“Why did you bring me up here, Marla?”
“Good question. When you went to feed the meter I took your phone—you really need to be careful who’s watching you type in your code, you know. Everything’s on phones these days. I took it to the bathroom, I found your address, I took your key, I emailed your building, I read your recent searches. Where you were going, what you were planning. Search histories tend to give you a good feel for where someone’s head is. Recent breakup, running away, trying to escape what happened but they’re always there at the touch of a button, right? The happy couple. I’ve seen her, I know how you must feel. Losing a job, losing a boyfriend.”
“I haven’t lost a job,” I counter, my words drifting away on the breeze.
“And you’ve got a bit of an obsession with that story about the actress who jumped off the sign, haven’t you?” she continues regardless.
Instinctively my hands grip tighter onto the steel of the sign as a massive surge of adrenaline sweeps through me. The girl who fell from the sign. The realization hits me physically, momentarily knocking my balance and sending a fresh wave of vertigo through me. That’s why she’s brought me here, to the sign, because of the girl who jumped.
“You’re scared now, aren’t you? I’d never heard of her, her story. But I looked her up. It’s a good plot. Lots of pathos and bathos. That telegram offering her the new part the next day. Sad.” She gives a mock grimace. “So here we are.” She gestures out into the darkness. “I tried to ward you off. I gave fair warning. But you wouldn’t stop. Which means I can’t. Too many people have given too much for this part and I’m not going to let you sweep in at the last minute and steal it from under us. You don’t deserve this like she deserved it. Like we both deserve it. I get the chance she missed. I am getting out of this hole. I am getting this part, not you with your nice life and your nice family and your other options. Emily and I were out here too long, we worked too hard to walk away when we’re this close, when we’ve sacrificed so much. I never wanted it to come to this but you haven’t left me any choice.”
I feel the blow contact my face sharply before I see it, the pain intense and shocking. My balance fails me but thankfully, wedged between the struts and sign, it’s impossible for me to fall. Instead my body slumps into the strut as I try to catch my breath and make sense of the situation. My vision fuzzy, I shake open my eyes just in time to see her elbow come down on me again. I dodge instinctively, her arm only grazing my shoulder this time, but I can now feel the hot trickle of blood from my nose and the bright taste of blood in my mouth from that first connecting blow. I can’t feel the side of my face at all. My breath comes in ragged desperate gasps as I watch her raise a boot to kick.
Frantically I fumble for my pocket and tug out the gun wildly, catching it on the fabric and jolting the seam hard, tearing it in order to release it. I swing the barrel out into the air between us unthinkingly. She freezes, her face a mask of surprise.
Thinking only of my life I flick off the safety as calmly as my shaking hand will allow me to, my face a tingling, bleeding mess. With a quick swipe against my shoulder I remove the blood from my mouth before speaking.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, okay,” I say as clearly as I can, my smashed and swelling face already making talking hard. My voice sounds weird. “I am not going to shoot you for a part. No one is dying for a part. Do you understand me? You have to stop. You have to leave me alone. There are other parts, other people. Even if I walked away from this role today you wouldn’t get it, Marla. That ship has sailed. Kathryn has the film, not Moon Finch. You’re playing with fire but if you really need this then go back to them and take whatever lead they offer. It doesn’t have to be this one. Either way, this stops. I want you to go.” I twitch the barrel of the gun toward the ladder. “Go now. I’m leaving tomorrow. You won’t see me again. But if I see you, if you follow me, I will protect myself, do you understand?” My hand has stopped shaking but the quake is now inside me, deep in my core muscles, like shivering in the cold. Marla studies me, unsure of her next move. “If you go now, I won’t report this,” I push on. “Any of it. I don’t want to be involved. But if I see you again, I swear to God, I will make sure they put you somewhere that you can’t ever get to me. Do you understand?”
Marla looks at me quizzically. I wonder if she believes me. If I’d believe her were the tables turned. I don’t even know if I believe myself. Because right now all I want to do is call the cops as soon as she’s gone.
She looks at me silently until I pull back the hammer on the Sig and finally she speaks. “I’ll go,” she blurts. “But I’m going to need your word. Your word, Mia,” she repeats with unassailable firmness. “If you go to the cops, if you get in my way, I will find you, do you understand? And next time you won’t have a gun.”
I feel my breath tighten in my chest. I believe her. She will kill me. Like Ben Cohan killed Emily. I will disappear. Of course, I can’t be sure she won’t try to do that either way; she could come for me again, anytime, any day, this woman who can pass for other people. Even if I reported this the police aren’t going to be able to immediately protect me from her. The legal system doesn’t work like that. People aren’t locked up without evidence.
I think of the iPhone buried in my pocket recording all of this, seconds ticking over seconds. This is my only evidence. Everything that’s happened out here. And that evidence will show I brought a stolen weapon to meet a stranger in the middle of the night. The best protection from Marla I could hope for pre-trial would be a restraining order, and something tells me Marla might not take that entirely seriously. I taste the blood in my mouth as the dark drop all around hazes in and out of focus. My thoughts come hard and fast, terrifyingly clear in their logic: the only way to be truly safe, to know for certain that this woman could no longer be a danger to me, would be to pull the trigger. Here, now. I could claim self-defense.
Fear fizzes through me at the mere idea of it, and I squeeze the gun’s grip tighter as if I suddenly might do something crazy. But I’m not like her; I’m not willing to kill for this. I’m not that kind of person. Am I?
“You have my word,” I tell her. “What you do is up to you. But you need to leave me out of it.”
“Agreed,” she replies.
And with her words I realize what I’ve just said, my statement making the recording in my pocket purely a form of evidence against me. I have verbally acknowledged that I will not report her crimes if she promises to leave me out of them. It’s a promise I make her take at gunpoint.