re not taking it straight to the press.”
“You’ve become very good at listening to your lawyers lately.”
“I always listened. It’s just that half of what they say is horrible.”
Simone gave a brief laugh, but didn’t take up the joke. Genevieve had been about to ask where, exactly, they were supposed to be meeting now. Seeing how exhausted her agent looked, she put her phone away instead. Simone had spent the past few months helping her through one disaster after another, without even enough time to rest. Two nights ago, she’d been arguing with a production company over a contract until late.
“Didn’t you say you wanted a vacation? Once we’ve made some progress on the accident, leave things to an assistant for a few days. At this rate, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”
Simone looked up. “And if I collapse, who’s going to deal with all this for you?”
“There are plenty of people at the agency. Surely you don’t do everything. Besides, I could always find myself a new agent.”
Genevieve drew out the last few words, teasing. Usually that was Simone’s cue to launch into a list of all the directors and producers she’d offended over the years. Another agent would send her back within three days.
Tonight, Simone only looked at her.
Genevieve waited. “What, you don’t even have the energy to yell at me?”
“Do you really still want to make movies?”
Genevieve raised her eyebrows.
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this for?”
“I’ve been thinking. Maybe you could leave Los Angeles for a while. You still have property. You have savings. A change of scenery might be good for your health.”
“Simone, I’m twenty-nine.” Her voice sharpened. “You can’t seriously want me to retire. Besides, if I leave now, the press will say I’m running because I’m guilty. That’ll give the studios one more reason to ignore me.”
Simone lowered her eyes, her fingers moving gently over the handle of her briefcase.
Genevieve let it go. Her agent was under enormous pressure; a little pessimism was hardly surprising. Sometimes she lay awake thinking about giving up herself. She could take her savings, buy a house by the sea, and leave all the miserable industry gossip behind.
But whenever she saw a script she liked, she couldn’t help opening it.
The previous week, a director she’d worked with had privately arranged to send her his new script. The production company hadn’t decided whether to offer her a part, but the director was happy for her to read it. She’d carried it almost everywhere for days, and had even started making character notes.
She loved the story. If she got the chance, she still wanted to audition.
An engine sounded at the far end of the garage.
A black SUV drove down the lane and stopped a dozen or so paces away. Its windows were so darkly tinted that Genevieve couldn’t make out anyone inside.
“Finally?” She put her phone back in her bag and took a couple of steps toward it.
Simone stayed where she was.
A rear door opened from the inside. A woman stepped out, one hand on the door. She wore a cream coat, her light blond hair falling smoothly over her shoulders. The moment she saw Genevieve, her face lit with a sweet smile.
“Genevieve. It’s been so long.”
Genevieve stopped.
Hallie Merrick.
For one absurd instant, she thought she’d come to the wrong place. Then she looked back and saw Simone still standing beside the elevator, and the thought vanished.
“Simone. Come here.”
Her agent didn’t move.
Genevieve’s voice went cold. “I asked you several times this afternoon, and you told me this person used to work on that production. Now Hallie’s standing here. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”
Hallie came closer, smiling as she stepped in for Simone. “Don’t blame her. I asked her to arrange this. I haven’t been able to get hold of you lately. It’s been rather difficult.”
“Feel free to keep not getting hold of me.” Genevieve walked past her. “Simone, we’re leaving. Now I get to explain to the lawyers tomorrow why we wasted tonight.”
“Genevieve, wait.” Simone finally spoke, urgently. “Hallie wants to talk to you about a few things. Just a few minutes.”
“Then she can make an appointment with my lawyer. These days, whenever she opens her mouth, I have to wonder whether I’ll be in the news tomorrow.”
Hallie’s smile began to slip. “Why do you always have to be so nasty? I’m trying to have a civilized conversation.”
Genevieve stopped and looked back. “Hallie, I’m in a very bad mood. Don’t push me. I’ve stopped caring about you and Landon. If you want to be together, go and be together. Spare me the performance.”
She turned away and headed straight for the elevator.
Two men emerged from behind a parked sedan. At first, she assumed they were going to their car. Then one changed direction and walked directly in front of the elevator.
The other stood in the direction of the exit ramp, his hands in his jacket pockets, watching her.
Genevieve took a step back and looked at Simone.
“Do you know them?”
Simone had gone pale. She didn’t answer.
Genevieve’s stomach dropped. She tightened her grip on her bag and was reaching for her phone when one of the men came toward her.
“Miss. You’re coming with us.”
“Who the hell are you? Get out of my way. I’m going home.”
He ignored her and reached for her arm. Genevieve jerked away and swung her bag at his face. As he raised a hand to block it, she turned and ran toward the far end of the garage.
