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  “Hey, Elmore!” Mitchell said, plopping down next to him.

  Elmore’s chair flew back. “Damn it, Mitchell! Don’t you ever knock?”

  “Not if I get reactions like that!” Mitchell pushed the chair toward Elmore. God, one more reason that he loved horror. “Is this really it? Really a copy of Terror in the Trees?”

  Elmore scrunched up his face as he lowered himself into his chair. “Honestly, Mr. Dixon. I had more respect for you than that.”

  “What?” Mitchell asked, checking out the titles on the pile of reels.

  “You could have picked any film for your thesis,” Elmore scolded, his hands flying around agitated. “Any film in the history of theater. Take Citizen Kane, for example.”

  Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Me and eighteen million other students.”

  “Then there’s The French Connection ...”

  “Hey. Just because it’s old and won an Oscar doesn’t mean—”

  “Fine. Fargo.”

  “You really don’t get it, do you?” Mitchell pulled a chair over and sat next to Elmore, certain that proximity would get his point across.

  “Obviously not,” Elmore said, shaking his head. “Horror is the equivalent of mental masturbation.”

  “But—”

  “Okay. Even if we stick to horror, you could have picked Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. A classic.”

  “I don’t do zombies. They give me the creeps.”

  It was true. Dead people just shouldn’t walk around. Period. End of statement. Now, trees that came to life—those Mitchell was totally down with. And the fact that this film could possibly be created to cause mass hysteria. But how? That was what Mitchell was here to find out.

  “Come on, Elmore, you must at the least be intrigued by the urban myth? A movie that scares people to death? You gotta love it.” Mitchell itched to tell Elmore the truth about his real fascination with the film, but was afraid to come out and tell Elmore his theory. What if Elmore didn’t buy it? What if he got Mitchell’s internship revoked? Crap. He needed to tread lightly.

  Unaware of Mitchell’s internal struggle, Elmore just chuckled as he scrolled forward to a new scene and stopped on the image of a girl frozen in mid-scream, her eyes wide and terrified.

  “I've watched this film backward and forward. It’s no different than a thousand other teen slasher flicks.”

  Okay, here goes. Ease into it gently. “Ah, but you seem to forget the retro use of black and white film. The dynamic camera angles. ...”

  “The lack of plot? The clunky dialogue?” Elmore countered.

  “Listen. In the last ten years ... no, make that thirty or forty. What film has altered the public’s consciousness like T.I.T.?” Literally altered it?

  “Tit? Jesus. Is that what they’re calling it now? Kids these days.” Elmore turned back to his computer and played the film.

  “Exactly my point! The directors, the Baxter brothers, have grabbed the nation’s consciousness by the short hairs.” Mitchell seldom used such language, but darn it, if there was a time, it was now. If he could only get Elmore on his side, so that maybe he could see the validity of his findings. He really needed more than clippings. He needed access to the whole film.

  “Obviously, the public has never seen the damn thing,” Elmore stated as he pointed to the screen. “The effects are so bad that you can practically see the strings. Look at this.”

  The movie scrolled forward until it stopped on a woman whose arms and legs were strapped to the ground by vines. A root wound its way around her throat, popping her head off. In typical Baxter fashion, bright red blood flowed across the screen.

  “Whoa! That was so gross!”

  “Yeah. I know. I’m gonna have to edit that one down to get an R rating from the MPAA.” Elmore shifted in his seat and rewound the footage. “But did you really watch the scene?” Frame by frame passed over the screen. “During the course of the decapitation, the woman’s hair changed lengths. They didn’t even bother matching the mock-up head to the actress.”

  “Come on. Look at their budget! Thirty thousand dollars? We’re lucky that they could afford a mannequin head, let alone—”

  “I don't know about you,” Elmore stated, “but I still feel that a film, any film, should be a form of art. Not even horror should be allowed to insult our intelligence like this.”

  Was he kidding? The Blair Witch Project was loaded with factual and continuity errors. Yet, its gross box office earnings kicked everyone’s asses. And maybe it wasn’t about the quality of the film for the Baxter brothers. Maybe it was about getting their message out there. They spent their money somewhere other than the special effects department.

  Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, arms braced on his knees. “So, where are you going to start the edit?”

  “I might as well work on the decapitation scene. I have no qualms about leaving such atrocious effects on the cutting room floor.”

  “Hey, do you think I can get copies of those snippets?” Mitchell said a silent prayer to Stephen King. Please, let the entire film be altered. Otherwise, the odds of his clips containing mind-blowing evidence were slim.

  “Not only can you have them, you can burn them in effigy, for all I care.” Frame by frame, the movie crept across the screen. “I'll just show a bit of red,” Elmore explained. “Letting the audience know the branch is cutting into her. Then jump-cut to a few frames of her head being dragged away.” Elmore stopped. Cut. Moved a few frames. Cut. “Just a glimpse is all that’s needed. Someone should have taught these filmmakers that less is more.”

  “It’ll also hide their bad mock-up job.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Dixon! A low budget doesn’t mean you sacrifice good filmmaking. Right here should be perfect.”

