Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)

by A. C. Dillon

  “I'm betting every author has that one friend or family member who's hopeless,” Andrew mused. “I'll have you know that mine is safely tucked away in protective sleeves custom-made for it.”

  “Aren't you a sweetheart? I wonder what I should reward you with?” Autumn demurred.

  “Tonight? Just the comfort of your snuggly body in this bed. You're grouchy when you have to get up early. Don't worry, I'll collect eventually.”

  “Better not wait too long. The zombies could show up any day now,” she reminded him, slipping back into bed.

  Andrew growled playfully, burying his face in her neck as she kicked and squealed. “They're coming to get you, Auuutuuumn!”

  “Double-tap.” She yawned loudly, burying her face in the pillow.

  Somewhere between quotes from Evil Dead and Dawn of The Dead, Autumn drifted into a dreamless slumber, unaware it would be the last mercy shown to her in New York City.

  TWELVE

  It was a day of intrusions, of prying eyes and digging questions. It was a day of not nearly enough caffeine and far too much alcohol. It was a day of joy and despair.

  The last entry in the journal was four months old—the last time she’d felt compelled to bleed words, lest she bleed her sanity dry. But today had been a study in overwhelmed and powerlessness. She needed to let it out, let it go, lest she lose sight of what mattered.

  How had a day full of promise gone so awry?

  The interview had been as comfortable as any major television outlet could manage: the interviewer, a guest correspondent named Elisa Schneider, had worked with survivors of domestic violence for ten years. After some professional make-up and hair styling—including whipping her lazy waves into loose movie-star spirals—the segment was pre-taped to roll during preparations for a performance by a local hip-hop artist. Elisa was the perfect choice to handle an introductory interview: friendly, open and knowledgeable. The shared understanding of the psychological elements of her novel had made for a casual discussion of politics, feminism and the intersection of the personal and the fictional.

  As promised, when asked about the film rumours, Autumn had replied, “If I don't insist they look at Veronica St. Clair for the role of Laurel, I'd be a terrible friend—and I'd also be wasting an opportunity to have a tremendous talent bringing my character to life on the big screen.”

  Veronica had been thrilled with this; of course, Kevin was less impressed. Having already spent the early morning dodging the paparazzi, the intensity dialed up to an eleven in the wake of the interview. Zach Parsons had gone fishing for public sympathy on his day off, accomplishing nothing but a spike in social media interest in Veronica.

  Advised not to comment by both Kevin and her agent, she'd only offered one soundbite to the persistent photogs: “I would be thrilled to star in a film adaptation of Dissected. Wesley Williams can call me day or night to make his offer; I won't refuse.”

  Deciding that making Kevin's life harder was her life's work, Veronica had proposed lunch at a small cafe, followed by an excursion to Guggenheim. "It's one of the few places in New York I keep forgetting to visit. It's shameful. As my friend, you can't allow my ignorance to continue."

  "That's not on the itinerary today," Kevin had stated firmly.

  Autumn empathized with the guy. Fresh out of the military, Kevin was a wall of lean muscle, standing six-three with a classic high-and-tight haircut. Dressed in a white dress shirt and grey slacks, he could have been just another actor from her cast. However, as Veronica was eager to whisper, Kevin was a black belt in judo and currently studying jiu-jitsu. While she had no doubt Kevin could handle a difficult situation, she could appreciate why he didn't care to press their luck.

  Veronica had pouted dramatically. "Kevin, my love, having a stalker was not on my friends' vacation itinerary, and yet, here we are! I understand your concerns, but it's the freaking Guggenheim. Who gets attacked in there?"

  "As I've repeatedly explained, Ms. St. Clair, I am better able to protect you when I can plan in advance for any potential threat to your safety."

  "I really wish you'd call me Whitney," was her playful reply. "Does the Guggenheim have swords? Whitney got her way with a sword."

  Evan cleared his throat at this point, having had enough of her shenanigans. "No, Whitney got laid with a sword. That's my job, not Kevin's."

  Autumn could clearly recall how Andrew snickered, how Kevin's tanned complexion had morphed into more of a burnt sienna than a golden brown.

