One

In probation work, there’s no such thing as a routine day at the office.

This morning, flashing red and blue lights guided me to the crime scene. Coming to a stop behind the coroner’s van, I parked my Jeep Wrangler and took a deep breath.

Coroner meant someone was dead. Not a good start to my day, but even worse for whoever I’d been called here about.

As I climbed out of my Jeep, I adjusted my sunglasses and surveyed the area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance to the canal. Red tile rooftops peeked over six-foot walls that separated the waterway from the middle-class sea of stucco on either side. The canal, about ten feet wide, snaked smack in the middle of a dirt pathway that residents used to get their steps in.

It was nearing the end of September, and I was grateful for the hint of the cooler weather that would dip below one hundred for the first time in months. Ninety degrees might seem hot to some, but in Arizona, it was sweater weather.

I walked up to a uniformed cop and held out my badge. “I’m with probation. Detective Ramsey asked me to come.”

It wasn’t unusual for the police to contact us, but it wasn’t common practice to be called to a crime scene. My curiosity mixed with dread.

The cop glanced at my identification. “Ms. Carson. Welcome to the shit show. Don’t touch anything.” He held the tape high so I could pass. I ducked underneath and secured my badge to my belt so the other officers could tell I belonged there.

Lots of Tempe Police blue uniforms and forensic staff mulled around the area, but I homed in on the tall, balding man standing close to the water. He had on plain clothes—khakis and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured he might be Ramsey, so I walked over to him.

He scribbled something on a small notepad and glanced at me as I approached. “You the PO?”

I nodded and dropped my gaze to the mound covered by a tarp at his feet. I wasn’t fond of seeing dead bodies. One reason I was a PO and not a cop.

“Thinking this might be one of your charges, Ms. Carson,” he said. “I gotta warn you, it’s not pretty. He was in the water for a while and birds, and god knows what else got to him. You got a strong stomach?”

No. At the mere thought of seeing the body, my breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I’m fine. Why do you think he was on my caseload?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Someone stuffed your business card in his mouth.”

I gulped air. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You ready?” Ramsey reached down and pulled the sheet back before I could respond.

A bloated, green face, missing chunks of cheek, greeted me. Bulging eyes looked skyward. Bran flakes swirled in my stomach and crested in my throat. Without a word, I ran to the canal and vomited so hard I thought I’d hack up a vital organ or two.

“You okay, ma’am?” Ramsey sounded bored.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and straightened. Memories of the same man, alive and animated, flashed in my mind. Not so long ago, he was proud of accomplishing a solid month of sobriety. Now, I hardly recognized him. “Could you put the sheet back?” I said, keeping my back to the body on the ground.

“Sure.”

I waited a moment to give Ramsey time to cover the corpse and to compose myself. But that would take a while, and the detective didn’t seem like he had a lot of patience. The relationship between police and probation was fickle. We often needed each other, but POs were on the lower end of the food chain.

When I finally turned around, Ramsey was tapping his pen against his notebook. “So, you know the guy, or what?”

“Brian Johnson,” I said. “He was on abscond status. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks, maybe a month. He was doing well, but then he stopped reporting. He probably relapsed. I was gearing up to request a warrant for probation violations. What do you think was the cause of death?”

Ramsey shrugged again. “Too soon to tell, but most people who die of natural causes don’t end up in a canal or send a message like your business card does. They preserved it in a plastic Baggie, so we’d get the point no matter how long it took to find him.

I felt even sicker. Was the message for me? “Couldn’t you ID him through fingerprints? I thought you had all kinds of tech gadgets for that.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said. “But then I wouldn’t have seen your reaction. Plus, some of his fingertips are missing and what’s left probably isn’t usable. Dental records take time.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Call me if you think of anything else I might need to know.”

I turned back to the canal and vomited until I had nothing left to give.

In probation work, there’s no such thing as a routine day at the office.

This morning, flashing red and blue lights guided me to the crime scene. Coming to a stop behind the coroner’s van, I parked my Jeep Wrangler and took a deep breath.

Coroner meant someone was dead. Not a good start to my day but even worse for whoever I’d been called here about.

As I climbed out of my Jeep, I adjusted my sunglasses and surveyed the area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance to the canal. Red tile rooftops peeked over six-foot walls that separated the waterway from the middle-class sea of stucco on either side. The canal, about ten feet wide, snaked smack in the middle of a dirt pathway that local residents used to get their steps in.

It was nearing the end of September, and I was grateful for the hint of the cooler weather that would dip below one hundred for the first time in months. Ninety degrees might seem hot to some, but in Arizona, it was sweater weather.

I walked up to a uniformed cop and held out my badge. “I’m with probation. Detective Ramsey asked me to come.”

It wasn’t unusual for police to contact us, but it wasn’t common practice to be called to a crime scene. My curiosity mixed with dread.

The cop glanced at my identification. “Ms. Carson. Welcome to the shit show. Don’t touch anything.” He held the tape high so I could pass. I ducked underneath and secured my badge to my belt so the other officers could tell I belonged there.

Lots of Tempe Police blue uniforms and forensic staff mulled around the area, but I homed in on the tall balding man standing close to the water. He was dressed in plain clothes—khakis and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured he might be Ramsey, so I walked over to him.

He scribbled something on a small notepad and glanced at me as I approached. “You the PO?”

