The Final Act (#4 Bestselling Spotlight Series) (20 page)

Chapter 28

I’m dressed in a long ball-gown, and I’m running.

Behind me is a monster. And I know if I slow, even slightly, it will tear me to pieces.

I’m calling to James, but he’s nowhere to be seen. And as I run, the familiar surroundings close around me. Dark tunnels with no end, which run on and on.

“James!” I cry
. “James! Help me!”

But the only sound is the ragged breathing of the Thing behind me.

I come to a junction, and my head whips this way and that, deciding which route to take. Seized with panic, I turn blindly left and will my legs to move faster.

Almost immediately, I hear a hissing, horrible sound. The monster’s voice is both behind me and all around me.

“Wrong choice,” it whispers delightedly. “Wrong choice.”

A
chilling laugh echoes.

And as the laugh ends, the floor beneath me turns to dark glue, and my feet sink and catch.

I turn, stumbling to face the monster, and see a cloaked figure with a deep hood.

It’s then I realise I’m holding
something in my hand.

A knife.

I wave it threateningly.

“Get back!” I shout.

The monster only laughs, and moves closer. It pulls back the hood. Underneath is a face I know well.

It’s the
Lipstick Stalker. His brown hair is down this time. But his face still holds the same maniacal hatred I saw when he wore a stage wig.

“My little dancer,” he hisses, and the words come like snakes, writhing around me. “How can you
hurt me?” he asks, nodding to the knife in my hand. “You don’t even know my name.”

As he speaks
, the knife in my hand melts to nothing. And then the stalker opens his cloak, revealing a world of dark twisted horrors beneath. I see the pale faces of his past victims floating in sightless anguish.

“No!” I shout. “No!” But he’s gathering me up in his cloak,
taking me to a dark underworld. A place where no one will hear my screams.

I wake up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright in bed.

“Issy? Issy!”

James has his arms around me.

“You were talking in your sleep,” he says. “Shouting. Bad dream?”

I nod, shaking miserably, and press into the warmth of his body.

“About the stalker again?”

“Yes,” I admit in a small voice. In the weeks leading up to the premiere, I’ve been haunted by ever more vivid dreams of the stalker.

Despite James’s best efforts, his team haven’t been able to crack any details of the stalker’s identity. He’s a total
mystery, without bank account, driver’s license, or other identification.

“Go back to sleep,” soothes James. I nod, and he kisses my cheek, laying me back down in bed.

“I’m ok now,” I lie as James settles beside me. But my eyes are wide open, and my brain is whirring.

I turn the situation over and over in my mind. If we coul
d find out who was giving the stalker money. That would be something.

How could I find that out? James has done everything.

I’ve thought these thoughts many times before. And once again, I dismiss the idea as hopeless. I’ve made my peace with missing the premiere. Although it galls me that the stalker will think he’s won. It’s the mystery of it all which bothers me.

Why was the stalker profiling Berkeley Studios?
Who could be paying him money?

I close my eyes, trying to let an uneasy sleep take me again. An image from the dream flashes up. The stalker
’s cloak, with his previous victims.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut, pushing it away.

You can’t hurt me.
I tell the phantom dream figure.
You’re not real
.

But
something comes to me. Something I hadn’t thought of before.

The stalker
had another victim. Before he got to me.

The other girl. The actress from before. She was terrorised by the stalker and never acted again.

I turn over what I know of her. She wouldn’t speak to the police or tell them anything. She was too frightened.

But an
idea is creeping into my mind, whispering to be heard.

What if she’d talk to me?

I consider this. Maybe, just maybe, she would. Could I find her?

They kept
the case out of the papers. But I’ll bet her details are in the police file.

I set my jaw determinedly. I’ll find her. Talk to her. Maybe she can provide some information. The more I consider it, the more sense this makes. I’m a fellow victim. Surely I’ve got a better chance of extracting information than the police?

I turn my head, studying James. His breathing is a steady rise and fall, and his handsome features are soft.

I know how he will respond to my intention to help solve the mystery. He’ll want me to stay out of things and try and forget all about the stalker.

But I’m burning with a sudden certainty that I might be able to help.

James has the police file on the stalker. I saw it in Barcelona.
The stalker’s previous victim would be in that file.

Charged with the hazy unreality of being half asleep, I slide gently out of bed, careful not to wake James.

I pad from the bedroom and enter the main apartment.

The police file. Hmmm. Where would he keep it?

Fully awake now, I begin making a careful search. I check James’s study, the main living area, and even the kitchen cupboards.

But James must have learned his lesson from leaving documents around in
Barcelona. The Lipstick Stalker paperwork is nowhere to be seen.

Think Issy
. Where would he put documents?

