It had been ten months since the night he’d found Holly Pages dead in her trailer.

Hard months.

He’d quit his job, not wanting to ever spend a single night on a movie set, alone and responsible, waiting for a dirty white hood to emerge from the shadows, the face hidden, a small favor on its lips.

He’d found work as a bouncer, something he’d done in his younger years. Something he thought he’d never have to do again. Repeated nights of getting his shoes puked on, of bruising and bloodying his knuckles on every tough guy that came at him after too many drinks, too much coke snorted up in the filthy restroom.

The truck he’d purchased with Jimmy’s (blood) money turned out to be a lemon, the seven-grand reduced to a few hundred he got for scrap after the engine blew.

He never did get Gina the laptop.

Pete sighed, appreciating Noemi trying to soothe him, erase his guilt. If only she really knew. He tried to smile again and was more successful the second time. He didn’t feel any better but as the theater began to fill, he found himself distracted by a sliver of curiosity, a tingling interest for how the film had turned out.

He’d always gotten a kick out of seeing the movies he worked on. Pointing out the building he stood watch over, or a one-line actor he’d shared a smoke with. He was proud of the movies and television shows he was part of, even if he was just the guy who watched the equipment or made sure no one messed with a set.

But this was different. This was the last movie Holly Pages ever made, the one she died on while filming. Her final role. He’d read they CGI’d her face onto a body double for a couple scenes, the scant few that hadn’t already been shot at the time of her murder. The box office had been far better than expected. People came out in droves to see Abaddon on its opening weekend, curious to see Holly alive once more, paying their respects to a star they loved. Or, more cynically, rubberneckers rolling by a highway accident, surveying the carnage for signs of a lifeless body, a splash of blood on the junk-strewn concrete.

The lights dimmed and Pete settled back, tried to relax. He felt like he needed to go to the bathroom but forced himself to grit it out. His hands were clenched into fists as he waited for the first of what was sure to be several previews.

WHEN HOLLY FIRST APPEARED ON the screen—playing the role of a gritty young lawyer who loses a son and husband in a horrible automobile accident while prosecuting the case of her life—Pete found himself incredibly, intensely, relieved.

That’s her? He almost laughed. That wasn’t the woman he found dead in her trailer, murdered by the man Pete had sold her out to. That was some hot-shit lawyer from Chicago with emotional baggage and a bitchy mother who couldn’t understand how she could possibly continue to work at a time like this. Et cetera.

Pete’s thoughts flickered momentarily to that night, as if his battered conscious felt him drifting away and was demanding his focus, his attention. Pete had never been a suspect in her death. In some ways, guards were like police. Vetted men and women who had been proven trustworthy, had dealt with issues and violence, and were seen (albeit on a much more minor scale) as representatives of the law. The murder had never been solved, and Jimmy had vanished, never to resurface. The homicide detectives found Jimmy’s fingerprints in the trailer, and on the murder weapon: a decorative throw pillow. His prints on one side, her saliva on another. Probably her muffled screams as well.

Pete shook off the darkening thoughts, the memories. It was all behind him now. Jimmy was long-gone, most likely spending his money on a tropical island somewhere. Pete had deleted his number—the first thing he’d done after calling nine-one-one the night of the murder. Right along with deleting the text messages, the call history. He didn’t know if the cops ever pulled his phone records, but if they did, nothing was ever said.

It was like the whole thing just went away. Except ….

Except for the nightmares.

Horrible dreams that woke him in the middle of the night, a scream stuck in his throat. Sweating, breathing heavy, he’d look around, panicked. His blood would freeze at the looming shadows in the corners of the bedroom. Shaken, he’d get out of bed, retreat to the living room and turn on all the lights. Fix himself a drink.

After a particularly bad nightmare, he’d sometimes find himself in Gina’s bedroom. He’d sit against the wall in the dark and watch her sleep. Her beauty and innocence were so peaceful to him, so soothing. Part of him felt like a poisoned animal lurking in the shadows of her room, and he’d wonder if maybe that’s what he really feared—finding another version of himself waiting in the dark. A vicious self. A self that would condone murder, that would sell his soul.