There was an emergency exit there. She’d noticed it while she was waiting.
The man swore behind her, then came the rapid slap of footsteps. She passed two concrete pillars before her right heel twisted beneath her. She stumbled against a parked car, kicked off both shoes, and ran barefoot for the door.
The rough floor scraped her soles. She barely felt it. She pulled out her phone and tried to make an emergency call, but her fingers kept slipping on the screen, slick with sweat. By the time she finally pressed call, the footsteps were closing in.
Genevieve shoved the emergency door open with her shoulder and ran up the stairs. She blurted the building’s name into the phone. Before she’d finished, the man behind her caught a fistful of her hair.
She screamed. Her phone bounced down the steps, struck the railing, and landed on the platform below. She clung to the handrail and clawed at his face with her free hand. Her nails caught his skin, and he swore.
“You fucking bitch!”
She drove her knee into his stomach. He let go, and she staggered onto the landing and pushed through the fire door.
There was someone on the other side.
The other man slammed into her. She stumbled backward, her back hitting the wall hard. She swung her bag at him, its metal clasp cutting his temple. He cursed and grabbed her collar.
Genevieve fought to squeeze past him. Then a sharp pain tore through her abdomen.
She stopped moving.
He was holding a knife. The blade was inside her. She looked down at the blood spreading beneath her dark coat, and for a moment couldn’t understand what she was seeing.
Then he pulled the knife out, and the pain hit in full.
She screamed.
Her legs struck the floor as she fell. Instinctively, she clamped a hand over her abdomen. Warm blood soaked her clothes, forcing its way between her fingers no matter how hard she pressed.
She tried to get up, but he seized her shoulders and dragged her away from the fire door. She kicked at his shins, her nails scraping the rough floor as she tried to reach the railing. In the struggle, the knife went into her abdomen again. Her whole body curled around the pain. A scream forced its way out of her throat, and then she could barely breathe.
At last, he let go.
Genevieve lay on her side on the landing, both hands pressed to the wound. Darkness washed across her vision. The men exchanged a few low words. One walked away; the other remained beside her, apparently waiting for something.
She still wanted to escape.
The fire door was only a few steps away, but her legs wouldn’t work. She propped herself on her elbows and dragged herself forward. Every movement pulled agonizingly at her abdomen. She had managed less than two feet before she could take no more, collapsing facedown and panting.
She opened her mouth to call for help. Her voice was so weak she could barely hear it herself.
When the fire door opened, she thought someone had finally heard. She struggled to lift her head, only to see Hallie walk in.
Hallie had been talking to someone behind her. She looked down at the blood and stopped.
“My God. What did you do to her?”
Genevieve stared at her, an indistinct sound catching in her throat. Frowning, Hallie stepped around the blood and crouched a few paces away to study her face.
“You look terrible.”
Genevieve wanted to curse her, but she barely had the strength left to speak.
Hallie checked the time on her phone, as though this were becoming an inconvenience. Looking at that carefully made-up face, Genevieve remembered their first meeting. Hallie had been so nervous on set she’d nearly cried, and Genevieve had spoken up for her to the director.
Then things had begun to change. Rumors spread through the production that she bullied newcomers. Accusations appeared online. In front of reporters, Hallie always managed to look both wounded and gracious.
Genevieve had thought the woman only wanted what she had.
Now she’d lost her career. Even Landon was Hallie’s boyfriend. And still Hallie wouldn’t leave her alone.
“Why…”
Hallie leaned a little closer.
“What?”
Genevieve forced her head up and pushed the words through clenched teeth. “What did I ever… do to you…”
Hallie watched her in silence, then smiled.
“I hate you. Isn’t that enough?”
Genevieve’s eyes widened.
Hallie stood, brushed at her sleeve, and called toward the door. “Simone, we can go. I have work tomorrow. It’s already late.”
At the sound of the name, Genevieve looked toward the stairwell entrance.
Simone stood by the door, deathly pale. Her hand trembled on the briefcase as she looked at Genevieve lying in blood. She didn’t come any closer.
Genevieve reached for her.
“Simone…”
Her throat tasted of blood. Her abdomen had gone almost numb with pain. She couldn’t keep her hand raised.
“Please… call an ambulance…”
Simone took a step forward. Then stopped.
Genevieve looked at her through blurring vision. Years ago, when she’d been injured during a shoot, Simone had driven her to the hospital in the middle of the night and waited outside the emergency room until morning. Genevieve had teased her for worrying so much. She wasn’t going to die. Simone had given her such a dressing-down she hadn’t dared look up.