Then I remember he has a wall safe hidden behind a picture.

James joked that he never used it. But maybe he has put the papers here. Knowing that I’d never look.

I approach the Damien
Hirst Butterfly picture, and flip it open to reveal the safe behind.

A numeric keypad is revealed, with space for a code.

My heart sinks. What was I expecting? An open safe?

Then I see
an LED screen with flashing text running along it.

“Six numbers,” it reads
, “which are most dear to you.”

Odd. That’s a strange thing for a safe to display. Then I realise.

James has typed in a clue, so he won’t forget his code.

Six numbers which are most dear to him.

I’m all alert now, relishing playing the detective. Perhaps I have a chance to crack the code.

I think carefully. Which six numbers could be most dear to him?

His birthday?

It’s a long shot, and
I punch in the digits, knowing this is probably wrong. I’m rewarded with an angry sounding beep. Wrong code.

Eeek.
I wince, thinking of James sleeping in the far room. Did he hear that?

I pause with my breath held, waiting for footsteps. But after a moment there’s nothing. The bedroom door must be thicker than I thought.

I consider carefully. Should I try again? It would be awful to wake James. Then again, I know he would never agree to my visiting the stalker’s past victim.

Screw this
, I decide in a flash of rebellion.
I’m going to break this code.

I smile to myself.
Brave words, Issy
. Now there’s the small matter of getting the number right.

Okaaay.
Most dear to him.

M
y birthday? I type in the numbers and cross my fingers.

B
EEP! Another angry sound. And this time a message flashes on the display.

“Warning.
Further wrong attempt will sound security.”

Sh
it.
I make a hasty glance to the bedroom. No one is stirring. I can’t count on my luck holding a third time. Because the system will trip onto alert.

This is the last thing I want. I try not to think about how embarrassed I would be if James
was woken by a security alert to find me trying to break into his personal safe.

I step back from the safe. Maybe it’s better not to risk it.
James is doing everything he can.

Then
all I have at stake surges through my brain.

Come on Issy. You have to solve this.

I close my eyes, letting everything I know about James run through my head.

Something dear to him. A number. A number which is dear to him
.

I let everything in his life combine. Something to do with the studi
o? Certainly he holds that dear.

Or Berkeley Estate? The family name? Those are things I know James takes great pride in.

I let these ideas bubble through my head. But none of them result in a number.

Is it something to do with me?

This strikes me with sudden force.

But I’ve already tried my birthday. What other numbers relate to me?

Not my phone number. That’s eleven digits. Could it be… my measurements?

I consider this.

James has had several outfits made for me. I bring to mind the Chanel suit he bought for my first date, and the beautiful green dress for our flamenco night. Those clothes fitted perfectly. Did James guess my measurements by eye?

He must have.

I stare at the safe with a little more certainty now. I know James. That is exactly the kind of combination he would use. It’s cute and unnerving and romantic all at the same time. Which sums him up perfectly.

With my finger shaking
a little, I punch in the number and press enter.

35-26-36.

There
. No going back now.

I wince
, waiting for the angry alarm to sound.

But
instead, the display flashes stars and I hear a click.

Yeeeees!

I don’t believe it. I’ve actually got the combination right.

I restrain myself from punching the air with glee. Because as the safe goes back, I see I’ve scored a double victory. Stacked inside is a file I recognise. It’s the
Lipstick Stalker’s case file.

I snatch out the papers and begin rifling through. I’ve seen most of this before, and I flip distractedly through the old information.

Then I hit on the right page. His previous victim.

Hungrily
, I scan for details.

“
Emilia Holt. Age 22.”

My eyes flick down the page, but there’s no picture, and hardly any more information on her. Just the bare bones of her case. The stalker imprisoned her, but she won’t talk about what happened.

My eyes light on some welcome information. There’s an address for her. My heart sinks. She lives in LA.

That’s a
ten hour plane trip away.

Ok. Nice try
, Issy. Time to leave things to the experts now.

But part of me refuses to give up. I remember the money in my bank account. All the zeros paid by Berkeley Studios.
I could afford to buy a last minute flight, if I wanted.

James is holed up in production
every day this week. I’m not needed for anything important. I’ve got the money for the flight.

The plan forms itself with utter certainty.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to LA. I’m going to speak with Emilia. And I’m going to find out something which will nail the stalker for good.

Chapter 29

I tell James that I’m visiting my mother for a few days. He’s so busy with editing, he barely questions it.

“Say hello f
or me,” he says, kissing my nose. “And send my apologies I can’t come too. We’ll arrange a dinner soon.”

I nod, feeling guilty for lying.

“I love you,” I say, with feeling.

“I love you too.”

I kiss him goodbye, and then I head to the nearest computer to book a flight.

