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“I was checking out your IMDb page,” Harper says. “Lots of staff writer jobs, but this is only your second film. And you’re, what? Forty-five? And the writers’ strike...That took a lot out of people like you, didn’t it? Months of no work...”

David turns his palms up. “So I killed two people?”

“Maybe the original plan was just to scare everyone. And then José didn’t want to go along with it anymore, and you ended up killing him, maybe by accident. And then you had to cover up that crime. Maybe Ken saw you do something and was trying to blackmail you, so he had to go, too. As Connor says, who would confuse Ken and Fred? Certainly not from the front.”

Harper sits back, a little out of breath. And I have to admit it.

I’m impressed.

So is Simone because she starts a slow clap. “Bravo.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Simone,” I say. “Wasn’t Mrs. Winter just accusingyouof Fred’s murder?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Mrs. Winter throws her a look. “I’veneverliked you.”

So I guess those rumors of Fred and Simone dating all those years ago are true.

Huh.

“Me either, Mrs. Winter,” I say, and immediately regret it.

In my defense—nope, it’s not defensible.

“Nice, Eleanor, nice.”

“I’m sorry, but Harper’s theory is plausible.”

“Please. Someone’s committed two murders to guarantee a box office success? That’s the stupidest plot I’ve ever heard. And what about the sequel he’s already writing? Not going to happen if one of the leads dies.”

“That’s what the sequel could be about.”

“And you think David is behind it?” She makes a dismissive wave of her hand. “No.”

“Central casting again?”

“Yes. But also that theory could apply to any one of us here.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a bad one,” I say. “Maybe that’s what’s brilliant about it. Get a bunch of people together with the same motive so no one sticks out and you confuse the police...It’s been done before.”

Simone arches an eyebrow. “So a brilliant person designed this plan? Does David strike you as being that smart?”

I consider her. “Why are you defending him?”

She puts her hands out in front of her. “I have no skin in this game.”

“But you have the same motive as me,” David says.

“No, I don’t. I’ve already booked my next gig.”

“What is it?” I ask.

Her composure slips for a moment. “A film I wrote.”81

“What’s it called?”

“Untitled.”82