The phone rang early Monday morning, at around six thirty. Startled out of a sound sleep, for a second, Reece forgot where he was and what he’d been doing. Then he heard Jess mumble something in her sleep and glanced down to see her sweet, naked body curled around him.
Oh. Yeah. That’s what he’d been doing. All night long.
He didn’t know how he’d survived it. But, God, did he want to do it again.
He grabbed the phone. “Hello,” he answered, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her.
“Reece, it’s me.”
Rowan. He came to attention, hearing the seriousness in his brother’s voice. Rolling away from Jess onto his side, he rose on his elbow. “What is it?”
“We’ve got her. Maisy Cullinan is in custody.”
Relief flowed like a river, and he collapsed back on his pillow. “Thank God.”
The woman who’d stalked him for months, who’d likely burned down his house, shot at him, and, most importantly, hurt the woman lying in his bed, had been caught. It was as if he’d awakened from a bad dream to face a sunny day.
With her history, and the damning evidence Maisy had left behind, he had no doubt she would be put away for a very long time. She would either go back to a mental hospital or go straight to prison. She might have enough money to hire the best lawyers, but she hadn’t even tried to cover her tracks at the hotel; her face was all over the surveillance tape. Plus, according to Rowan, three neighbors of the murdered woman had now come forward as witnesses, and Cullinan’s fingerprints had been found, not on the wiped-down murder weapon, but on a crystal glass holding watery iced tea in the victim’s house.
It was over. Jessica was safe.
“There’s more, bro. I don’t think you’re gonna like this.”
“You’ve already made my day. Not much you can say that could ruin it.”
“She wants to talk to you. She’s insisting on it.”
Reece inhaled slowly, and exhaled more slowly. Every muscle in his body tensed as anger roared through him. His head started to pound. The woman hadn’t put him through enough hell? She was still trying to call the shots, to bend him to her will? Did she think she owned him?
“Why the hell would I agree to that?” he snapped.
Apparently he spoke too loudly. Jessica jerked awake. Her eyes flew open and she peered at him, asking a silent question. Feeling stupid for waking her, he forced himself to calm down. He grabbed her hand, shook his head, and returned his attention to the call.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” his brother said. “And normally I wouldn’t. We’ve got her on attacking Jessica, and on the murder of Candace Waterstone.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“Sid Loman.”
The gallery manager. The one he’d fired the night he and Jessica had met.
The one who’d turned up dead in the street.
“Did she kill him too?”
“She won’t say. Nor will she say what she knows about the shooting at the gallery, or the fire at your house. Not unless she can talk to you.”
“Jesus Christ.” He put a hand over his eyes, knowing Jessica was growing more concerned. When he felt her hand on his chest, he grabbed it and squeezed.
“Maybe the other two cases will be enough to put her away, but you know she has a lot of money. She can hire the best of the best and drag this out.”
Yes, she could, thanks to that stupid lottery jackpot.
“If she sees you, though, and gives us something on these other crimes, it adds more nails to her coffin. Hell, bro, she hinted that she might even confess and plead guilty, as long as she gets in a room with you.”
If she didn’t, the case would have to go to trial. With her many millions, the suspect could hire doctors, expert witnesses, and high-priced, unscrupulous attorneys. This nightmare might go on for years.
Jessica, the intended victim of one of Maisy Cullinan’s murderous impulses, would have to testify, probably more than once. So would Reece, especially if she was charged with the arson and the shooting. It would be a Hollywood spectacle. There would be grand juries, hearings, trials, and appeals. Every time one of them came up, Jess would be dragged back through her worst nightmare, having to talk about what she’d gone through and relive it for years to come. Unless Maisy confessed and pled guilty.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Where and when?”
“This afternoon,” said Rowan. He sounded relieved. “She’s being processed right now at Central, on Sixth Street.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, man. For what it’s worth, I think she’ll do what she said. I know it’s gonna be a bitch being in the same room with her, but, in the long run, it’ll be the best thing for you, and for Jessica.”
He disconnected the call, then waited for Jess to ask him who it had been or what had been said.
She wrapped an arm around his waist and entwined her legs with his, whispering, “You won’t have to be alone in a room with her, will you?”
