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“I will not.” Mrs. Winter looks around the room desperately as her eyes come to light on Simone. “Is this because ofyou? It is, isn’t it? I told him and told him to stay away from you. That you were nothing but trouble. But did he listen to me? No, no, he never has.”

Simone just stares at her. “Your son did this on his own.”

“I doubt that very highly.”

“Why, Mother? Because I’m not smart enough? That’s what you think, isn’t it? Fred’s the handsome one, not the smart one. Fred takes after his father. Fred isn’t meant for academics. Fred only got that Oscar because it was a weak field.”

“I never said any of those things.”

“Yes, youdid.”

“So it’s my fault? All of this?” She points dramatically at poor Shawna on the ground, covered by a sheet, the blood easing out of it and staining the floor.

“Just be quiet, Mother. For once in your life.”

Mrs. Winter’s hand goes to her heart and she falls back dramatically onto Mr. Winter, and I have a moment where I think that maybe she’s had a heart attack, but no.

Mr. Winter catches her with a practiced hand and rights her as Officer Anderson puts the zip ties around Fred’s wrists and pulls them tight.

There’s a minute of silence while the storm gathers outside for one last fight, slamming against the windows like a lung that inhales and exhales.

The building shakes, then settles.

No one knows what to say.

Well, notno one.

“So, this had nothing to do with me?” Connor says.

Some people never change.

CHAPTER 30

Is Anyone Going to Get a Hollywood Ending?

There was no sleep after that.

Three people dead.

A broken marriage.

A broken heart. No, three.

But even though Emma does love Fred, I think she’ll find in time it wasn’t a lasting love. Not one that could’ve sustained them past the bubble of the movie.

She’ll never know. He might’ve had real feelings, or he might’ve been acting. She’ll wonder about that, too. She’ll blame herself and say that she should’ve seen it. Seen through his veneer and her old crush and found the very heart of him.

I understand how she’s going to feel because I feel guilty, too.

I always thought one of the good things about being a writer is that you have insight into people. A kind of antennae for motivations and wants. Because you have to put yourself in everyone’s shoes. You have to feel the darkness and imagine what could bring someone there. Even if you’re not writing about yourself—and I never really was, only a shadow on the wall with better hair and better decisions—you have to make it feel like you are. You have to make your readers believe that you feel what your character feels.

Writingisacting.

But I wasn’t thinking about that when I was spending hours on set with headphones around my neck, sitting in a chair markedWRITER.

I was thinking—this is cool.

I was pissed at the changes in the story.