  But the film snapped out of the transfer machine next to Elmore, slashing his cheek. A thin line of blood dripped onto his desk.

  “Ouch!” Elmore touched his fingertips to his cheek. Disbelief flashed when he saw blood on his fingertips.

  “Elmore ...? Mitchell glanced from Elmore to the film lying across the table. A thick, red liquid oozed out of the machine. “What in the hell is that?”

  “Oil, I think. The hydraulics must be leaking.”

  “Damn. It looks more like blood.” What the hell kind of oil did they use in that machine? Mitchell had never seen oil pool and glisten like that.

  Using his shirt, Elmore tried to blot up the mess. “Get some towels from the bathroom. Hurry, before the print is ruined!”

  Mitchell jumped from his chair and raced out of the room. Elmore should be more worried about getting his face looked at. The cut looked pretty deep. As he ran, Mitchell’s pulse throbbed in his ears. This is some freaky shit. See. Elmore thought the hype wasn’t real. Well, that gash across his face certainly was.

  “Goddamn it!” Mitchell heard Elmore shout from the editing bay.

  The bathroom door slammed against the wall as Mitchell ran in. Frantically, he tugged paper towels out of the holder. If only he had his dictation app on. He could record every glorious moment of this day. Clearly, the decapitation scene was one of those affected. And he was going to get a clipping? Hallelujah.

  “Got it, Elmore!” Mitchell yelled as he ran back into the room. As he stepped into the bay, his feet slid on the slick floor. He slammed to the ground, catching his elbow on the desk.

  “Ow!” Mitchell exclaimed. The machine was really leaking. But as he turned over to rise, he found Elmore. Or at least the editor’s head, his dead eyes staring at him.

  Screaming, Mitchell scrambled backward. Blood coated his hands and knees.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Elmore’s body lay just a few feet away. The body and the head looked just like the scene Elmore had cut. Mitchell’s eyes rose to the monitor.

  “Holy…” Mitchell breathed.

  The film’s decapitation scene played over and over again … in its original version.

  Impossibly, Elmore’s
edits were gone.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  Jill sat behind her desk, phone to her ear, brows drawn together. “No, damn it! I don’t want the Greer kid talking at all. Nothing, not even with our lawyers there.” She rubbed her temples between her fingers.

  Margie, her assistant, stepped into the room. Jill held a finger up to silence her. “I’ll be right down. And no reporters. Do you understand me? None.” Jill slammed the phone down and jumped out of her chair.

  “Where are you going?” Margie asked. “You’ve got the directors in the conference room.”

  “Shit, shit, shit ...” She completely forgot about the Baxter brothers. How long had they been waiting for her? Jill looked to Margie. “Okay. I will pop in there, and then head down to security.”

  “Great,” Margie replied. “Except there’s a gentleman here to—”

  “Get rid of—”

  “Jill,” a masculine voice said. “Long time no see.”

  Jill froze.

  Derek.

  Her stomach flipped.

  The man she left behind now stood in her doorway. He wore a smile—a sad smile. And the corners of his eyes were pinched, like they had been whenever they argued.

  “Derek, what are you? ... How? ...” She managed to stammer.

  What in the hell was he doing here?

  The corner of Derek’s mouth lifted into a true grin. “Nice to see you speechless for once.”

  That damn lopsided grin was what had attracted her to him in the first place. How often did she get lost in those lips? Those eyes?

  But as the grin faded, she could see the toll that the last three years had upon Derek. His mom had told her about D.C. Jill had wanted to reach out and tell him how very sorry she was … for everything, but each time she went to dial his number, her fingers refused to obey. Besides, what could she have said without opening even deeper wounds?

  Of course, he wasn’t here for her or their drama. He must be the FBI agent sent to investigate the film theft. Finally gathering her wits about her, Jill turned to her assistant. “Thanks, Margie. I can take it from here.”

  Margie twisted her hands together. “But the Baxter brothers are getting anxious.” She glanced at Derek. “I can reschedule this gentleman ...”

  Derek flipped his badge open. “The FBI doesn’t do appointments, Miss.”

  Margie looked at Jill, her eyes questioning.

  “It’s all right,” Jill explained. “This won’t take long. Just get the brothers that organic root beer that they like.”

  Margie looked at Jill, then at Derek, and back again. The assistant had a good nose for gossip, and seemed loath to leave the mother lode.

  “Margie?”

  With a pout, Margie left the room.

  Before turning back to her ex-fiancé, Jill put on her best PR smile.

  “Derek ...” Her voice cracked. “It has been a long time.”

  “Since the wedding rehearsal, as I recall.”

  Jill flinched. But didn’t she deserve that? She could barely explain to herself why she had fled so abruptly, let alone to the man who had asked for her hand. How, out of all the agents in California, did Derek end up here?

  Regrouping, she looked out of the high-rise window. “I didn’t realize you were back in Southern California.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Jill glanced over her shoulder. Derek's arms were crossed over his chest—his stance defiant. He wasn’t going to back down. Neither of them was very good at compromise. Which is probably why she ended up at the airport the night before their wedding.