They’d been through so much together.
Genevieve struggled forward, leaving a smear of blood beneath her palm.
“Simone… help me…”
Simone’s eyes reddened. She still didn’t reach out.
Hallie urged her to hurry from the doorway. They exchanged a few quiet words. Then Simone lifted her briefcase, gave Genevieve one last look, and followed Hallie out.
The door closed behind them.
Genevieve was still reaching.
Only when the footsteps had faded did she slowly lower her arm.
The pain in her abdomen grew distant. Her limbs were terribly cold. She knew she should keep pressure on the wound, but even moving her fingers was becoming difficult. The light overhead blurred. She could barely keep her eyes on it as she fought to stay conscious.
She’d thought she finally had a chance to clear her name. She’d even dug out that script she loved, thinking that after tomorrow’s meeting with the lawyers, perhaps she could call the director and talk about the part again.
Now she didn’t know whether she’d live to see morning.
Genevieve tried to draw a breath, but her chest felt impossibly heavy. She wanted to go home. To sleep in her own bed and have a cup of coffee in the morning. If people were still insulting her online, let them. She could turn off her phone and let the lawyers take their time.
She could find other work later.
She was still young. She still had plenty of time.
She tried to open her mouth and call for help once more. All that came out was a faint breath. Her vision darkened. The last thing she saw was the gray-white light above the landing.
Then every sound was gone.
Genevieve bolted upright in bed.
She gasped for air, both hands clamped to her abdomen. Cold sweat had soaked her pajamas. Her heart was beating so hard she could barely breathe. Sunlight came through a gap in the bedroom curtains. The air-conditioning hummed quietly. Half a glass of water stood on the nightstand, left from the night before.
She frantically pulled up her shirt and examined herself.
No blood.
She kept feeling the places where the knife had gone in. Only when she was certain the skin was unbroken did she let go and slump against the headboard, breathing hard.
“Oh my God…”
Had it really been a dream? She could still feel the knife entering her body. She didn’t dare touch her stomach again.
After a while, she reached for the water. Her hand was still shaking; the rim tapped against her teeth. She managed a few swallows, set it down, and threw off the covers to go into the bathroom.
The woman in the mirror was pale, her long chestnut hair tangled around her shoulders, dark circles beneath her eyes. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face several times. When the sweat had washed away and her breathing was steadier, she reached for a towel.
She was about to go back to bed when the date from the dream flashed into her mind.
November 10.
She picked up her phone. The screen read Tuesday, November 3.
She went still.
November 10 was seven days away. She stared at the date, then ran back into the bathroom and retched. When she finally recovered, the phone still said November 3.
It vibrated. An entertainment news alert appeared.
Landon Keats and Hallie Merrick Cozy Up at Film Premiere as Romance Heats Up.
Genevieve stared at the headline.
She remembered reading this.
She opened it. Familiar photographs filled the screen: Hallie in a white gown, tucked close to Landon with her hand on his arm as they gave interviews on the red carpet. Genevieve remembered a reporter asking about her. Landon had said he hoped his ex-girlfriend would get the help she needed.
She scrolled down. There was the interview.
Even his words were exactly as she remembered.
She would have expected to be angry. Instead, she felt cold all over. She’d read this news before. She even remembered the arguments that would spread online over the next few days. The on-set accident would remain in the headlines. A brand would renew its claim for compensation. Her lawyer would deliver a distinctly unpromising assessment before November 10.
She put the phone down and buried her face in her hands.
A long time passed before she lifted her head and looked at the sunlight outside.
Thinking of herself lying in that stairwell, watching Simone leave, made her chest ache. They’d worked together for years. From her first major film auditions at nineteen to starring in international productions and winning acting awards, Simone had been there for almost every important moment.
Of course they’d fought. Genevieve had a temper. She spoke too bluntly, and sometimes a dispute over a role turned into an ugly argument with a production company. Simone had cleaned up plenty of messes. They’d had blazing arguments over work themselves.
But Genevieve had never doubted her.
After her first major international film award, Simone had held her backstage and cried until she’d soaked Genevieve’s dress. They’d celebrated late into the night, joking about retiring together to a little town on the Italian coast, where they would buy houses by the sea.
Genevieve still remembered that night.
She couldn’t understand when Simone had begun to hate her.
A tear fell onto the back of her hand. Only then did she realize she was crying. She snatched up a few tissues and wiped at her face, but the tears wouldn’t stop. At last she let herself cry against the headboard until her nose was blocked and her eyes hurt. Slowly, she grew calm.
She was afraid to close her eyes again.
