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I manage to keep my expression neutral, just raising one brow. I have no idea what's happening. Or where we are in this conversation. All I know is that I need tonotreact.

"Your character's name isn't Temperance." He gives a quick bark of a laugh. "I'm just fucking with you. I'm talking about Temperance. Temperance Johnson.”

My heart is hammering in my chest, but the smile I give him says:I have no idea what you're talking about, and I'm indulging you because you're my director.

He sits back in his chair. "That's much better."

"So." I reach up to touch the script again. "Should we get started?"

He does that strange bark of a laugh again, his narrow chest shuddering. "Okay, you're actually very good. I wasn't so sure when Temperance suggested that we work together. But I have grown to trust the man. He's got an eye for talent. We’ve worked together for about a decade now." Troy holds my gaze—his eyes are green with flecks of gold, like a wheat field in early summer.

I don't say anything. I don't want to give anything away. Is he really working for Temperance? Or is he on Grand’s side and just playing me? And why would a big-time Hollywood director be involved with any of these people?What did he get caught doing?

"He told me about the issue with Grand." Troy sits forward and picks up a plastic water bottle from the center of the table. "Tricky business, that." He cracks the lid and takes a slug, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "But I think I can help."

"I'm sorry. I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about." I keep my voice neutral, once again a woman letting a powerful madman spin his tale.

"Oh please, you've recovered well, but you gave it all away with that first flush of color." He runs his hands over his face and gives me a mock look of utter shock.

Uncomfortable, I wiggle in my seat, embarrassed by my behavior. Scared by it.I exposed myself to him.But isn't that a director's job? To get you to expose yourself? No wonder Temperance likes working with people in my industry.

"I'm telling you I can help you. There's a party tonight. Grand’s back in town, you know?”

I did know. The final presidential debate is scheduled for tomorrow and Grand and his Democratic opponent had flown in a couple days early to adjust to the time change while prepping for the debate. Given the stakes, I assumed he’d be squirreled away the whole time with advisers at some quiet location.

Troy goes on, “I can take you as my date." He takes another sip of the water. "Your face is getting red again."

I clear my throat. Look down at my hands and try to rein in some of the insanity raging in my brain. “Are you,” I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “Are you suggesting that you—and Temperance—want me to kill him?Tonight?”

He gives a nod, that scarecrow hair flopping forward. Then Troy taps the script. "The dilemma you're facing now is very similar to what your character goes through. This is going to be great prep for the part." I don't say anything. Can't. "This is the kind of work that'll make you a star."

The gown,borrowed from a top designer, looks like a Jackson Pollock painting—sprays and dots of colors—with spaghetti straps, a corset, and a skirt that comes to my knees.

I run my hands over my hips, turning to the side.I look good.Gorgeous, famous, everything I ever want to be. I'm staring at my ass. At the firm roundness of it. I have spent countless hours working on this ass, perfecting its shape. Denying myself delicious food in service to it.It does give me power in return.

My eyes rove to the script Troy gave me, which sits on my dresser. I have everything I came to this city to get…with just this one small caveat.

My grandmother's face flashes in my mind; wrinkled and gnarled with age, features twisted with bitterness. But we have the same dark hair and thick lashes…the same strength of will. Did she have to kill to escape the Nazis?She was a child.

A sudden, pressing need to hear her voice makes my skin itch. I've got my phone in my hand, and I'm dialing home before I even fully realize it.Home.

My maternal grandmother moved into my parents’ house after I lost them. A small farm that they worked in addition to their other jobs. Dad was born and raised in the Midwest, his accent thick and bland, his hair blond and wavy. A good and simple man. The kind you read about: hard working and married to the same woman his whole life. In many ways, he lived the American dream…until he died.

There are a million ways to live the American dream.

My mom grew up without a father. She didn’t remember him and questioning my grandmother never led to answers. They didn’t get along, Mom and Grandma, but a fierce loyalty kept them in touch.

And when I had no one else, Grandma raised me.

The phone picks up and the TV murmurs in the background but no one speaks. A lump blocks my voice. I haven't talked to her in almost a year. Not since my last visit.

I clear my throat and force my tongue to work. “Hello.”

"Stacy?" My grandmother's voice, thin as paper and strong as iron, crosses the line.

“Yes, it’s me.” Silence stretches between us. "I just wanted to call and say hi."

"I don't believe you, child. What are you doing out there?”