She’d heard, or she’d intuited. Jess was smart enough to know he had to do it. One more thing he loved about the woman—she had a lot of common sense.
“Definitely not.”
Feeling moisture on his chest, and hearing the tiniest sniff, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, knowing she was crying. He said nothing, aware she didn’t like showing weakness. But it wasn’t weakness. She was afraid only for him. That wasn’t called weakness; it was called emotion.
They talked a little more, made slow love again, and fell back asleep. After only one night with her by his side, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to sleep well without her. His former relationships had never included nights like the last one, and he hadn’t even realized what he was missing. Now he would know.
When he woke up again at nine, he watched her, wondering what single good thing he’d done in his life to find her. He also wondered when the bad ones would tear her away.
“Stop looking at me,” she grumbled, pulling a pillow over her head. “Weirdo.”
He got out of bed, taking his own pillow and tossing it on top of her. “I’m going to take a shower. The sooner I can get this day over with, the better.”
The pillows came flying off. “Crap, I’d forgotten.”
They exchanged a long look. He knew she wanted to ask him not to do it. She knew he would refuse. So neither of them said anything.
Once she was awake, she went into the kitchen to make them breakfast while he got ready for this afternoon’s challenge. Knowing the woman in custody had invented some fantasy about them, and that she would read something into whatever he wore, he pulled on black pants and a black dress shirt. She could read into that whatever she wanted.
Going out to the kitchen, he heard Jess talking to someone. She was setting the table, her phone tucked against her shoulder, saying, “Okay, no, I’m fine. Of course I understand. I appreciate your candor. Goodbye.”
He poured himself coffee, leaning against the counter. “Who was that?”
She sighed heavily as she began to butter toast. “My professor. He heard about what happened and knew I probably wouldn’t be checking the school website, so he called to let me know about my final grade in his class.”
“And?”
“B minus.”
“That’s not bad.”
“It’s the first B I’ve gotten in any of my major classes. Stupid final project got a D. I should just quit this business now.”
He lowered his cup and went to her, taking her chin and lifting it up to stare at her. “Quitting is the one guaranteed way to fail out here. You never quit. Got it?”
She saluted. “Yes, sir.”
That was Jess. Down for twenty-two seconds and right back to being confident and cocky. “So what was wrong with your final?”
“He said my writing wasn’t mature enough to tackle the subject matter.” She laughed. “Considering I was writing about my own life as a kid, I kinda wanted to argue that. But Alan knows what he’s…”
“Alan?” he said, backing up a step. “Alan Bent? That’s who you were just talking to?”
“Yes.”
“Ignore him,” he snapped, his stomach churning so much he didn’t think he’d even be able to keep down a piece of that toast. “He’s nothing.”
Jess lowered the bread and the butter knife. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she said, “When are you going to tell me what your problem with him is?”
He shook his head. Usually Jess was so sharp. Maybe her friendship with her advisor had blinded her in some ways. “I can’t stand him,” he admitted. “And if he says your work is bad, you should run out and copyright it because he’s probably trying to steal it.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
He knew better than to think he could leave it at that. He also knew that Jess had another semester to go, and she could end up in a classroom with that slimy SOB again. She wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy, so he didn’t worry about her physically. But there had been rumors about Alan’s work in the past…and how he sometimes claimed credit for things he had not created.
“Think about it, Jess. Think about the one time I worked with him. I know you know what I’m talking about. Deep down, I know you do.”
She hesitated, her head tilted as she puzzled it out. And then she straightened it.
“Caleb,” she whispered.
“Caleb. And others.”
Her hand on the counter, she staggered onto the nearest bar stool, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Whenever he heard Bent’s name, he wanted to hurt someone, as the director had hurt several of the children in his power. “I found out after Caleb’s death. Coming back here might have involved my need to get a little revenge. Rowan and I made it a pet project for several years. Bent was the first one we went after.”
“You blackballed him.”
“I wanted to get him put away but couldn’t find enough evidence, or anybody willing to testify.” He almost spit the words as he added, “This town likes its secrets.”
She swiped both hands through her hair. He had no doubt she was mentally kicking herself for not having figured it out sooner. “He knows, and hates you for it. That’s why he warned me off you.”
Not a surprise. “What did he say?”