  "True enough, but Whitney still got her way," Veronica had insisted. "Wouldn't a codename be beneficial for an operation like this?"

  It was then that Kevin had finally decided to put an end to the discussion once and for all, leaning across the table in a stare down with the starlet. "Look, Veronica: if you think you are the first client to make jokes about a 1992 film that was originally penned in the '70s for Steve McQueen and Diana Ross, think again. Although your renditions of the best-selling film soundtrack of all time are, I must say, superior to those of all previous contenders."

  The group had erupted in laughter, Veronica included, Evan clapping him on the shoulder. "Well played, my man! I knew I liked you."

  So much joy as it began. I'll never understand how a single day can shift so dramatically, Autumn continued in her journal. The Guggenheim was, as expected, a museum. Some beautiful pieces, of course, but it was more of an excuse to goof off and relax—to be young adults, without obligations or threats to our safety. Andrew seemed to enjoy the collection the most, so we indulged him, lingering longer than perhaps any of us intended.

  I gave Veronica her second copy of the ARC, warning her that she could wait for the official release if she lost it. Anticipating her antics, I'd autographed it for her. She was thrilled, of course. A part of her is still that young teenager with an obsession for theatre, camping out at stage door and collecting autographs.

  Why she wants to focus on my fame, I don't know: during our wandering tour of the museum, Veronica mentioned a film audition she'd gone on. It was so casual, like chatting about errands. Pick up dry cleaning, audition for new Ryan Gosling movie. No big deal.

  "It's nothing. It was just a small part, five minutes on screen with Ryan. I didn't get it."

  Sophia Bradley: the actress who did win the part. I'd almost forgotten her name by the evening—her claim to fame is some CW show that I steer clear of for its pandering to preteens. Not my style. Now, her name is screaming in my skull.

  She is screaming in my skull. And I am powerless to help her. I've asked. I've opened the door—ripped it off its goddamn hinges and shouted for someone to help me. Silence. No lights; no woman in a blood-stained dress.

  This is my fault. It’s like Veronica said yesterday: it’s a bad dream and I can’t wake up from it. None of us can. Especially not Sophia…

  "Babe? You alright?"

  Autumn shut her journal and sat it aside, shaking her head. "Of course not. How could I be?"

  Sinking down onto the bed beside her, Andrew reached for her hand. "This isn't your fault."

  "But my book—"

  "Isn't even released yet."

  "Veronica's ARC went missing, Andrew. He's got it. I know he does."

  Tugging free of his grip, Autumn rose to her feet, too agitated to stay still. Anger drove her from one end of the room to another, her limbs restless. His mouth opened briefly, as if to argue, but he quickly conceded. He watched her with caution, her predatory movements akin to a caged tiger in the zoo.

  "I wrote it. It's my fault," she insisted.

  Andrew grimaced. "Even if this is what you think it is—and I'm not saying it is—what some psychologically disturbed guy does with your novel is not your responsibility, any more than we can blame video games for Columbine."

  "I fucking suggested her as the star of the film adaptation!" Autumn snapped. "I did that. Me. And now he's... He's making his own movie. I could have caught onto it. I should have."

  "Autumn, no—”
/>
  "Sophia Bradley could have been safe and sound tonight, had I paid any attention. That's the truth. And you won't convince me otherwise."

  Throwing up her hands in frustration, she stormed into the living area of the suite, scanning the furniture for her key card and purse, Finding both on a small table near the door, she snatched them up and threw open the security latch.

  "Where the hell are you going?" Andrew snapped.

  "Out. Walking. I don't know." She pulled the door open two inches before Andrew's arm shot out and slammed it. "Let me go," she hissed.

  "Not a chance in hell."

  She tugged on the handle but it was futile: Andrew's strength trumped her fury and guilt. "I can't stay here. I can't."

  "Then I'll go with you," he replied firmly. "There is no goddamn way I am letting you out of my sight with this guy on the loose. You’re too important to me."

  With a guttural wail, she slid to the floor, pressing her face to her knees. Hide. Disappear. She instinctively sought to be smaller when stressed, to be less than, to be gone. Dark spaces, small corners—these were her refuge in times of turmoil. She could feel the warmth of his hand upon hers but she batted it away, choking on a sob.

