Page 24 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“She was. Still is, probably. Fuck, I hated the idea of her joining the Army. She told me to relax, that she’d become a culinary specialist or work in logistics and I should follow my own dreams for three years while she fulfilled her duty. She used to send me rent money.”
The memory seemed absurd now. He’d written her a cheque with interest once he began earning enough himself, but she’d never cashed it. And nor had she become a military cook. She’d always been cagey about exactly what she did in the Army, but it was something to do with human intelligence. Then one of her colleagues had let slip that they’d been shot at, and that had led to a fight. Marc had flown home to LA early, angry and hurt. Maybe that was why he’d signed the damn movie contract? He hadn’t been thinking straight.
Serena tucked an arm around him. Nothing suggestive, just an offer of comfort from a good woman who’d become a good friend.
“I know from experience how hard it is to move on, but I hope the grief gets easier to take.”
Grief? Yes, that fit. Phae was still alive, but their relationship was dead in the ground.
“I’m glad you got a second chance with Owen.”
“You’re a good guy, Marc. Fate will bring you happiness someday.”
“We should try to sleep. Fuck knows what will happen next.”
“Will you put your fingers in your ears if I use the bucket?”
“Of course.”
Marc did as promised and closed his eyes as well. If a screenwriter tried turning this into a movie script, it would get tossed out for being too farfetched.
CHAPTER 8
Phae
None of this made sense.
The Indonesian cops were still digging cartridge cases out of the sand, and the majority were blanks by a ratio of five to one. That and the lack of injuries suggested the attack had been staged. The producer and the director were both sweating because they knew how this looked, and where the fuck was Marc? I wanted to believe he’d never do something so ridiculous, but the truth was, we hadn’t spoken in a decade. I’d changed. Had he? The only chink of light in the dark was Heath’s insistence that neither Marc nor Serena would get involved with a stunt like this.
But where were they?
And who were they with?
We couldn’t forget the seven others who’d gone missing either. So much for getting the names—we still had no real idea who six of them were.
I glanced at the list on my phone again.
Caroline Fortier. Age twenty-nine. British. Worked on the production for two years, gets along well with everyone.
Sam. Blond, beard. Tall.
Kevin. Ginger hair. From Manchester. Likes dogs.
Mirabella. Italian accent.
Blake. Canadian. On a gap year.
Mason from Australia. Or perhaps New Zealand?
Jo? Brunette, didn’t talk much.
Caroline, the second assistant director, had been in charge of recruiting the background actors, and due to the remote location and budgetary constraints, flying extras in from the UK hadn’t been an option. Instead, she’d had the bright idea of placing posters around the popular backpacking areas, because who better to play a bunch of tourists than actual tourists?
She’d handled the hiring process, and although her colleagues recalled seeing headshots on her iPad, the iPad was now missing along with Caroline. The extras were due to film their first scene on the day they vanished, so there was no footage, and the brief details we’d gleaned had come from the other background actors—nineteen of them in total. On the morning of the abduction, Caroline and the missing six had gone for a walk along the beach as they weren’t required on set for another hour. Had the attackers stumbled upon that group first and silenced them?
Or were they an integral part of the plot?
It was easy to believe six strangers were involved, but Caroline? She had a husband and a young son at home. Why would she get mixed up in a kidnapping plot? Maybe she was just an innocent victim, but without her help, there was no guarantee the others would get hired. And where had the weapons come from? The six had arrived with minimal luggage, according to the production assistant who’d shown them to their rudimentary accommodation.
