Page 39 of Hot Set

“And I’m happy for you,” my father said with a sigh, “But we need to wrap this up.”

“I know, but I don’t know exactlywhen—”

“I’ll take an estimate.”

An estimate? He really expected thisnow? I stared at him blankly, as I genuinely tried to think of a reasonable estimate. There was a lot to be finished, but we were getting there. We were making progress, and progress was becoming easier to make every day. With every scene and every cut. “Maybe a few months,” I said, almost absentmindedly.

Because my thoughts had already turned away from estimates and time. I imagined a bleak world thatwasn’tfilled with this chaos, a world that wasn’t constant problems needing solved, and that sounded so dreary and miserable. Films were something I could imagine myself doing. Over and over. Maybe for the rest of my life.

“Fine. But even ifyouaren’t done by then, I will be,” my father said. “This is ridiculous.”

“All right,” I said.

A few months seemed doable, and I knew my father was being fair. More than fair. His money was responsible for all this, and wehadgone over budget and over time. And yet it seemed so ridiculous that, just as I’d discovered something I really loved, I had no idea how to pursue it. There was no way my father would agree to fund something else like this, which meant that—if I wanted to pursue filmmaking—I would have to figure out a wayto do it without his help. And I had no idea how to evenattemptsomething like that.

Chapter fourteen

Alex

When the FBI called, I stared at my phone one heartbeat before answering. I’d already memorized their number and the numbers of the two people I’d been interviewed by. The interview with Michelle had gone well, obviously, or there wouldn’t have been a second interview. But the interview with James Weis was more difficult to tell. He was a blank-faced man whose expression didn’t change the entire time we’d spoken together, and when I’d left, he called me Allen instead of Alex.

But I’d had two interviews and a phone call. This was further than I ever thought I’d get. And this call had to be it. Everything. I curled one hand around the kitchen counter to steady myself before sliding my finger across the familiar phone screen. “Hello?” I asked, clearing my throat.

“Yes, is this Alex?”

A woman’s voice. Michelle’s, I realized.

“This is he,” I said, making sure the grammar was right.

That seemed like such an absurd, stupid thing to worry about. Either the FBI was going to hire me or not. How I answered the phone wouldn’t matter in the slightest. I swallowed, miserably trying to act professionally.

“Oh, good! This is Michelle—”

“From the FBI,” I said quickly, unable to help myself in my eagerness.

“That’s right,” she said. I heard the hint of a laugh in her voice. “I was calling you back to tell you that you’ve been offered a position on our art forgery team.”

It felt like the world stopped and sputtered around me. I’d been accepted. I had a job with the FBI. My childhood dream had just materialized here in front of me.

“We’ll get in touch with more information for you, but we’ll need you to go to D.C. for training.”

Washington, D.C. It sounded so exciting…and far away. The rent would be expensive. I’d have to start making plans now if I wanted to pursue this.

“That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you. I’m so excited to hear that.”

I wanted to scream in excitement, but I forced myself to sound professional. As best as I could, anyway. I sensed that Michelle wasn’t fooled, though. Through the phone, she sounded as if I amused her.

“Welcome to the team!”

“Thank you!”

I waited for her to end the call, and after the telltale click, I stared at the phone for a few minutes, half-convinced it was all a dream and that I’d wake up any second to the alarm on my phone. But that didn’t happen, and when I went back to my recent calls, Michelle was still there.

Hot, cha, cha!!

I let out a short breath of air. I needed to tell everyone at work that I’d gotten the job. They’d be happy for me. Delighted, even.

I went to the movie set group chat. Despite it being eight in the morning, I’d already missed twenty messages. Seth and Bioncia were sniping at one another over vintages of wine of all things. I typed in the message, but before I sent it, I froze.

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