Page 143 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Another page.

His face when he laughed—eyes widening, mouth falling open, that specific unguarded thing that happened when something caught him off guard and he forgot to perform. Drawn from memory.

Apparently, past-Erika had a lot of feelings she hadn’t mentioned to present-Erika.

The sketchbook closed. Pressed against her ribs.

Tucked under her arm, she went downstairs. The bottom stair creaked under her foot and everyone in the room looked up at once.

The room had been rearranged while she was upstairs—two softboxes flanking a camera on a tripod, two chairs angled toward each other in the center.

Anneliese stood by the window with Bradley. By the other window, Isabelle Vance in a dark suit, arms crossed. Lily hovered near the door with a garment bag. In the nearest chair, a woman flipped open a reporter's notebook.

“Annie—”

Anneliese crossed to her, hands open. “Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” The words came out harder than she intended. “That you ambushed me? On moving day? What the hell, Annie?”

Anneliese didn’t crumble. “I broke my promise. I know that. But I’m not sorry I believe in you. Those are two different things.”

Erika stared at her sister.

“I’m sorry for the method,” Anneliese said. “Not the belief.”

The anger was still there. But underneath it, gratitude was working its way up through the cracks, and she hated how much that scared her

“I want to know what this is.” Erika’s voice steadied. “I want to know what this is before anyone decides anything for me.”

Lily stepped forward. “Eri—remember three weeks ago? You picked up a pencil. Just held it for a second and put it back down.” Her voice was steady. “You didn’t think I noticed. I noticed.”

Erika looked at her.

“If you want to leave, I’ll come with you,” Lily said. “No questions. But maybe, listen first.”

Teagan stood. “Erika. I’m Teagan Truly, Los Angeles Courier. I’ve been covering Martin Blackwell and Zenith Pictures. The cover-ups, the settlements. But half the story, yours, went untold. Fifty thousand people watched what happened to you. They’ve speculated. Judged. But no one’s heard from you. Not in your own words.”

"The Courier." Erika looked at Anneliese. "This is the paper that ran the piece on Martin."

Teagan nodded. Waited.

“Does Martin get to respond before it airs?”

Teagan’s expression shifted. Recognition. “We give Zenith and Blackwell forty-eight hours to comment. Standard practice. But your interview publishes first—before the premiere, before any response. Your words come first.”

Erika looked at her hands. The cool leather cover of the sketchbook sat heavy in her lap.

“What would you ask me?”

“About the Bahamas set. When you first knew something was wrong. What you remember. What came after.” Teagan’s voice was measured. “You lead. If you need a break, we stop. If a question’s too much, we skip it.”

“How long?”

“As long as you need.”

Erika turned to Isabelle.

“Why are you here?”