  No love. No kindness. Not for me.

  "You couldn't have known," Andrew repeated.

  "The snakes," she managed to blurt out, continuing to weep.

  "Everyone thought it was a prank," Andrew rebutted softly. "Everyone."

  She should have sensed it. Should have known from the lack of contact from the stalker. Something was looming. He was escalating. But when Veronica had called prior to her performance to relate how Zach Parsons was furious about toy snakes hidden throughout his dressing room, Autumn had thought nothing of it. She'd laughed, even.

  Parsons, it seemed, had something in common with Indiana Jones: a full-on hatred of snakes. Having spent his time off selling any information he could to the first bidder, Veronica and her cast mates had assumed the prank—including a snake popping out of his drawer like a slinky green Jack-In-The-Box—was a reference to both his nature and the musical. One of the stage hands had a particular hate-on for Parsons and was the prime suspect, Veronica had shared.

  Not anymore. Not since the call she'd received just before eleven-thirty.

  It was all over the local news outlets, as well as being picked up by TMZ (Who else?): actress Sophia Bradley was missing after what appeared to be a "violent struggle" in her Soho loft. Neighbours had called the police after hearing a scream and a loud thump and although the police would neither confirm nor deny any of the leaked information, their statement of concern for Sophia and belief in foul play made Autumn pretty confident that there was a blood-soaked kitchen floor.

  Just as she'd written it in chapter five of Dissected.

  "What can I do?" Andrew whispered, kneeling beside her.

  "Nothing," she whimpered, wrapping her arms around her knees. "No one can do anything. It's already begun."

  In her mind, she could see her own story unfold: a cadaver assignment breaks open, its Y-incision flooding the classroom floor with a series of garter snakes. The cruelest classmate in the room runs away, frightened and furious. Ophidiophobia: fear of snakes. Next, the top student in Laurel's class goes missing, a pool of blood and shattered lamp all that she leaves in her wake. The classmate—Shannon—turns up dead near the end of the novel.

  It's how Autumn knew, deep down, that the police would never find Sophia Bradley in time. If he'd managed to elude detection this long, Veronica's stalker had proven he was both careful and detail-oriented.

  "You really think he has your book and has decided to somehow bring it to life?"

  "You have a compelling alternative?" Autumn's head snapped up, searching his eyes for absolution. "Because if you have one, I'd love to hear it. I'd love to not feel like my creation has become some twisted murder blueprint."

  "I can't deny the similarities with the book. I wish I could. But this might not be her stalker at all."

  "Andrew—"

  "We have no proof he has the ARC. Veronica could have left it in the train wreck she calls her bedroom back home. She says she took it with her when she visited her mom a month ago. How many copies are in circulation?"

  Autumn rubbed her eyes, leaning back against the wall. "Um... forty or so. The mainstream media and larger outlets will get theirs in October."

  Andrew settled beside her, deliberately maintaining enough space to avoid contact. "So that's forty people, aside from your editor and the staff of your publisher, who know the plot of your book. If this is really some recreation of your book, that's a lot of people with the ability to do it."

  "Occam's Razor: makes no sense for me to have a psycho fan as well as Veronica. You're reaching," Autumn rebuked him.

  "Maybe... Or maybe they're one and the same."

  What was once a small lump in Autumn's throat now swelled, threatening to choke her. "The stalker is a blogger, then?"

  Inside her, the pieces tumbled into a fractured, albeit meaningful whole. I'm looking at the timeline wrong. They'd been so focused on the first overt contact by the stalker that no one had considered that obsessions often grew over time.

  "He would have researched her," Autumn mused aloud. "The moment they announced In the Garden, the entire cast was in the spotlight. That was in March."

  "When did the ARCs go out?"

  "May," she replied. "If you Google Veronica, you find her roles in Casteel Prep."

  "You'd also find out about her involvement in the Kearney trial. The Toronto Star was incredibly thorough," Andrew added bitterly.

  "Which brings you to me, and the book..." Autumn swallowed hard, looking to Andrew for comfort. "Is it possible that he ingratiated his way into the blogger world just to get my book? And even if he did, why would he?"