The image of the man coming at her with a knife was too vivid. Even the slightest thought of it made her shake.
She picked up her phone and opened her contacts, thinking of asking a lawyer what to do about a possible threat to her life.
She could hardly tell the police she’d dreamed she would be murdered in seven days, and that she remembered the killer’s face.
They would probably tell her to see a doctor.
She rubbed her aching forehead and checked her schedule. Most of her public appearances had been canceled, but Simone still managed her private appointments and some of her important contact information. Her agent even had a spare key to the house.
Genevieve glanced at the bedroom door.
She found the contact details for the lawyer who’d handled her property matters. She was starting a message about changing the locks and reviewing the authority she had granted over her personal affairs when the phone rang.
Simone Treadwell’s name filled the screen.
Her fingers stopped.
She let it ring until it stopped on its own.
A few seconds later, Simone called again.
Genevieve took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello.”
“Genevieve! Thank God you’ve finally picked up. I called you so many times yesterday. Why didn’t you answer a single message? I’ve been on the phone all morning. The PR firm needs a reply, the lawyers are chasing documents, and you’re at home ignoring everyone.”
There was the familiar impatience in Simone’s voice. She always complained like this when work was overwhelming. Usually Genevieve would make a point of arguing back, then ask what had happened once she’d let Simone say her piece.
Today she couldn’t speak.
“Genevieve? Are you listening?”
“Yes. I didn’t sleep well. I’ve only just got up.”
“I knew it.” Simone sighed, her voice softening. “You haven’t been sleeping for weeks. Have you been taking what the doctor prescribed? I told you yesterday to stop reading the news before bed. You get yourself worked up, and you’re the one who suffers.”
Genevieve leaned against the headboard and listened, her eyes growing hot. The reminders and complaints were exactly as they had always been. Even that nagging tone she hated was the same.
“Rest today. I’ll come by this afternoon with something to eat. There are a few things you need to sign, too.” Papers rustled as Simone went on through the day’s business. “I’ve heard from that producer we talked about last week. I’d rather discuss it in person. And if you’re really not feeling well, I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment. We can’t keep putting this off.”
Genevieve gripped the phone and looked toward the bedroom door.
“Email me the documents first. I really don’t feel well today. I’d like to stay home and rest.”
“Will you even understand them? Last time, you couldn’t be bothered to read the appendices.”
“That’s why I’m going to start reading properly.” Genevieve managed the faintest suggestion of a smile. Her voice was still hoarse. “At this rate, I won’t earn enough to pay those bastards off.”
Simone laughed. “So you’ve finally started worrying about money? You were never this careful when you were buying gowns.”
“Don’t remind me of the gowns. It hurts just thinking about them.”
“All right, enough. I’ll email everything. Get some rest today, and I’ll come tomorrow. Is there any food in the house? Shall I have something sent over?”
Genevieve felt her throat tighten as she looked at her phone.
She wanted to ask Simone why she’d done it. Had none of those years of work, arguments, and celebrations meant anything worth holding on to?
But she couldn’t ask.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll make something in a minute. You’d better get back to work.”
Simone was still reluctant to leave it there. She reminded her to take her medication and call if she needed anything before finally hanging up.
Genevieve set the phone on the bed. The call was over, but she could still hear Simone saying, Don’t forget your medication.
Thinking of that fire door closing in the stairwell made her chest tighten. She got up and pulled the curtains back a little, letting sunlight into the room.
When had Simone and Hallie started working together? Apart from those two men, who else was involved?
She returned to the dressing table, picked up her phone, and finished the message to her property lawyer. She asked for a review of the house’s access arrangements, spare keys, and the authority she had granted over her personal affairs, and whether he could put her in touch with an independent lawyer experienced in contract disputes.
Once she’d sent it, she opened her email to see which contracts were still in the agency’s hands. The inbox was full of work notices, legal bills, and letters from brands. Some had already sent two or three reminders. Even the subject lines made her head hurt.
She opened one document and tried to work through the dense clauses. Before long, she’d found several points that needed checking. Simone used to pick out the important parts for her. Now she had to note anything she didn’t understand herself and leave it for the lawyer.
As she moved to the next email, an invitation from a charitable foundation caught her eye.
Annual Charity Gala — Attendance Confirmation
She opened it. The event was tomorrow evening.
She’d often donated to this foundation and had taken part in its publicity campaigns. In previous years, she’d almost always attended the annual gala if she was in Los Angeles. Since the scandal broke, it had been a long time since she’d received a formal invitation to a public event. She’d assumed her place at this dinner would be withdrawn too. Apparently, the organizers were still holding it for her.
