I know that voice.
Daisy sits bolt upright as a woman walks into the control room. It’s Sunny.
I definitely did not write this. Sunny is still in her waitress outfit. Her eyes are red. It’s the first time she’s set foot in this place since her audition.
“Wait! Hold on! What’s the matter?” says Daisy, rushing over to put her hand on Sunny’s shoulder. Sunny pulls away—not having any of it.
“I can’t do it. I can’t do this anymore.”
She’s not crazed. She’s not yelling. She’s just… determined.
This situation is way out of Daisy’s wheelhouse. Mine, too. But I give it a try.
“What do you mean?” I say. “It’s working really well! He’s crazy about you!”
Sunny takes a step forward and jabs her finger at me.
“Working? Sure. Because you’re making it work. You talk me through every step. You give me all the questions and all the answers—you and your—” She points at my typewriter.
“It’s a Selectric.”
“And all this… this Mission: Impossible bullshit!” She waves her arm around at our multimillion-dollar lair—consoles, monitors, mainframes. “This has nothing to do with the real world!”
The minions are stunned. They just sit there.
Daisy decides to switch up her approach.
“Wait now. Wait a minute. You knew what you were signing up for. This isn’t some dorky school play you can quit if you don’t like your part. You need to see this through. You’re committed—like all of us. You signed an agreement.”
“That’s pathetic,” says Sunny. “You can keep your stupid money. And don’t worry, I won’t run and sell my story to the Enquirer. I know what I signed. I’m just sick and tired of being a fake. I don’t know if you can tell from inside your little cocoon here—but Tyler Bron is a good guy. He’s a really good guy. He deserves something better than a grade C actress.”
For a second I think about telling Sunny what a terrific actress she’s turned out to be, but I don’t think it would go over too well right now.
Sunny turns to walk out—and then turns back. She tugs her hair away from her right ear, then prods with her little finger until a tiny receiver pops out into her hand. She tosses it onto a desktop.
“I know you’ll want that back,” she says. “I’m sure it’s really expensive.”
And she’s gone.
Daisy stands there for a few seconds. Then she walks slowly across the room and sits down on the sofa. She looks at me.
“Oh. Shit,” she says. “This is big trouble.”
Like I don’t know it. A huge part of Bron’s life just walked out the door. A huge part of my life. If this doesn’t get fixed, the whole project collapses. Right on top of me.
I hate to sound selfish at a time like this, but without Sunny, I’ve got no ending.
Chapter 33
BRON WRAPS up his last oil change of the day and makes it to the diner by eight, just like clockwork. He takes his usual seat and settles in to watch the crowd. Way more interesting than TV. When he feels Sunny at his elbow, he looks up and smiles at…
Maria?
“Hi, there,” he says, trying to cover his disappointment. “I’m sorry. Where’s Sunny tonight?”
Maria fiddles with her order pad and pen.
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
“Say what? Where is she?”
Maria takes a short breath and lets it out. “She’s gone.”
Bron gets a stabbing pang in his gut. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Quit. Left. Walked out last night.”
Bron thinks back twenty-four hours. He was working late at the school. He and Vern split a microwave pizza in the break room. Then he went right back to the motel.
“Wait,” says Bron, “I don’t understand. She just… left? Without saying anything?” Now his heart is pounding.
“She looked upset. Said she didn’t have time to explain. She picked up her tips and her paycheck and split.”
At this point, Bron is practically jumping out of his skin. His mind is spinning. What’s going on? Did he say something? Did he not say something? Did something happen? Why would she just take off like that? In one swift move, he slides out of the booth. Maria backs up to avoid getting bowled over.
“Where does she live? Where does she live?” Bron is almost out the door already and has to stop to catch Maria’s answer.
“About five miles outside of town—Alba Road. I think she was just renting. Let me know if you find out anything—”
Bron doesn’t hear a word after “Alba Road.”
With all this frantic energy, he could probably run the five miles in about fifteen minutes. That’s nuts. He needs directions. He needs a ride. The street is empty. Hold on. He sees headlight beams.
A pickup truck is coming slowly around a corner the next street down. Bron starts jogging and waving his arms.
He knows that truck. He knows that driver.
Chapter 34
GRANDPA’S EYES aren’t what they used to be, so after dark, he takes it slow. But that’s okay with Bron. Gives him time to scan the shoulder of the road as they go. But for what? Footprints? Blood? Breadcrumbs?
After about ten minutes, the truck headlights bounce off a battered sign marking Alba Road. Not far from the intersection is a small stucco bungalow—the only building for a hundred yards. This has to be it.
Grandpa pulls to a stop. “?Debería esperar? Should I wait, Se?or Tyler?”
“No. I don’t want her to think I brought a posse. I’m good.”
As Grandpa makes a swerving U-turn, Bron walks across the sand and low scrub grass to the house. The porch light is on, but everything else is dark. He knocks on the front door. Nothing.
He walks quickly around the house, pressing his face against the windows, one by one. No sounds. No movement.
Back at the front door, Bron tries the knob. Locked. He looks under the mat and in a clay planter. No key. Just as he’s about to put his elbow through a window, he notices a magnetic sticker on the metal mailbox. It’s from Verde Repairs. NO JOB TOO SMALL it says—in English and in Spanish. Bron peels it off.
He slips the thin sticker in against the strike plate of the doorjamb and wiggles it until he feels a slight give. Old school, but it works. He’s in. He flips the light switch just inside the door.
“Sunny? It’s Tyler. You here?”
He moves quickly through the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, flicking lights on as he goes. Deserted.
The rooms are bare except for some IKEA-style furniture. The bed is made—not perfect, but neat. No signs of a struggle, as they say on the cop shows. He slides the bedroom closet door open. Empty—except for one white blouse and one black skirt.
He checks the medicine cabinet. Contact lens solution, toothpaste, aspirin—the usual. Not much in the refrigerator—just a carton of orange juice, some cottage cheese, and a couple of beers.
Bron pulls open the kitchen drawers and finds some plastic flatware and paper napkins.
And then… he feels something. Something that doesn’t quite fit. Tucked under a cheese grater and a pair of oven mitts is an eight by ten manila envelope, the kind with a metal clasp at the top.
Bron opens the clasp. Pulls out the contents. And feels his heart thud through his chest.
Chapter 35
HE’S LOOKING at a stack of identical black-and-white glossy photos. They’re headshots—the standard calling card for models and actors. A dozen copies.
The name printed in script at the bottom of the photo is “Sunny Lynn Aberday.”
His stomach freezes.
Of course it’s her, but somehow not her. The hair is shorter and straighter, with some serious studio styling—and her freckles are missing. Photoshopped clean off. To the right of the full-face photo are two smaller head-to-toe shots in color—one showing her in a red bikini, the other in a flower-print sundress. Girl-next-door gorgeous. On the back are her vital stats: hair color, eye color, height, weight, measurements. The rest of the résumé is brief.