  "You did sorta name the character after Veronica."

  Laurel. Veronica's middle name.

  "And Veronica declaring her interest in it only solidified the connection...."

  Andrew gingerly reached out towards her, his fingers grazing her arm. "Can I?"

  She leaned her head against his shoulder, fighting back a new wave of tears. Helpless. Now that her book had fallen into the hands of someone who had a distorted morality, she was helpless to stop him from staging his own twisted version of its events. He knew every act of violence, every injury, every character doomed to meet their demise.

  Andrew rested his head on hers. Just like old times, she thought. The first night she'd felt the connection between them, they'd ended up just like this, listening to music in a film editing suite on campus. She could recall the feel of his worn cotton tee, the scent of him, how the burden of her anxiety had simply crumbled from mountain to pebbles. She'd trusted him in spite of herself.

  She glanced down at her left hand, reminding herself of what the engagement ring meant: commitment; loyalty; love. Trust, too; that she gave freely now, having long relinquished her fear of pain and betrayal. She pressed her palm to her heart, feeling the life within her.

  "I love you," Andrew murmured. "Just tell me what you need, and it's yours."

  "You," she breathed. "Just you."

  A gentle kiss to the top of her head soothed her. "You've got me. You'll always have me."

  She knew this, and with that knowledge came power. She was never alone, no matter what came her way. Autumn had choices to make. They were ugly decisions—the kind born of necessity, the desperate non-choice that defined so much of her teens.

  I can't undo what's done, she told herself. I can't undo Sophia's fate. I can't go back in time and somehow foresee the danger. I can't un-write my book.

  But there was something she could do. A way to save lives.

  No one knows the book better than I do.

  "It's late," Andrew told her. "But if you still want to take a walk, we can do that."

  Together. The silent addendum. The ring on her finger also promised this.

  "No. No, I... I
'm calmer now."

  Andrew was relieved. "Tired?"

  "Very," she admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I have something to do first. Where's my phone?"

  "On the bed." Rising slowly, he offered a hand in pulling Autumn to her feet. "It's midnight," he added pointedly.

  "And people are dying because of my book," she countered, heading for the bedroom. "I take people at their word. I was told 'day or night' and I believe in that."

  "Huh? Who are you talking about?"

  Hitting send on a recent contact, Autumn waited through three rings, ignoring Andrew's query in favour of the sleepy man who answered her call. "Hi, Jeremy. I'm sorry to bother you this late, but I need your help... I'm going to need another ARC directed as soon as humanly possible to Detective Morgan Barrington, NYPD..."

  I can't undo the past, but I can prevent the future, psychics be damned.

  "It would seem that Veronica St. Clair has a stalker, and that stalker has a copy of Dissected in his possession. Tonight, he re-enacted chapter five."

  Jeremy was wide awake now. Whether his compassion for a lost life had kicked in, or his sense that this would damage the book's reputation, Autumn didn't give a damn. What mattered was his promise to drive a copy of Dissected to the appropriate station first thing in the morning, along with his further promise to obtain a full list of everyone with a copy of the ARC for Veronica's security team.

  Satisfied, Autumn ended the call. Beneath her, her legs swayed sideways, struggling to keep her upright. Her futile game of chess with her body was drawing to an inevitable close: exhaustion had just thrown her into checkmate.

  Nestled in Andrew's arms, trusting in them to keep her grounded, her final conscious thoughts were of the ring on her right hand. Come on, Louise, she pleaded with the ether. You want to talk? Fine. I'm ready. Talk to me.

  Outside of the bedroom window, an orb of soft pink light pulsed wildly.

  THIRTEEN

  The Creative Writing classroom, grade eleven. Where it all began.

  I stand near the window, watching as the first snowfall settles into an icing sugar blanket over the campus. I've never been a fan of snow or the cold, but there's something different about the intricate flakes tumbling from the sky. There's a dryness to them, a sense of it not being real. I open the window, press my hand against the screen until it tumbles out. My fingers stretch to catch the precipitation, pulling them inside for closer inspection.