“He said I shouldn’t trust you, shouldn’t take the job, and definitely shouldn’t let you read my screenplay.”
“Did you believe him?”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you see me in the office last week? Have you noticed I’m here right now?”
“Smart ass.”
“Jerk.”
He leaned close and kissed her, both of them smiling.
Afterward, though, something began to nag at him. Over the weekend, while killing time between Jessica’s bouts of consciousness, Reece had dropped a few emails to friends in the business. He’d wanted to find out if anybody knew anything about Bent’s return. He’d been surprised to hear the old reprobate was shopping a script, trying to make a comeback. It was about a…“A little girl?”
“Huh?”
The pulse in his temple began to throb. “What, exactly, is your story about?”
“Me. My childhood—dad gone, mom dies, kid ends up in foster care. Bad things happen.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Come on, doesn’t every writer put their own story on paper at some point?” she asked, looking a little hurt.
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He reached into his pocket for his phone, yanked it out, and pulled up a long list of emails, trying to find one in particular. He opened it, read the contents again, and then handed the phone to her.
“What am I looking at?”
“A response I got from a friend of mine at Miramax. Walter, actually. He did some checking and said his boss got that email from Bent, pitching a script.”
“Okay. So?”
“Read the pitch, Jess.”
She enlarged the print on the screen, then held the phone closer. He watched her as she read.
First, her brow furrowed in confusion. Then her mouth tightened.
The anger line appeared between her eyes.
And finally, she gasped. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He plucked the phone out of her hand, knowing she was tempted to throw it across the room, not that he’d blame her.
“I can’t believe it. Can this really be happening?” she asked, slamming her hand on the counter, her anger making her whole body shake.
Not even responding, he pulled up his contacts list, found a name, and dialed. “Shh,” he told her as it began to ring.
She gaped. “Seriously? You’re making a call now?”
“To a friend of mine, a literary attorney.”
She started to say something, but he held a finger up to stop her as his friend answered. When she heard him tell the lawyer that he wanted him to file a copyright claim on a script immediately, now, this morning, and that Jess would email him the details within the next ten minutes, she let out a long breath and visibly relaxed.
As soon as he ended the call, she started talking again. “How could he do that? Does he really intend to just steal my story? The story I poured my heart into?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what he intended to do.” He held her closely, stroking her hair. “He won’t try it now, though, I promise you that. This time when I take him down, he’s going down for good.”
* * *
After Reece left that afternoon, Jess sat for a long time, just worrying.
It wasn’t like her. She was a doer, not a worrier. And part of her was feeling relieved, not concerned. She was glad that, for the first time since the night they’d met, she didn’t have to fear for his physical safety. His stalker was in custody. On the other hand, she was also worried about him because his stalker was in custody, and he had agreed to meet with the evil, murderous witch.
It wasn’t as though she feared Maisy Cullinan would have a shiv hidden on her, and would launch across a table and plunge it into his heart, screaming, “If I can’t have you, nobody can.”
No, that’s ridiculous.
It was. Still, she wished she hadn’t thought of it; now the picture was stuck in her mind.
Her more realistic concern, though, was about him being exposed to that kind of insanity. Everything he had told her about his mother, her mental illness, her breakdown, and her final years, had not only broken her heart; it had also made it clear he carried real scars from that time in his life. Now he was being put in a room with a mentally ill woman who was obsessed with him. She wasn’t sure how he would respond.
He’ll be fine, she told herself for the hundredth time, knowing it was silly to be worried about such a strong, capable man. He’d handled so much; he could certainly deal with this.
Maybe that was why the two of them were so drawn to each other. They’d each endured trials by fire at about the same age, and had come through them scarred but not completely burned. So logically, she knew there was nothing to worry about. But she wouldn’t be completely at ease until she saw his car coming back up the long driveway.
Before he left, they’d sent all the documentation needed for his attorney to file a copyright claim on her script. Fortunately, Liza had brought her laptop to her at the hospital, so Jess had the file handy. She’d even let Reece talk her into sending a copy to him. It made her nervous as hell, but she couldn’t deny that, if Alan proceeded with this scheme after he learned she was onto him, having someone of Reece’s stature announcing that he’d read it might help. If it came to legal action, she would probably be able to prove her authorship with computer records and time stamps. Frankly, though, she’d rather cut the director off at the knees before it got that far.