  She sighed. But that was three years ago, and her entire career rested on the next twenty-four hours’ worth of media attention. “I've got some directors to placate. I am sure you have some questions about this morning’s incident?”

  “Incident?” Derek asked, as his brows furrowed. “Your film editor was decapitated!” He narrowed his eyes, “Have you gotten that good? That you can spin murder so easily?”

  Jill bristled at the accusation, but was Derek really all that wrong? A man whom she admired had been killed, and she had just called it an incident. Derek had his deficiencies, but reading her was not one of them. But if she let in the grief, she feared every defense she had could come crumbling down.

  “I wasn’t trying to say ... I mean …”

  “Please, Jill,” Derek said, his tone lower, yet comforting. “We’ve had our problems, but we both have jobs to do. So, how about we start by talking to the Baxters?”

  Clearly, Derek had never met the Baxters before. They were, well … different. She had no idea how they were going to respond to an interrogation, let alone one by Derek. If he was anything like he was three years ago, tact was not one of his most obvious qualities. If the Baxters pulled the film before the premiere, she would be standing in the unemployment line.

  But, always a gentleman, Derek opened the door for her. “After you?”

  Jill swept past him, almost disappointed when his hand did not land on the middle of her back, like it used to. She shrugged off the sensation and turned to her assistant as they passed her desk. “Margie, tell security that we will be down soon, and page me as soon as the press secretary calls.”

  “You got it.”

  No, Margie didn’t really get it. But for that, Jill was glad.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  Derek followed Jill down the carpeted hallway. Ceiling-high glass doors lined the walls leading to even more executive offices. A far cry from the tiny office Jill started back in San Diego, when she was promoting the local Little League team and a handful of ska bands.

  She even dressed differently. Gone were the black jeans and snug tees. Replaced by a three-piece “power” suit. The heels, though, she still knew how to wear heels. Blonde hair cascaded down her back. That seemed the same, if not longer, than before. Had she cut it since they broke up? Derek could still remember running his fingers through it. The way it slid, almost like tendrils of silk slipping between his fingertips.

  Whoa. Back it up.

  Jill was a film executive, and he was an FBI agent. And there was a dead body down in the basement. This was strictly business, damn it.

  At the end of the hall, they found a group of employees huddled around a set of double doors—one with his face pressed to the seam. Derek guessed that was the room with the Baxter brothers. A woman spotted them. She frantically whispered to the group.

  Busted. Fleeing like scared mice, they scattered to their cubicles.

  Not breaking stride, Jill pushed through the double doors, with Derek tight on her heels.

  Derek wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected out of the infamous reality-star-tabloid-fodder brothers, but two prim and identically dressed young men, each looking a mustache short of Charlie Chaplin, was not one of them. Guess he should have watched E! a little more. Dressing the same was cute when you were four, but not thirty-four.

  In black suits and bowler hats, the Baxters looked up in unison. They shared the same pale, pale blue eyes. So pale that their irises appeared nearly white. Were those natural, or contact lenses? But their eyes weren’t what caused Derek’s feet to stall. It was their total and utter apathy. Like the brothers couldn’t care less if he lived or breathed. The last time Derek looked into eyes like that …

  The scar on his chest twitched in remembrance.

  Jill gestured to the men in front of them. “Derek, this is Jeremy and Jason. Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to—”

  Jeremy interrupted, “I believe we specifically asked for ...”

  “... Earl Grey Imported Blend Cinnamon Tea,” Jason finished.

  Derek glanced at each in turn. It was as if the same person had spoken that sentence. There’d been not a moment of hesitation or pause between even the syllables. Derek wasn’t one to be ruffled by much, but that was some freaking shit. How many years of practice did it take to be that incredibly synchronized? Where did one twi
n end, and the other begin?

  Jill gave them a reassuring smile. “I am so incredibly sorry. I am sure the staff is working on it, even as we speak.”

  “Certainly not quickly enough,” Jeremy retorted.

  Derek eyed Jill. Since when did she become the Freaky Twins’ bitch? When did she become anyone’s bitch?

  “I'll talk to Ms. Temple about that,” Jill said soothingly, and then turned to Derek, her smile now strained. “Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Boulder of the FBI.”

  “What does Big Brother wish with us?” Jeremy asked, his tone bored as he picked an imaginary piece of lint off his suit.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with the ridiculous FCC case, does it?” Jason asked.

  “No,” Derek said, straining to keep his temper in check. Babysitting debutantes was not exactly his strong suit. “I am here to discuss whether you know of any link between your film’s theft and your editor’s murder.”

  Jeremy’s lips formed a perfect pout. “Ah ... poor Elmore. He was ...”

  “... slow,” Jason finished, his lips forming the same expression.

  Moving one’s lips downward did not mean a person actually felt any sympathy, though. These two had shown more emotion over the type of tea they requested than they did for a dead man. A man they knew well.

  Innocent people usually asked a thousand questions. Like, how did the person die? Did they suffer? To Derek, it seemed like these two already knew the answers to those questions. Add in the fact that the editor died in a very similar manner to a character in one of the film’s scenes.