Noemi’s warm hand squeezed his once more. The audience gasped at something on the screen, and Pete felt some of the tension drain from his body and was soon lost in the plot of the film, almost forgetting his fear … and the actions that haunted his past. He dipped his hand in the popcorn bucket on Noemi’s lap, could see her smile out of the corner of his eye.

Feeling almost giddy with relief, Pete crunched down the popcorn, took a long cool sip from the cup of shared soda.

The cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

At first, he was going to ignore it. Only an asshole would pull out a cell phone halfway through a movie in a semi-crowded theater. But Gina was with the sitter and Pete’s was the only number she had.

I’ll just check, make sure it’s not important, he thought and pulled out the phone.

He stared down at a generic shadow-faced icon. The screen below it read: JIMMY.

Pete’s chest constricted so tight he thought his lungs might pop like packing bubbles. He grimaced, rubbed his eyes, looked at the phone again.

The screen was the same.

JIMMY.

“What the fuck …?” Pete mumbled, felt his face grow hot as panic built in his chest, crept up his throat, constricted his breathing. The nightmare, the nightmare he’d been having for months, came rushing into his mind.

In the dreams, he was back in the trailer with Holly Pages. She’d be lying unconscious on the bed. He’d call out to her. “Ms. Pages? Ms. Pages!”

But she never moved. Terrified, he’d try to leave the trailer, to get away. He’d turn to the door … and see Jimmy standing behind him. His white hoodie stained with splashes of crimson, his face inflated and purple like a baby suffocated in the crib, the flesh on his hands puffy and dark; his glasses were gone, and his eyes bulged and leaked, his tongue hung lifeless from his lips like a dying dog. He raised his hands, clenched around fistfuls of filthy money. He came closer, pushing the dirty money at Pete, who turned away in fear, in shame.

Then she’s there. Holly. Waiting. Smiling that movie star smile.

The dream ended the same way it always did, with him jerking awake.

Screaming.

Noemi leaned over, tried to see the phone screen, but Pete tilted it away. Noemi’s eyes flicked up.

“It’s work,” he said numbly.

“Then put it away,” she whispered harshly and turned her head back to watch the movie. Pete thought this good advice. He pressed the button to silence the phone, tucked it back into his pocket.

Holly’s voice filled the theater. “Aren’t you going to answer it, Pete?”

Pete’s head jerked up and he stared, unbelieving, at the giant screen.

Holly was looking at him. Her face—forty-feet-high, ice-blue eyes the size of manhole covers—filled the screen, smiling that smile, the one from his dreams.

“Well?” she said, and Pete looked around to see if anyone else noticed that the hot-shit lawyer from the movie was addressing him directly. He grabbed Noemi’s hand, stared at her face, waited for her to react. But she didn’t. She put more popcorn in her mouth, watched the screen as if it were a car chase or a lover’s quarrel.

“Look at me, Pete.”

Pete slowly turned his head, lifted his eyes to the screen.

“Good,” Holly said, staring down at him. “Very good. I have something to show you,” she said, and winked. “You’re gonna love it.”

Pete realized that Holly now looked exactly as she had that night. Her hair was hanging loose, tangled. Her face clean of makeup … she was just like he’d found her.

But where was she?

The movie had, seemingly, skipped into a different reality. The screen was no longer a projection but a window, and through the silken glass a play was being put on just for him. He tried to get a sense of the room she stood in, but it was too dark, he couldn’t make it out.

He sensed Noemi rising from her chair. He turned wildly, clutched at her hand. “Where are you going?” he said, pleading, shaking.

She yanked her hand away, glared down at him. “I gotta use the restroom.”

“Wait, Noemi!” he said, her name coming out so loudly, so desperately, that she stopped two stairs down, looked back. An old woman sitting in front of him turned and gave a firm shoosh!