Now, having nothing else to do other than wish she had an Alan Bent voodoo doll, she decided to go outside. It was yet another gorgeous California day, warm and breezy, with a brilliant blue sky. A dip, some lounging, and a good book seemed like the perfect way to put the done/over period on the story of Maisy Cullinan. When Reece got home, hot sex in that pool would be the exclamation point.
As always, she slathered her redhead’s burn-prone skin with SPF 50 before grabbing a paperback off the shelf. It was the novelization of one of Reece’s movies. She would bet he hated it, and she looked forward to teasing him about it when she finished. She could almost picture his expression when she claimed the book was always better than the movie.
Unfortunately, after reading only the first fifty pages of the thing, she had to toss it aside. It was so bad, she wouldn’t even be able to pretend to argue with him about it later.
Hot after the brief time in the sun, she stepped into the shallow end, sighing as cool water enveloped her. She dove in and swam a couple of laps to get her blood pumping.
She was just about to switch her stroke when she heard a buzzer from inside the house, signaling someone was at the gate at the bottom of the driveway. Her heart lifted as she realized who it must be.
Liza had called earlier, saying she didn’t think she was going to be able to come up today after all, but would try. Apparently her sister had worked it out. She grabbed a towel and hurried to the sliding glass door. The kitchen was tiled, and her feet were wet. Not wanting to make a mess, or slip and break her neck—Reece would kill her if he came home to find her corpse in his kitchen—she put one foot in and reached around the wall to push the button for the gate. While she waited for Liza to arrive, she dried off more thoroughly so she wouldn’t slip and slide her way through the house.
The doorbell rang. She hurried to answer it, prepared to ask Liza if she wanted her margarita on the rocks or frozen. Spending the afternoon drinking fruity drinks sounded like the ideal way to get her mind off where Reece was and what he was doing.
She swung the door open, and the words died in her mouth. It wasn’t her petite, adorable sister. Instead, standing on the covered porch was a tall, bulky man, someone she would never have expected to show up on Reece’s doorstep.
“Steve?”
Steve Baker, former actor, a guy she knew Reece had hoped to never see again, stood outside, a grin on his face. “Hi, uh, Jessica, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He waited expectantly. She tilted her head in confusion.
“Oh, no, didn’t Reece tell you I was coming up?”
She stopped her jaw from hitting her chest right as it began to fall, snapping her mouth closed. “No, he neglected to mention that.”
“That guy,” he said with a hearty laugh. He lifted a bulging satchel. “He’s giving me a reading for a small part in his next film and told me to feel free to stop by so we could talk about it before the audition.”
Part of her was thrilled Reece had done as she’d asked him to do. He’d put aside his old resentment and thrown a bone to an old friend. But she really wished he’d remembered to call the man to cancel, or at least let Jess know about the appointment. Especially because she was standing here in a skimpy bikini.
Although she felt awkward playing hostess in Reece’s house, she felt bad that he’d come all the way up here because Reece hadn’t called him to cancel. She also couldn’t help noticing the sweat on Steve’s brow and the redness of his face. It was a hot day, and courtesy demanded she at least let him come in to cool off before she sent him away again.
“He’s not here, unfortunately. Something came up,” she said, stepping back and opening the door wider. “But please, come in for a cold drink.”
He followed her inside, closing his eyes and smiling as the cool air hit his face. “You’re a lifesaver. My car’s air conditioner isn’t working right.”
Leading him into the kitchen, she grabbed her beach towel off the counter and wrapped it around herself, sarong-style. She wished her shorts and shirt were here as well, but at least it was better than her bathing suit. No, she hadn’t gotten any bad vibes off the man the first time they met, but given all her recent experiences, Jess couldn’t help being on guard. The house was so secluded, and he was a stranger.
“Is iced tea okay? I brewed it this morning.”
“Perfect,” he said.
“Sugar and lemon?” Such a hostess. Emily would be proud.
“Please.”
She prepared a glass, added a lemon wedge, and handed it to him. As he leaned to take it, she caught a whiff of something on his breath.
That’s scotch. It was midafternoon, but Steve had already been drinking.