Arranging a trip to America is so easy, I can hardly believe it. Part of me still thought I would be unable to get a flight at short notice. Or something else would happen to sabotage my sudden plans.

But I order tickets online, and an hour later, I’m at Heathrow, checking in.

Another two hours, and
I board the plane. Then seven hours later, I’m blinking in the LA sunshine.

It’s all so fast, it feels like a dream. I wander out of LAX
in a partial daze, my hand gripping a bundle of fresh bills, picked up from the currency exchange.

I’m not used to having money, but I have to acknowledge it speeds the way. My previous trips abroad have involved complicated transport arrangements after touch down. But this time around, I get in a cab with a
wad of cash. And almost before I know it, I’m pulling up at a quiet-looking house, in a homely area of the city.

At the sight of the house
, I’m flooded with a sudden panic.

What on earth are you
thinking, Issy? Emilia might not even live here any more. You could get arrested for trespass.

I pay the driver, tipping generously, and ask him to wait just around the corner.

I’ve booked a flight back only a few hours from now. And my plan is risky at best. I have a few hours to try and get an audience with this girl. And persuade her to tell me things she wouldn’t tell the police.

The enormity of what I’m doing is coming with full force now.

She could call the police. You’ve obtained her address from confidential documents.

But I’m here. And there’s only really one course of action. I have to go
ahead with my plan.

Swallowing hard, I consider my destination.

The house is medium-sized and approached by a gated drive. I can make out a modest swimming pool and a double storey residence.

There’s a gold-plated voice
-com and bell, and taking a steadying breath, I press the button.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice blares out
.

“I’m Isabella Green…” I start. But she cuts me off instantly.

“Wait there. I come out.”

A generously built Latino lady
dressed in a maid’s outfit appears on the drive and walks rapidly towards me, her wide hips rolling.

She reaches the gates and peers suspiciously out at me.

“You are the new maid?” she asks.

“I…” I hesitate. And then I realise that my Spanish type-casting has finally come through for me. The woman has mistaken me for a Latino maid.

“Yes,” I say, adding my mother’s Spanish lilt to my voice with ease. “You’re the housekeeper?” I guess.

She nods. “The agency sent you?” queries the lady, switching to Spanish.

“
Si
,” I reply, thanking my lucky stars for my fluent Spanish.

She presses a button on the inside of the gate, and it swings open slowly.

“Come in,” she gestures. “You are a day early,” she adds with a grumble, still speaking in Spanish. “But the lady won’t mind paying.”

She gives me a thorough look up and down and makes an approving nod.

“You’ll be ok, I think,” she decides. “The lady is very nervous. They told you that? At the agency?”

“Uh. They told me she had been the victim of an attack,” I say, hoping this fits what she knows.
I’m trying to keep my accent Mexican, but I’m not sure how convincing it is, since I grew up speaking mainland Spanish.

The woman
looks at me a little strangely. Then nods gravely, turning on her heel for me to follow. She moves up the drive at a surprisingly fast pace, and I have to stride to keep up.

“A terrible thing happened,” agrees the
housekeeper. “She used to be an actress. But now she just sits inside.”

We reach the door, and she gestures I should follow her in to a large entrance hall.

“You wait there,” she says. “I’ll be twenty minutes. The agency sent you early,” she repeats in annoyance. “But I’ll get you started as soon as I get all the paperwork ready.”

I nod, feeling the anxiety wind around me.

Paperwork. If she phones the agency, she’ll soon realise I’m not supposed to be here.

“The lady is upstairs,” adds the housekeeper
. “She’s mostly quiet. You’ll get to meet her later.”

“Ok,” I reply, seeing an answer is expected of me.

“You are not from Mexico?” asks the woman suddenly. She’s eyeing me suspiciously now. “Your accent isn’t the same.”

“I’m from Chile,” I say, taking a gamble she’s not familiar with a Chilean accent.

“Ay!” she says, shaking her head. “Bad economy there. You’ll find a better life in America. If you’re prepared work hard.”

I nod my head
earnestly, and she vanishes out of the hallway, leaving me alone.

O
k Issy. It’s now or never.

I’ve never done anything particularly brave. And I never tell lies. So this whole situation is sending adrenalin coursing through me. But this is my only chance.

Abandoning all my nice-girl upbringing, I head up the stairs to where the lady of the house is staying.

Halfway up, I catch a glimpse of the housekeeper with a pile of documents in front of her. She’s reaching for the phone.

Move fast, Issy.

I race up the remaining stairs and virtually fall through the first door I come to.

It’s a bedroom inside.

And sat on the bed is a limp young woman, her eyes glued to a flickering television.

She looks up, and when she sees me, her face is a blank mask of terror.