According to Lin, the apartment has been unoccupied for months, so I doubt there’s anything to eat downstairs. But Parisis the land of street cafés. I’ll go grab a bite, get my bearings, and then stock up on groceries.
Once I have necessities, I can dive deep into the script.
After one more glance at the title page, I set aside the screenplay. Earlier, I couldn’t stop myself from reading, but I need to wait and start over fresh. I should be clear-headed and focused for the initial pass, because I only have a few days to prepare for the audition.
And I need to nail this role.
I make a quick, mental list of all I need to do—read the script, research my character, analyze scenes, choose an outfit, pick a place to film. And that’s only the prep work.
Grabbing my phone, I type the list in a note-taking app. Organization and efficiency are key, because I’ve got no time to waste. This audition could turn everything around for me, and I’m thrilled by the possibility of working with Joyce Sandman.
And yet . . . worry niggles at the base of my brain.
I think of my previous role and the lost opportunity. How could a horror movie measure up toThe Last Wave?The director once characterized the film as “a meditation on the nature of truth and history.”
A description my mother would have loved.
Long after the money dwindled and her fame faded, she maintained religiously high standards. She turned down roles for a variety of reasons—location conflict, required nudity, amateur production, bad script.
I can imagine what she’d say about a slasher movie.
My shoulders tighten in an involuntary cringe. It’s true more highbrow scary films have gone mainstream, but the old Hollywood adage remains: horror movies can be where careers are born.
Or where they go to die.
But Joyce Sandman as director? No matter the genre, working with her would be a dream.
Curious, I pick up my phone and typeThe Whisper Houseinto the search bar. I find scant information online, other than a short article listing writers and producers. Not surprising, since production hasn’t started yet.
But studios usually make social media accounts for movies. I open Instagram and search the title. Nothing yet. Then I try the screenwriter, but his last post is two months old.
Out of habit, I click the icon for my home feed, scrolling through videos and photos from accounts I follow. A few pictures make me miss sunny California, and one of my cousin’s pugs brings a smile to my face.
I scroll a little further and stop, my finger hovering.
A picture fromThe Last Wavefills the screen, a few of the crew gathered on the last day of shooting. Over two hundred likes and forty comments. I waver with indecision.
I want to read what people are saying.
But I’m afraid to look.
Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’m torturing myself, I click on the post and go to the page. The crew photo is the last one shared. No one has posted since the movie shut down.
It’s like the whole experience is frozen in time, all the previous shots of actors on set, the camaraderie and smiling faces. A dream come true for so many.
For others, a nightmare.
My gaze lands on another picture, and I suck in a breath.
Mackenzie and me, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning like fools for the camera.
She’s radiant with joy and hope. Unlike the last time I saw her—jaw clenched, eyes haunted, hope ruined.
Regret coils in my belly like a newborn snake.
Where is Mackenzie now? How is she doing? If I texted her, would she respond?
Lin warned me to stay off the grid, explicitly ordering me not to contact anyone in the business. But especially anyone who worked onThe Last Wave.
