Chapter 6: Not Until Sunday

Mason's house in Silver Lake had one lamp on and no furniture he hadn't needed.

He opened the door at nine that night in shirtsleeves.

"Roz drove you?"

"Roz is parked at the end of the street with a thermos. She says she's my lookout."

"Does she think I'll try something?"

"She thinks I will."

He almost smiled, and stepped back to let me in.

We sat at his dining table with a script between us and a legal pad.

He had agreed to play the moderator for me, so I could hear every question the panel might throw before Friday.

He asked the first one in a dry, bright voice.

"Ms. Draper, the film's ending departs from the original draft. Can you tell us what the writer cut, and why?"

"She'll say the test audiences found it too bleak," I said.

"And then?"

"And then she'll smile and say she's grateful for the process."

"The moderator will follow up." He glanced at the pad. "'Can you share the original closing line?'"

I didn't say anything.

"Willa."

"You said my name."

"It's your name." He put down the pen. "Can you say it for me now? So I know what to listen for?"

"No."

"No?"

"You'll hear it in the room," I said. "If I say it at a table, it's one more thing someone can say they heard first."

He studied me for a moment, and nodded.

"That's a good instinct."

"I'm a writer."

"I'm learning that."

I reached for the glass of water, and my sleeve slid up.

Four marks showed on my forearm, gone purple at the edges where Lance's fingers had closed.

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