“Even with that. Now, tell me about the part you’re after.”

“Well, she’s nothing like Jute. She’s the oldest of three, trying to cope when her widowed father relocates the family from an Atlanta suburb to L.A. for a job.”

“Atlanta. Southern accent.”

Cate cocked an eyebrow, and spoke in a smooth Georgia drawl. “I think I can handle it.”

“You always could do that,” Hugh said. “Nail a voice. All right, tell me more.”

She told him, had her lemonade, shared lunch with him among the flowers and butterflies. And put all thoughts of her mother aside.

That night, half asleep, the TV on for company, the lights low, the phone still in her slack fingers let out the quick hip-hop riff signaling an incoming call.

Groggy, eyes still closed, she answered. “It’s Cate.”

She heard singing first—her voice, a child’s voice. A couple of bars from the number she’d done with her grandfather in the movie they’d made in Ireland.

It made her smile.

Then she heard someone scream.

She shot up in bed, eyes wide.

Someone laughed—it sounded wrong. And over the laugh came her mother’s voice.

“I’m coming home. Watch for me. Watch for me.”

“Did you think it was over?” someone whispered. “You never paid. But you will.”

Struggling to draw air, she dropped the phone on the bed. The weight, the awful weight on her chest crushed her lungs. Her throat seemed to compress to a pipestem.

Around her the room went gray at the edges.

Breathe, she ordered herself, and shut her eyes. Breathe, breathe. Imagined the cool, damp air by the lake in Ireland, imagined it over the cold sweat now slicking her skin.

Imagined drawing it in, slow, steady.

Imagined the comfort of the ranch house, the taste of Swiss Miss and scrambled eggs. The gentle feel of Julia’s hands.

The weight eased, didn’t vanish, but eased. She leaped out of bed, still sucking air in, hissing it out, to check the locks, every lock.

No one could get in. No one would.

She let her legs collapse, and sat on the floor with the now-silent phone.

If her father had been home, she knew she’d have run screaming to him.

But he wasn’t home, and she wasn’t a child who needed her father to chase away the monsters.

If she told him, told her grandparents . . . She should, she knew she should, but . . .

On the floor, she drew her knees up to her chest, let her forehead drop on them.

Everything would stop again. Her father would pull out of the film and come home. He’d refuse more scripts, maybe take her back to Ireland.

Though part of her yearned for that, for that green, safe place, it wasn’t right, not for her, not for her father, not for anyone she loved.

A recording, just a recording. Someone, someone vicious and ugly who wanted to scare her, made a recording, found her phone number.

Fine, they’d succeeded.

She made herself get up, go into the kitchen. With all the lights on it was bright, shining. And safe, she reminded herself.

The walls, the gate, the security, the locks. All safe.

She got a bottle of water, drank long, drank deep until her throat felt cool and open again.

She’d change her number. She’d say a reporter—how did she know it hadn’t been a reporter?—had mined it out.

She’d say nothing and simply change her number.

No one had to worry about her because she’d handle it.

And whoever had sent the nasty recording wouldn’t have the satisfaction of scaring her.

She made herself turn off the kitchen lights, then turned off her phone in case that someone tried to call again. But in the bedroom, she couldn’t face the quiet or the dark so left the TV and the lights on.

“I’m not locked in,” she murmured as she deliberately closed her eyes. “They’re locked out.”

Still, it was a long time before she slept.

She told no one. After a day, after a quiet night, the edginess faded. That alone told her she’d been right to deal with it herself.

She had studying to do with her tutor, research to do on the part she wanted. Being a Sullivan, seventeen or not, she thought carefully about the career she wanted to build.

She prepped, and made a solo trip to Gino, as Lily had work. The mop of blue bangs turned into a sweep of fringe—with some blue streaks because she liked them.

If she signed on—because miraculously, it was up to her—she had time to let her hair grow out more, go back to full black.

And thrilled at the prospect of her first meeting with the director, the writer, she chose her outfit carefully. No ripped jeans, no clunky boots this time. For her first professional lunch meeting, she opted for a sleeveless sheath with fun, multicolored diagonal stripes, red sandals that laced to midthigh.

For the meeting, she was Cate Sullivan, actor. If she signed, she’d drop herself into character.

Because her father okayed the solo meeting if she took the car and driver, she gave herself one last study in the mirror, grabbed her bag—a wrist-strap clutch in a blue as bold as her streaks—and walked to the main house.

She needed to get her license, she thought. She’d driven in Ireland. Of course, now she had to learn to drive on the other side of the road, and in crazy traffic, but she needed to get her license.

And a car of her own. Not some boring old sedan. A fun, zippy convertible. She had money banked, and when—if, if, she reminded herself—she signed, she’d have more.

She’d suck up the bodyguard again, and Monika was okay, but she needed a car, some freedom.

But for now, it was probably better to have Jasper handle the traffic.

He gave her a smile, white and bright against his dark, lined face, as he opened the door to the shiny (boring) town car.

“All ready for you, Ms. Sullivan.”

“How do I look?”

“A treat.”

Good enough, she thought, and slipped into the back seat.

Still, she checked her face, added fresh lip gloss as he drove. Just a get-to-know-you sort of meeting, she reminded herself. And her agent would be there.

Plus, they wanted her for the part, and that took some of the pressure off. Even if this time she’d play the central character, it was still an ensemble movie.

When Jasper pulled over, she checked the time. Not early—embarrassing. Not late—unprofessional. “I’m going to be at least an hour, Jasper. More likely closer to two. So I’ll text you when we’re wrapping up.”

“I’ll be close by,” he told her as he opened her door.

“Wish me luck.”

“You know I do.”

The spring to her step might not have hit sophisticated, but what the hell. Showing excitement, she thought as she passed through the archway into the garden bistro, was real and honest.

She wanted to build her career on both. And that’s just what she was doing now. Building her career.

She walked to the hostess podium. “I’m here to meet Steven McCoy for lunch.”

“Of course. Mr. McCoy is already here. Please follow me.”

She moved through the flowers and greenery, through the subtle sound of water spilling into little pools, through tables covered with peach-colored cloths where people sipped sparkling drinks or studied parchment menus.