Chapter One
“I just want to know who killed my mother!” Riley Hartwell cried.
She could feel the heat on her face and knew her cheeks were burning bright red.
Trying not to cry, she clenched her fists and flared her nostrils. The men before her—that bastard District Attorney and his lackeys in the police department—would love to see her break down in tears. But she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.
No, she would show them strength instead.
They didn’t intimidate her. The elected office, the badges, their projection of authority. None of it got to her.
She’d show them.
Riley stepped closer, looking at the DA and the three cops who flanked him. One was in uniform, but the other two were plainclothes detectives who wore cheap, ill-fitting, off-the-rack suits.
“I’m going to find who did this. And I feel sorry for anyone who gets in my way.”
The uniformed officer stiffened. “Easy, sweetheart. That sounds a lot like threatening a police officer.” He probablythought his thick New York accent made him sound tough, but it just made Riley smile.
He started to move closer, but the DA put a hand on his shoulder and kept him in place.
Leaning against his desk, surrounded by cops on either side of him, District Attorney Roger Hayes appeared every bit the pretentious prick he was playing.
Polished. Fake tan. Perfectly tailored suit. He was too smooth.
Typical ladder-climbing politician.
“Now, now,” he said in a slightly condescending tone. “There’s no need for that. She only wants justice.” He nodded. “So, we share a common goal.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Riley yelled.
Hayes held up his hands in surrender. “We’re on the same team. But you need to stay out of our way. Let the professionals handle this.”
“You mean let you sweep it under the rug?” Riley countered.
“I mean we’ll—we’ll—ah, shit. I forgot the damn line!”
“Cut!” the director, Elana Romero’s voice rang out.
Riley and the other actors started laughing. “Hey,” George Sanders, the “cop” with a thick Bronx accent joked, “at least it wasn’t me this time.” Only now there wasn’t a hint of accent in his voice.
“Guys,” Hayes said, “I’m sorry. This one is all me.”
Turning around, Riley saw Elana still sitting in her chair.
“We can use most of that,” the director said. “Let’s just back up to page forty-three and do the top half again.”
Kira—the personal assistant in charge of helping Riley—appeared quickly without even being asked. “I have the script open to that page,” she said as she finished flipping. “And here’s a bottle of water.”
“Thank you so much,” Riley said, accepting both.
She drained half the bottle, handed it back to Kira, and started reading her upcoming lines. Without saying a word, a makeup artist appeared, touching up a few spots on Riley as she continued to study the scene.
Other artists did the same to the four men who stood around the desk.
Boom mics were lowered and checked. Riggers set up a ladder and one climbed up to adjust the lights. A set dresser rushed to the desk, picked up a stack of papers that had been dramatically thrown to the floor in an earlier scene, and restacked them before placing them on their mark.
It was the typical busyness of a Hollywood soundstage between takes.
