Page 109 of Faking the Shot

Too late. She’d already clicked on a message and stared at the image of herself. Except it wasn’t her. Anyone could tell her, um, chest wasn’t that big. Breath pinched in and out. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to photoshop her head on top of this person’s body.

Her breath constricted, and the trembling returned. “Who… who would do that to me?”

“Which one have you seen?”

“Which one? You mean there’s more than one? Oh no!”

Her phone buzzed with a new call. Her mom. She couldn’t answer.Oh, please God, don’t let her mom or Aunty Win have seen any of this.The shock might kill her aunt.

“I’m going to speak to lawyers and the police and we’re going to shut this down.” Rosie’s voice held fire.

But it was too late. People had seen those pictures, they thought it was her.

A phone ding notification was followed by Rosie swearing under her breath.

“What now?” Ainsley whispered.

“Mal is on the phone.”

Mal. The lead director ofAs The Heart Draws. Oh no. “What does he want?”

“Well, I’ll know as soon as I take his call. Hang tight.” She ended the call abruptly.

Tears sparked to her eyes at Rosie’s tense tone. It wasn’t Rosie’s face that had been attached to a stripper’s body. Who knew what other poses “Ainsley” was in?

“God, why is this happening to me?”

It felt like she was at the center of an ever-increasing storm of hurricane-like proportions. But this wasn’t some twister, with its peaceful eye at the center, although everything certainly felt like it was spinning out of control.

What was Mal saying to Rosie? Was he wondering if Ainsley was trying to take her character Abigail in a different direction? Hysteria escaped in a creaky laugh. He’d want to fire her. “Rest” her for a season, until the storm blew over. If it ever did. These images could never be deleted from the internet, and there would be memes made of her, people would always see this picture when the name Ainsley Beckett came up. Her career was over.

Her phone kept ringing, buzzing, jerking with notifications. She had no strength to answer it, no wish to see other images, no answers for all the questions. How could people even ask if that image was her? How was that even a question? Shouldn’t it have been obvious that she wasn’t that kind of person?

“Lord, what do I do?”

Rosie would know what to do. It was her job to know. But even talking to her felt too hard right now.

She crumpled to the carpeted floor and lay there, as the rain beat mercilessly against the window. She wished her mom was here. Or Aunty Win. Or anyone, really. Just to have arms to hug her. To shield her. To hold her. To make her remember that she wasn’t alone. To be Jesus with skin on.

“Lord?”

She closed her eyes, may have slept, she didn’t know. But when she pushed up from the floor it was with a crick in her neck and to see more missed calls from Rosie, Jason, Gwen. And Zac.

Zac. She shuddered. Oh, had he seen these pictures? How could he not have? He’d be sure to have teammates who’d pass it on to her and think it was funny.

Why was it always women who seemed to suffer the indignities of these things?

She pushed to her hands and knees, contemplated lying back down and sleeping for eternity. That would be one way to miss the apocalypse that was her career.

The doorbell rang. Well, nobody could get in here. It was probably another delivery, just like the bunch of flowers Zac had sent earlier with his kind note, in surprisingly legible handwriting, especially for a jock. He’d been so thoughtful, so kind.

The doorbell rang again. Would they keep pressing? She should answer it. Maybe someone had realized her need for food and had ordered her favorite—

Oh, who was she kidding? As if that would happen.

She moved to the door, hoping it wasn’t a neighbor, then peered through the peephole. Her eyes filled with tears as she flung it open.

“How did you know?”

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