I’m glad I answered Nick’s call. It took my mind off everything else. He told me about the incident with the lead actor who held up filming the night before. Nick’s a good storyteller, funny and easy to listen to. But the moral of his tale was: at the end of the day, everyone is replaceable. He’s right, I suppose, everyone is replaceable, but then that would have to include him, Emily, and me too.
I spring from the soft hold of bed, hoping to leave all those thoughts behind in the crumpled sheets. After I’ve handed everything over to Cortez, I will head back here, learn my scenes for the screen test, and get my head back in the game.
I agreed to let Nick take me out for an early dinner this evening. I’ll be back in time for an early night, and it should keep me distracted enough not to get too nervous before the screen test.
I forgo my usual early-morning swim and instead hop under the warm flow of the shower. I want to get down to the station and get this done as soon as I can.
Dressed and looking as respectable and sane as I can manage with a wardrobe full of audition clothes and event outfits, I wander into the still dark of the kitchen/living room to make a quick breakfast. The giant curtains are still tightly drawn over LA as I left them the night before. I tug back the massive folds of fabric and let golden light flood the apartment, my stomach lurching as I look down through the glass at the miniature city below, one palm braced, hard, against the glass. When I pull away a full palm print remains. I stare at it for a second, thoughts of Emily rattling around in my mind.
I turn back to the apartment, letting my thoughts rake over what I need to tell Cortez, and I head to the kitchen. It’s only when I return to the living room area, with a hot coffee and a pastry in hand, that I notice Emily’s laptop is no longer there.
I spin on the spot scanning the surrounding furniture. Panic flashes through me as I slam down my breakfast onto the table and drop onto all fours to scan beneath the sofa. Nothing. I rifle between sofa cushions and under script pages, I shake out the sofa throw. It’s not here.
I try to think straight, to calm myself, because it must be here. Somewhere. I search the living room floor again, and that’s when I realize that Emily’s phone isn’t here either. I freeze. This time I definitely haven’t moved things myself.
I let my eyes travel back to the coffee table. Emily’s apartment keys, rental agreement, and photograph are no longer here either.
I grab my handbag from beside the sofa and empty its contents out onto the floor, hoping that somehow some of what’s missing will tumble out. It doesn’t.
My hand flies to my mouth. Oh my God, there’s no doubt about it now, someone really did come into the apartment last night while I was asleep. And while I was in the next room, they took Emily’s things.
My eyes fly to the hallway. And I’m off, my socks skidding across the slippery wooden floor toward the faulty security system. I pull up sharply in front of the door but nothing is out of place. I try the door handle; it’s still locked.
Whoever it was must have come in with a key. I think of my lost keycard a few days ago then dash into the bedroom trying to keep my breathing calm and steady. Next to the bed, my own laptop is plugged into the wall; my phone is on the sheets beside my pillow. My things are here, only Emily’s are gone. Whoever came in to the apartment last night was after her stuff alone.
I head back into the kitchen dumbstruck and notice that my hands are trembling. I’m in shock. I head to the sink and blindly pour myself a glass of water from the filter tap. And it’s as I tilt my head to drink that I notice the notepad propped up against the fruit bowl. On a fresh blank page, in handwriting I do not recognize, a message:
BE VERY CAREFUL WHAT YOU DO NEXT
I splutter out half a mouthful of water and then cough the rest up into the kitchen sink as I fight to get my breath back, grabbing a kitchen towel to mop myself down.
I carefully pick up the note. It’s written in thick black Sharpie pen on the notepad I was using last night. I turn the pages back and, just as I suspected, all of the notes from last night are gone. Whoever did this had enough time to get everything they needed and to write this without anyone even noticing. They could have done anything.
Jesus Christ.
I pull myself up onto a counter stool, my mind racing.
Be very careful what you do next.
I could just fly home, couldn’t I? I could forget all about the screen test, and Emily and Cortez, and just go home. Cynthia would be annoyed but she’d get over it, especially if I win the award in May. And if Kathryn Mayer and the studio are interested in making an offer then we could just reschedule a screen test once I’m back in London.
But I know that’s not true. No matter how much anyonelikesyou out here, everyone is replaceable. If I don’t stay for that screen test, I will lose that part. A role that would change my life. So no, I can’t fly home. I need to stay for the screen test; I need to get that role.
But I could report everything I know to Cortez after the screen test. Report it and then run back home. Although I’m not sure the LAPD would let me fly home straight after I’ve told them all of this. I’d be the only lead they had in the disappearance of Emily Bryant. If I tell Cortez everything, I’d have to stay even longer and I won’t be safe. I’d have given whoever wrote me that note a very clear reason to come back.
I finally have to admit to myself what I have been too scared to admit up until now: wherever Emily is, I don’t think she is alive anymore. Whatever game she was playing, she was playing with the wrong people and their patience ran out. The favor I did for her on Wednesday, that one decision I made, put my life in danger too. I’ve never wanted to cut and run so badly in my entire life.
I wish I could go back in time and change things: I wish George hadn’t gotten that job and run off with that girl. I wish I was back in freezing February London, oblivious to Emily and everything that happened to her. I wish I was safe. But I’m not.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. I hear my blood pumping in my own ears.
I have no one to blame for this situation but myself. I curse myself for carrying on my search for Emily much longer than anyone else would have. No one I know would have kept going. I know for a fact that Souki wouldn’t. Bee wouldn’t. George wouldn’t.
I’m not putting my life in danger to report a crime that even the victim wouldn’t report. I am not fucking dying for this. It was Emily’s job to report what happened to her, it is not mine.
And with that thought I stand, straighten my clothes, and head into the bedroom to make a call. I grab my phone from the duvet with the intention of calling Cortez and letting her know that I won’t be coming in but when I look at the screen I see I have a message I hadn’t noticed when I woke up.
A fresh flutter of dread dances inside me. Of course, it could be anyone texting me, a friend, my parents, work, but something tells me it’s not just anyone. I take a breath and open the app.
