Morthisal stood on The Last Bookshop soundstage, surrounded by towering shelves packed with leather-bound volumes. The set smelled of dust and old paper, and the overhead lights colored the space in warm tones.

  Serena entered through the bookshop's front door, holding a leather briefcase and wearing a tailored pantsuit that screamed corporate efficiency.

  "Cut," Gus Mancini called from behind the monitors. "Vince, that was good. Let's do one more, but this time, when she enters, I want you to look up more slowly. Let the recognition dawn on your face. You know who she is, but you're not impressed by her money or her status. You're curious about what brought her here."

  Morthisal nodded. He centered himself, reached for the emotion Rex had taught him to access. The loneliness of the bookshop manager. The quiet hope that someone might finally understand what he offered. Small scenes like this no longer required a sliver of power to unlock. He had learned some of the art of acting in this very theater.

  "Action."

  Serena pushed through the door again. Morthisal lifted his head from the book he'd been reading. His gaze traveled from her shoes to her face, and he let a small, knowing smile touch his lips.

  "Welcome to Blackwell's," he said. "You look lost."

  "I'm not lost," Serena's character snapped. "I inherited this place, and I'm here to sell it."

  Morthisal set the book down gently. "There must be a mistake. You can't sell what you don't understand."

  The line hung in the air. Serena's expression shifted from irritation to uncertainty.

  "Cut! Perfect. That's the one." Gus stood from his chair. "Lunch, everyone. Back in ninety minutes."

  Morthisal sat in his trailer and read several texts from Jordan Park. The first announced a callback for a supporting role in a Netflix limited series that Diane Mercer, the talent scout he had met at Levi's party, had sent to his agent.

  Morthisal had read the breakdown for The Malibu Retreat with growing interest. The show revolved around a tech mogul's suspicious death at an exclusive resort. It offered corporate espionage, blackmail, and quite a few twists and turns. The role was for a mysterious venture capitalist who may or may not have been manipulating events from behind the scenes. The character was one he could understand instinctively.

  The second mentioned interest from a casting director for a period drama.

  A period drama? Morthisal read the breakdown and discovered it involved playing the secretary to a minor nobleman in Victorian England. A character whose primary function seemed to be announcing visitors, delivering correspondence, and occasionally expressing mild concern about his employer's gambling debts. Jordan had told him the cast had a couple of A-listers. It might not be the most glamorous role, but the talent he would be working with could shine a spotlight on his performance. Outside of that, the thought of such tedious work made him long for the intensity of a more villainous role.

  There was only one problem with that line of thinking. Morthisal desperately needed to move to a gated apartment community, but most buildings wanted first and last month's rent, security deposits, and other fees, because everything in California was too expensive. The Last Bookshop role had included a $25,000 signing bonus, of which he had received just over $10,000 after his agent's fees and the Screen Actors' Guild cut (thankfully, Jordan had fast-tracked his membership); the government had taken the rest out in taxes.

  Morthisal needed to give the roles some thought.

  It had been three weeks since Yvette had left and flown back home to Seattle after their wild weekend at the Hotel Bel-Air. He dearly missed her. Thankfully, she was coming back in a few days for another weekend.

  The rest of the day passed with more shots and direction from Gus. The director could run hot and lose his temper at the slightest thing, but for the most part, he was pleasant enough to Morthisal. Other times, he could be a bastard and snap at the slightest mistake. Everyone on set called him a genius. Morthisal tolerated the man and kept his mind out of it. He had heard a saying that went "let a painter paint."

  During one afternoon scene, a boom operator accidentally dipped the microphone into the frame. Gus erupted from his chair, his face turning crimson as he screamed about "amateurs ruining his vision!" The tirade lasted three full minutes. The boom operator stood frozen, apologizing repeatedly, while the rest of the crew pretended to check their equipment. Gus finally stormed off set, leaving everyone in uncomfortable silence until he returned twenty minutes later with a fresh coffee and acted as if nothing had happened.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  When the shoot was over, just after 10:00 PM, a studio car returned Morthisal to his hotel, which had been forced to install a low metal gate. Jasper hadn't complained much. Since Morthisal had arrived, the hotel had filled with those hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He was making more money on his elevated rates than he had ever made.

  Morthisal hated to admit it, but it was time to move. This time, he would keep a low profile.