The first time she’d seen him, she had noticed his prematurely aged face and red nose, and suspected he had a drinking problem. Knowing he had driven up here after tossing one—or several—back irritated her. On these roads, even on the driveway—especially on the driveway—that was reckless.
“So do you have any idea when Reece will be back?”
Although she knew it might be hours, something made her say, “Could be any time.”
“Oh, great. If you don’t mind, I’ll just stick around.”
Crap. That strategy had backfired. Now, instead of keeping the man on his best behavior with the knowledge they could be interrupted at any second, she’d just given him an excuse to stay and wait. “Or it might take longer,” she said, wondering if he heard the tremor in her voice.
“It’s okay. Hey, I meant to say, I’m glad you’re all right. I heard the sirens at the hotel last week, and saw Reece looking like a madman as you were carried out. When I read about it the next day, I understood why. How awful for you!”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sitting across from him at the tall breakfast bar. She sipped her own tea and wondered where her small-talk ability had gone. It was MIA, along with her peace of mind. Why am I jittery?
“I heard on the news this morning that they caught the woman who did it. And she killed somebody else? That’s crazy, man.”
Her hand tightened around her glass. Every time she thought about the murder, her thoughts darkened. Not just with sympathy for the victim, but with a hint of fear. It could so easily have been her, or Reece. Not just the night of the chemical attack, but with that shot at the gallery. No, the woman apparently hadn’t confessed to it yet, but there seemed to be little doubt she was the one who’d done it.
“It was a rough couple of weeks. I’m glad it’s over.”
“Me too.” That nonstop smile broadened even more, though his eyes seemed flat. Because she was studying them, she noticed immediately when he dropped his attention to her chest for a quick peek.
She straightened the towel.
He pretended he hadn’t been looking.
“So it seems like you and Reece are pretty serious.”
Jessica’s tension built. Every woman knew to obey the little Spidey sense that said the words coming out of a man’s mouth didn’t match his mood or expression. This guy’s didn’t. His smile was too broad, his voice a little loud. He was trying to hide the fact that he’d been drinking. Maybe he’d just been fortifying himself for the meeting with Reece, knowing there was a lot riding on the audition, but she didn’t think that was it.
Something strange was going on here. She didn’t like it.
“I’m so…happy for him.”
She heard the hesitation and saw his hand tighten around his glass. It was like he had a poker player’s tell—a sign he unconsciously made when bluffing. She just didn’t know what game he was playing or who was holding the better hand.
“You know, why don’t I call him? Maybe he’ll want you to come into the city and meet him at his office.”
Not waiting for him to respond, she got up and headed for the door. She had left her cell phone outside. Good thing—she preferred to be out in the open rather than in the enclosed house. It felt a little safer, despite the fact that there were no close neighbors.
You’re being paranoid. Steve was an old friend of Reece’s family, and Reece himself admitted he’d been innocent in Rachel’s descent. He had been maligned and practically ridden out of Hollywood. On top of that, his father had died a brutal death. He deserved her pity, not suspicion.
That was why she didn’t react when Steve followed her out.
“God, what a view!” he said, staring out at the hills rising on either side of the yard, and the edge of the cliff that fell away across the back. “Can we sit out here for a while?”
Relief flooded her. That didn’t sound like a man who was trying to keep her in an enclosed space. Of course, given the hills, the cliff, and the high metal fence running along the front of the property, they were in an enclosed space. It wasn’t as confining at the house, at least.
“Sounds good. I was just enjoying the pool before you arrived.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, wagging his brows, giving off that creepy vibe again.
She smiled tightly. “Oh, I should stay covered up. You know redheads and sun.”
Steve scooted another lounge chair close to the one she’d been using. Dropping his satchel onto it, he said, “Um, actually, mind if I use the restroom?”
“Of course not.” She told him where to find it and watched him go inside. As soon as he was gone, she grabbed her shorts and T-shirt from the pool deck and yanked them on.
Why did men not realize women were primed to be suspicious of strangers? That it might not be cool to intrude when a woman was alone, to sneak uncomfortable glances and make suggestive comments? It was the twenty-first century. Every woman in the world had run into men who gave her the creeps. She didn’t understand why the decent ones didn’t grab a clue and follow some basic rules of conduct.
