The Break(73)

“That’s what it is, June,” he says, like I’m his student and he must impart this piece of wisdom. “Ask my wife,” he says. “She’s the one who taught it to me, though I’d never admit that to her.” He lets out a laugh that sounds rehearsed, and that’s because it is: I’ve heard him say this very same thing in interviews.

“Is that so?” I ask.

“Oh, definitely,” Gabe says, so convinced by his own performance. “You can’t throw in a murderer at the last minute. The audience has to see him up close and personal, to really get to watch him and know him. And then, if you can surprise your audience, they’ll be satisfied. Sometimes my wife goes back into her manuscripts once they’re totally finished and writes a new character who ends up being the killer. Half the reason everyone is so surprised by Rowan’s killers is that she’s surprised, too. She writes the entire novel being completely open to someone she never saw coming.”

He’s in love with his wife. It’s right there on his face, in his big hands gesticulating when he talks about her.

The deeper we get into the script, the more relaxed I get. And I’m not saying I’m not completely infatuated with him, because I am. He’s undeniably one of the most magnetic men I’ve ever been around, and he’s extremely hot. But what I really want? What I really want is to be a part of this, to be one of these brilliant New Yorkers who walk around with stories in their minds and roles to play and scripts to write and scenes to shoot. I want it so badly I can taste it like sugar. And while I’m sitting here giving Gabe O’Sullivan story feedback with the skills I’ve honed during the last few weeks reading scripts at WTA, I feel so insanely good.

“So you really think this is too unbelievable, right?” Gabe asks about a scene where the main character’s lover shows up unknowingly at his wife’s book party.



“Way too much of a coincidence,” I say. “Now, if she figured out who the wife was, and then started to stalk her . . . that could work?”

Gabe frowns. “It could, I suppose. Creepy, though.”

“Yeah, well,” I say with a shrug. “It’s certainly the genre for creepy.” My phone rings and it makes me jump. “I should get that,” I say, fumbling in my bag. “It could be Louisa.”

“Go ahead,” says Gabe, scrawling what we’ve been talking about in pencil.

It’s a number I don’t recognize, but just in case it’s Louisa’s home phone, I pick it up. “June?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

“This is she,” I say, all professional, like how I’ve heard Louisa answer her phone.

“This is Charles Johnston, from The Slope Playhouse. I’m calling because I’d like to offer you the part of Cecily.”

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaim. Gabe looks up from his script.

Charles laughs. “Is that a yes?” he asks me.

“That’s definitely a yes,” I say, and then I squeal like I haven’t done since I was young. I’m barely able to focus as Charles runs through a few details, a rehearsal schedule he’ll email me, and some performance dates. I thank him profusely, and when we get off the phone Gabe asks, “Some good news?”

“Oh yes, some good news,” I say, my smile nearly cracking my face in half. “I had this audition last night, and I . . . I got the part.”

“Oh, wow,” Gabe says. “June, that’s terrific. Should we go get a drink to celebrate? Rowan could come. Or Harrison. Or whomever you like.”

“That’s so sweet,” I say. “But actually, I think I need to go back uptown. I really just can’t wait to tell Louisa in person. I’ll be seeing you, though,” I say. “Thanks for having me help with the script. It made me feel really good.”

Gabe raises a dark eyebrow. “Goodbye, June,” he says.





FORTY-THREE


Rowan. Friday evening. November 11th.


I’m running through the West Village among the blares of sirens. I’ve got my arms around Lila, holding her close and whispering into her ear. Tears are hot on my face; I try to swipe them away, but it’s no use. There’s crime scene tape on my block. To the first officer I see, I say, “Please let me through,” but my breath is coming so fast it’s hard to get it out. “Detective Mulvahey is waiting for me,” I manage to say. “He asked me to come.”

The cop’s face is impassive, but he lifts the tape to let me pass.

I round the corner to see June’s body on a stretcher. Someone is unzipping an empty black body bag, and I can’t help it—I vomit.

“Rowan,” says a low voice. I look up to see Harrison and Gabe. I don’t know which one of them said my name. They come toward me, and Gabe quickly wraps Lila and me in his arms. Harrison rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s obvious he’s been crying. A glow from a restaurant backlights them, and I see the diners inside staring out the window at our tragedy. A child with fluffy red hair has her face pressed against the window before an unseen adult pulls her away, big hands on her shoulders, tucking the child back into a cocoon of safety, into a world where no one gets hurt, so unlike the real one.



Detective Mulvahey appears behind a car with its flashing lights sputtering red and white through the night air. He looks at all of us. “After Rowan identifies the body, I’ll take all three of you to the station for questioning. You should have a lawyer present, so please make arrangements.”