  As he arrived back at the hotel, Jasper ran out and opened the gate, while some of the poolside regulars assisted in keeping the paparazzi back. People filed out of their rooms and gawked at him as he walked by the pool.

  Morthisal went to his room and nodded to the large man standing outside. Morthisal thought his name was Stanley. The heavies worked for an agency and were instructed not to engage with the talent, something Morthisal appreciated. It was a large drain on his bank account. If it got any more dire, he might be forced to hire some of the hotel regulars to stand outside. Kenadee would probably do it for next to nothing because he was convinced that Morthisal would find him a role in an upcoming feature.

  He managed to eat a snack from his mini fridge and settled for a strong shot of vodka instead of his normal Sex on the Beach. The liquid was wretched and burned. He chased it with a little orange juice, and on second thought, took another slug. Then he went to bed and closed his eyes. He needed to clean up and watch a little television. However, he didn't open his eyes again until morning light streamed in through the window.

  Morthisal sat in bed, sipping a cup of coffee, and watched television. An older episode of The Housewives of LA played while he scrolled through his phone, searching for an apartment.

  A knock sounded on the hotel door.

  Certain individuals had clearance to reach his room without interference from the security personnel stationed outside. He opened the door and nodded at his visitor. Joel Kelly stepped inside. The man filled the doorway, his NYFD cap pulled low. He carried a manila folder.

  "Got a minute?" Joel asked.

  "Of course. Please, come in."

  "Man. When are you going to move? I know you got funds. You need to get out of this place."

  "It is an involved process." Morthisal sighed.

  "Is it? Seems like you find a place and just move. You don't even need a moving crew."

  Morthisal winced at that comment.

  "Your security can't be cheap. How much are you paying those guys? I have a few people on payroll. A couple of them might be cheaper."

  Morthisal filed that away.

  "Anyway," Joel settled into the chair across from Morthisal. He placed the folder on the small table between them and flipped it open.

  "David Reeves," Joel began. "Age forty-seven. Works as a senior systems analyst for Prometheus Tech in Culver City. Lives in a condo in Marina del Rey. Drives a Tesla Model S. No criminal record. No social media presence worth mentioning."

  Morthisal leaned forward and studied the surveillance photos. Reeves entering his office building. Reeves at a coffee shop. Reeves walking along the beach.

  "Anything unusual?" Morthisal asked.

  "He keeps to himself. No close friends that I could identify. He eats lunch alone most days. Goes to the gym three times a week. Visits a bookstore in Santa Monica every Saturday morning." Joel paused. "There's one thing, though."

  "What?"

  "He met with three other people last Tuesday. Different locations, different times. I got photos of all of them."

  Joel produced three more photos—a woman in her thirties with dark hair. A man in his fifties wearing glasses. Another man, younger, but with a—

  "Him!" Morthisal snatched the photo. "The wide-brimmed hat! He is the one who tried to kill me in Seattle."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Tried to kill you? You didn't mention that before."

  "He pulled a gun. I disarmed him. He, er…" Morthisal paused. "He was a crazed fan. At least I believed so at the ti-"

  "Look, man. If some guy wants to kill you, you're gonna need better security. Round the clock would be ideal. Disarmed him, huh? You got training?"

  Morthisal chuckled. "In a manner of speaking."

  "Cagey. Okay. Just watch your back out there. I have another cheaper option. I can have a chat with this guy."

  "A chat?" Morthisal asked.

  Joel rolled his shoulders and put his fist in his other hand.

  A slow smile spread across Morthisal's face. "Perhaps. Let me think about it."

  "Up to you. A few hundred and I'll put the fear of god in him. I'll find out everything about him for my normal fee. I can also keep tabs on Reeves, if you want. Five hundred a week, but that money might be better spent on hiring me for security. I'm sure that guy out there is good. But I'm better. I'll be with you all the time. But it's a grand a day."

  Morthisal calculated his finances.

  "Please find out about the man in the wide-brimmed hat."

  "You got it."

  “I will have to decline the other options for now. As soon as my finances are in better condition, I will reconsider."

  Joel nodded, collected the photos, and closed the folder. "I understand. I'm not saying this to be greedy, but hurry up. If you have more than one enemy out there, you're going to need a lot of help."

  Morthisal nodded at Joel's words.

  After Joel left, Morthisal moved to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked outside between the barely open slats of his blinds. He stayed that way for a while.