Chapter 2

The next day, they left – Michael for his studio, Kevin for school.

Their morning routine, the casual goodbyes, felt like scenes from a horror film where I was the only one who knew the script.

I walked through the house, a ghost in my own life.

Michael's study. I'd avoided it. Now, I pushed the door open.

The room was a shrine.

Not to me, his wife.

But to Sophia Bell.

Dozens of photographs covered one entire wall. Sophia at small theater premieres. Sophia at industry parties, always near Michael. Sophia in candid shots, laughing, her head thrown back. Each one professionally framed, artfully lit.

Michael had been a keen photographer once. Early in our marriage, I'd asked him to take some artistic portraits of me, something with mood, with story.

He always said he was too busy. No time.

He had time for Sophia. Endless time.

He had created a galaxy for her, each photo a shining star.

For me, there was nothing. Not a single picture he'd taken with that same care.

My hands clenched. The unfairness of it burned in my throat.

Sophia, the rising star, built on my stolen script, my stolen life.

Me, the ex-con, the pariah.

I needed to think. I needed to escape the suffocating weight of their betrayal.

David Lee.

The name surfaced from the depths of my despair. My best friend from UCLA film school. Brilliant, kind, fiercely loyal David.

After my arrest, he'd tried to reach out. Michael had told me David was too busy with his new tech venture in Silicon Valley, that he sent his regrets. Another lie.

I remembered a promise David made, years ago, when we were young and full of dreams.

"Em, if you're ever in real trouble, the kind you can't talk about on the phone, go to The Last Bookstore downtown. Find the oldest copy of 'The Great Gatsby' in the fiction section. Leave a note. I'll find it."

It had seemed overly dramatic then, a line from a spy movie.

Now, it was my only lifeline.

I drove to the sprawling, labyrinthine bookstore. The smell of old paper and forgotten stories was a strange comfort.

It took me almost an hour to find it – a battered, cloth-bound edition of Fitzgerald's masterpiece, tucked away on a high shelf.

My fingers trembled as I slipped a small, folded piece of paper inside.

On it, I had written just three words: "I need help."

I placed the book back, a silent plea sent into the universe.

Or at least, to Silicon Valley.