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She began to speak, but her voice didn’t work. It felt broken, out of practice, hoarse. When she cleared her throat, Roman smiled as if he knew the charm he’d cast over her.
“Yes,” she said finally. “At times, I suppose I get carried away.”
“Indeed.” Roman’s lips twitched in her direction. “See me after class, will you, Penny?”
“But—” She glanced listlessly at the script in her hand. Her shoulders sagged, and she felt drained of energy. Exhausted, like she might after a particularly intense round of lovemaking. Her creativity had sizzled and then fizzled in the time she’d been onstage. “I thought you wanted me to do a scene?”
“I think my point has been made.” Roman easily turned toward the sea of students. “That will be all for now, Ms. Sands. Please take your seat.”
Penny returned to the torn fabric on her chair and slid her notebook in front of her. She was so distracted, so hot and bothered, that she didn’t notice what happened onstage for the rest of the hour.
It was as if she’d turned a new leaf. Something in Roman’s words had stirred a new longing in her, bringing about a transformation that was all too welcome. She no longer felt broken by her lackluster experiences in a new city. She no longer felt vulnerable and weary, out of control. Instead, she felt empowered. Somehow, she’d experienced a patch of greatness, of genius, in a dingy theater off Sunset Boulevard, surrounded by aspiring actors.
They don’t understand, she thought dully, gazing around at her classmates. They want the fame, the glory, the prestige.
Penny wanted to be an artist. Her very spirit craved it, desired the freedom of expression, the life-changing, soul-twisting call for something greater.
It suddenly seemed that only one man in the entire city—maybe the entire world—understood her. The need to create, to bring to life scenes of blood and death so realistic, an audience could taste the filmy copper on their tongues as they watched life seep away on a screen. Or to bring a burning desire to the audience, spurring racing heartbeats as two forbidden lovers came together on the pages of a screenplay in a sweeping culmination of lust and denial.
Yes, Penny thought. Only one man understood her, and that man stood tall and stately onstage, an undiscovered gem of talent in a sea of shiny stars.
That was when it hit her.
Somehow, over the course of a month and a half, Penny Sands had fallen madly, hopelessly, desperately in love with Roman Tate. And he wanted to see her after class—alone.
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: Ms. Moore, how long have you been babysitting for the Wilkes family?
Olivia Moore: On and off for the last three years. I found the job listing on a corkboard at UCLA when I was a freshman.
Defense: How often would you say you babysit for the Wilkes family?
Olivia Moore: It goes in spurts. Sometimes, it’s every other week. Other times, we go a few months without touching base.
Defense: And what’s the typical length of time you watch the Wilkes children?
Olivia Moore: Under normal circumstances, oh, I’d say anywhere between two and six hours depending on the evening.
Defense: Have there ever been extenuating circumstances?
Olivia Moore: Excuse me?
Defense: You said under normal circumstances. I’m wondering why you said that, if circum stances have been anything other than what you’d classify as normal.
Olivia Moore: Well, there was one time that I watched the kids for a little while longer. That was just because Mark needed help, and it was the right thing to do.
Defense: Mark—you mean, Detective Wilkes?
Olivia Moore: Yes.
Defense: Where was his wife?
Olivia Moore: We didn’t know. That was the problem.
Defense: How long was Anne Wilkes gone?
Olivia Moore: Three days.
