could see a cowboy hat flapping in the air, and soon Ty had joined us in the hallway, too.
“What’s go on?” Ty asked.
Paul held up his hands. “Hold up, gang. We got a situation on our hands here. Becca, call police dispatch, tell them we got a 10-55.”
Scott and Edward both frowned at Paul and I realized his cover as an insurance guy was probably in jeopardy.
Becca’s eyes went wide. “What’s a 10-55?” she screeched.
“Never mind. Give me your phone,” Paul said.
Becca made a face. I knew she wasn’t supposed to let the contestants use any phones, but she didn’t seem to want to tangle with Paul. She unclipped her phone off her jeans and handed it to him with a grim face.
“Get Georgia out of here,” Paul said. He gestured toward Scott, Edward, and Ty. “And them, too.”
“I’m a doctor,” Edward said. “Is there something I can do?”
“This one’s too late for you, Doc.”
I whipped around, suddenly regaining myself. “Are you sure? We didn’t get him down. We just . . . no. Not we, you!
You
just closed the door on him!” My voice sounded too shrill in my ears. I reached for the door, some strange impulse in me demanding to know what Pietro had wanted to tell me, as if my reentering the room would magically make things different and he’d be alive again.
Paul stepped in my way before I could reach the doorknob. “Come on, G. You’re getting hysterical. You know the drill. Stay outta my crime scene.”
“What crime scene?” Scott asked. “Who’s in there? What’s going on?”
Paul ignored the battery of questions and dialed Becca’s phone. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if he was done with us and we were dismissed.
He mumbled something into the phone as I turned to the group. “It’s Pietro. He wanted to tell me something in private and now he’s dead, hanging by a noose from the ceiling fan.”
Becca gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
Paul let out a roar so fierce, one would have thought I’d stabbed him. “Christ! Georgia!”
Scott stepped between Paul and me. “Hey, man. What’s going on? Why are you going all postal on her? She’s a former cop. She knows—”
At the word
former
Paul looked like he would come out of his skin and I knew it was all he could do to contain himself and not pounce on Scott.
“I thought you were an insurance guy,” Edward said. “Why are you acting so strange? Let us in the room, maybe I can help!”
“Back off now!” Paul said, enunciating every word. “No one leaves the building.” He glared at Becca. “Got that? Secure the premises. LAPD is on its way.”
• • • • • • • • •
I n the break room it was as if someone had silently drawn battle lines. The contestants—Scott, Edward, Ty, and I—were in one corner, while the crew and producers were in another. While Scott, Edward, and Ty chatted among themselves, I took silent stock of the others.
Cheryl looked annoyed, acting like someone dying on her set was personally offensive.
Becca seemed rattled sitting next to the dragon lady and kept looking over at me and the cast. I knew in her heart she’d rather have been in our gang than in hers.
Kyle, the makeup artist, picked at his nails as he listened to Cheryl complain. He tsked in all the right places and looked completely sympathetic to her plight.
“Behind schedule again,” she shrieked.
The two cameramen, one a man on the larger side and the other on the smaller side, were fidgeting with their coffees and seemed generally impatient. Then there was the sound engineer, who had a Zen quality about him. His eyes were closed and he repeatedly stroked his black beard as if meditating.
At another table were a few interns and runners, all of whom looked like wet pups. They seemed to be listening attentively to one of the runners, a blond girl with multiple piercings in her eyebrow and tattoos down each arm, recant tales about
“What’s go on?” Ty asked.
Paul held up his hands. “Hold up, gang. We got a situation on our hands here. Becca, call police dispatch, tell them we got a 10-55.”
Scott and Edward both frowned at Paul and I realized his cover as an insurance guy was probably in jeopardy.
Becca’s eyes went wide. “What’s a 10-55?” she screeched.
“Never mind. Give me your phone,” Paul said.
Becca made a face. I knew she wasn’t supposed to let the contestants use any phones, but she didn’t seem to want to tangle with Paul. She unclipped her phone off her jeans and handed it to him with a grim face.
“Get Georgia out of here,” Paul said. He gestured toward Scott, Edward, and Ty. “And them, too.”
“I’m a doctor,” Edward said. “Is there something I can do?”
“This one’s too late for you, Doc.”
I whipped around, suddenly regaining myself. “Are you sure? We didn’t get him down. We just . . . no. Not we, you!
You
just closed the door on him!” My voice sounded too shrill in my ears. I reached for the door, some strange impulse in me demanding to know what Pietro had wanted to tell me, as if my reentering the room would magically make things different and he’d be alive again.
Paul stepped in my way before I could reach the doorknob. “Come on, G. You’re getting hysterical. You know the drill. Stay outta my crime scene.”
“What crime scene?” Scott asked. “Who’s in there? What’s going on?”
Paul ignored the battery of questions and dialed Becca’s phone. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if he was done with us and we were dismissed.
He mumbled something into the phone as I turned to the group. “It’s Pietro. He wanted to tell me something in private and now he’s dead, hanging by a noose from the ceiling fan.”
Becca gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
Paul let out a roar so fierce, one would have thought I’d stabbed him. “Christ! Georgia!”
Scott stepped between Paul and me. “Hey, man. What’s going on? Why are you going all postal on her? She’s a former cop. She knows—”
At the word
former
Paul looked like he would come out of his skin and I knew it was all he could do to contain himself and not pounce on Scott.
“I thought you were an insurance guy,” Edward said. “Why are you acting so strange? Let us in the room, maybe I can help!”
“Back off now!” Paul said, enunciating every word. “No one leaves the building.” He glared at Becca. “Got that? Secure the premises. LAPD is on its way.”
• • • • • • • • •
I n the break room it was as if someone had silently drawn battle lines. The contestants—Scott, Edward, Ty, and I—were in one corner, while the crew and producers were in another. While Scott, Edward, and Ty chatted among themselves, I took silent stock of the others.
Cheryl looked annoyed, acting like someone dying on her set was personally offensive.
Becca seemed rattled sitting next to the dragon lady and kept looking over at me and the cast. I knew in her heart she’d rather have been in our gang than in hers.
Kyle, the makeup artist, picked at his nails as he listened to Cheryl complain. He tsked in all the right places and looked completely sympathetic to her plight.
“Behind schedule again,” she shrieked.
The two cameramen, one a man on the larger side and the other on the smaller side, were fidgeting with their coffees and seemed generally impatient. Then there was the sound engineer, who had a Zen quality about him. His eyes were closed and he repeatedly stroked his black beard as if meditating.
At another table were a few interns and runners, all of whom looked like wet pups. They seemed to be listening attentively to one of the runners, a blond girl with multiple piercings in her eyebrow and tattoos down each arm, recant tales about
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