Maybe this isn’t a decent one.
Remembering the reason she’d come out here in the first place, and suddenly wanting to hear Reece’s voice, she glanced at the door, hoping to make the call before her visitor returned. She couldn’t imagine Steve would tell such an easily disproven lie, but she wanted to be sure Reece really had been expecting him.
She only hoped she could reach him. He had been gone for about ninety minutes and might very well be sitting in a police interrogation room facing the woman who’d tried to kill Jess less than a week ago. Wanting something to ground her, however, she tried anyway.
Hoping to keep it dry, she had left her phone on a small table out of splashing range. She spun around to retrieve it, forgetting Steve had repositioned the other chair.
“Ow,” she snapped as she banged right into it. That was going to bruise the heck out of her shin.
Her hard knock had not only injured her; it had also sent Steve’s satchel flying off the seat. Pages of a scene-side, probably the one he was working on with Reece, had fallen on the wet cement, as had other documents, a notebook, and bound scripts. Embarrassed, and glad he was taking a while inside, she bent to scoop everything up. She’d have to lay the pages out on the chair and hope they would be legible when they dried.
Before she picked up a single one, though, something else caught her eye. It had fallen between the two lounges—a bound script, with all the typical proprietary warnings about not sharing it. ACTOR’S COPY was stamped on top, the title below.
And below that were two signatures, plus a handwritten sentence.
Her heart started to pound. Feeling like she was still in the water, moving through it slowly, she picked up the bound pages. She had left her sunglasses inside, and had to squint against the brilliant sunlight to make sure she was reading correctly.
ACTOR’S COPY: RACHEL WINCHESTER. Together at Last.
Below that, in a boyish scrawl, was Reece’s signature; beside it, his sister’s. The additional writing proclaimed the Winchesters as the world’s biggest stars.
There was something else. Drawn in the bottom corner was a heart, with the initials RW and SB.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, recognizing what she held. There couldn’t be two scripts like this; it was an irreplaceable piece of history. Reece’s history, or at least one precious moment of it. He thought it had been lost forever in the fire that destroyed his home. But Steve Baker—Rachel’s teenage boyfriend—had it in his possession.
This could mean only one thing.
“I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
She swung her head up. Steve stood a few feet behind her. Jess launched to her feet, clutching the script to her chest and backing away slowly between the chairs.
“You burned down Reece’s house.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Please give that back.”
She took another step back on the slippery deck. “Admit it.”
He extended a hand, his whole face tense, a mixture of anger and what looked like sadness. “Please, Jessica, give it back to me. It’s precious.”
Not because of the signatures, she’d bet, but because of that heart. Rachel had doodled it on one happy day of her life, when all had been right with her world and cute TV star Steve Baker had been her boyfriend.
He started to walk toward her. Reacting instinctively, knowing she was in danger, Jess extended her arm, holding the script over the deep water. “One more step and she swims.”
He froze, his stare focused on her hand. “You wouldn’t. Reece…”
“Reece has already mourned the loss of this. Not to mention everything else he owns.”
Steve’s back stiffened. “That fire was an accident.”
“Bullshit. They found accelerant.”
Finally looking her in the eye, he insisted, “I didn’t mean to burn the house down. I just…” He swept a hand over his red, sweaty brow. “I was looking for something.”
“This?”
“No. Not that. But when I saw it…when I saw his room with all the awards, the pictures, the memories, I lost it.”
The self-pitying tone really got on her nerves. “Poor you.”
“Look, I was drunk. I went a little crazy seeing everything he had that I was supposed to. I dumped some booze on some of his stuff and threw a match. It just got out of control.”
“So you let his house burn down because he was successful and you weren’t.” She glanced at the script in her hand. “All you gave a damn about was this.”
He walked toward her again, reaching out. She leapt back, forgetting the other items that had spilled out of Steve’s bag. Her feet hit wet paper, and she skidded like an old cartoon character slipping on a banana peel.
As her feet flew out from under her, she heard Steve cry out. He lunged forward, though whether he was trying to grab her or the script, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Her feet hit the water, the rest of her body starting in after them.
All except her head. That went straight down on the concrete lip of the pool before she fell all the way in. And brightest day descended into darkness.