I nodded and dropped my gaze to the mound covered by a tarp at his feet. I wasn’t fond of seeing dead bodies. One of the reasons, I was a PO and not a cop.

“Thinking this might be one of your charges, Ms. Carson,” he said. “I gotta warn you, it’s not pretty. He was in the water for a while and birds, and god knows what else got to him. You got a strong stomach?”

No. At the mere thought of seeing the body, my breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I’m fine. Why do you think he was on my caseload?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Your business card was stuffed in his mouth.”

I gulped air. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You ready?” Ramsey reached down and pulled the sheet back before I could respond.

The face before me was bloated, green, and missing chunks of cheek. Bulging eyes looked skyward. Bran flakes swirled in my stomach and crested in my throat. Without a word, I ran to the canal and vomited so hard, I thought I’d hack up a vital organ or two.

“You okay, ma’am?” Ramsey sounded bored.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and straightened. Memories of the same man, alive and animated flashed in my mind. Not so long ago, he was proud of accomplishing a solid month of sobriety. Now, I hardly recognized him. “Could you put the sheet back?” I said, keeping my back to the body on the ground.

“Sure.”

I waited a moment to give Ramsey time to cover the corpse and to compose myself. But that would take a while, and the detective didn’t seem like he had a lot of patience. The relationship between police and probation was fickle. We often needed each other, but POs were on the lower end of the food chain.

When I finally turned around, Ramsey was tapping his pen against his notebook. “So, you know the guy, or what?”

“Brian Johnson,” I said. “He was on abscond status. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks, maybe a month. He was doing well, but then he stopped reporting. He probably relapsed. I was gearing up to request a warrant for probation violations. What do you think was the cause of death?”

Ramsey shrugged again. “Too soon to tell, but most people who die of natural causes don’t end up in a canal or send a message like your business card does. It was preserved in a plastic Baggie, so we’d get the point no matter how long it took to find him.”

I felt even sicker. Was the message for me? “Couldn’t you ID him through fingerprints? I thought you had all kinds of tech gadgets for that.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said. “But then I wouldn’t have seen your reaction. Plus, some of his fingertips are missing and what’s left probably isn’t usable. Dental records take time.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Call me if you think of anything else I might need to know.”

I turned back to the canal and vomited until I had nothing left to give.

***

Excerpt from Early Termination by Cindy Goyette. Copyright 2025 by Cindy Goyette. Reproduced with permission from Cindy Goyette. All rights reserved.

Prologue

She stood at her dining room table and calmly fingered through the cardboard box, double-checking that the paperwork was in chronological order. Even now, no one could accuse Samantha Ellingsworth of being anything but organized and precise. For nearly forty years, it had been both a gift and a curse.

First the letters from Harry, professing his incendiary ardor during their abbreviated law school courtship. The GIA certificate for the diamond, his glittering promise of passion extending through eternity. The deed to their Upper West side condo. A copy of her resignation from Davis & Milliken, where she’d been on the fast track to partner. The birth certificates for her daughter, dated a year later, and the surprise twins, ten years after that.

Next, the children’s coveted acceptance letters from Harrison—Manhattan’s most elite private pre-school and elementary—followed by every one of the glowing report cards she’d worked with them so diligently to earn. Campaign flyers she’d created for Harry’s run for state senate. Her passport opened to the page containing the stamp from that fateful trip to Aruba. The letters she’d written, refuting everything he’d accused her of as lies—all unopened and marked “Return to Sender.” The prescription for Prozac, unfilled, as if any pharmaceutical could rescue her from this pit of depression. Finally, the divorce papers she’d received a few weeks ago, still unsigned.

A lifetime of aspirations, misunderstandings, and betrayals, all encapsulated in a pile of paper less than an inch thick. She affixed the cover to the box and took a long, wistful look at the “perfect” apartment they’d been so ecstatic about buying, beating out several competing bids thanks to the lingering cachet of the Ellingsworth name and its clout in political circles. Confident that the condo was spotless, with everything in its place, Samantha slowly donned her hooded sheepskin coat, grabbed the box, and headed out.

The elevator operator nodded as she entered, but Gloria from the floor above murmured a curt hello and diverted her gaze as they descended from the seventh floor. Samantha had grown used to the frostiness over the past few weeks. Did the other tenants fear it was catching, that they too might be abandoned by their spouse and children, their lives reduced to rubble, if they inched too close? Whatever.

She trudged southbound through the early morning wintery mix; package still cradled to her chest like a newborn. Frigid raindrops grazed her eyelashes before cascading downward and stinging her cheeks as she passed the signs in Zabars’ windows, reminding patrons to purchase their Thanksgiving turkeys. The holiday was only days away. The irony did not escape her.

Shivering as much from the weather as from what lay ahead, she descended the subway staircase at 72nd Street, pushing against the throngs headed toward the sidewalk. She had someplace to go too and nothing—not crowds nor apprehension—was going to delay her.

Today was the day, a chance to have her say. Finally, she’d make him understand.

Samantha ran her MetroCard through the turnstile and headed toward the stairway leading to the uptown train. She positioned herself as close as possible to the opening of the tunnel and stood by the edge of the platform, resummoning her fleeting courage as the crowds swelled behind her. Commuters too involved with their phones to notice the determined woman beside them whose breathing had quickened and whose face had grown hot. She hugged the box even tighter to her fidgeting body and waited. And waited.

A collective sigh arose from the crowd as the loudspeaker announced that the next train was going out of service and wouldn’t be stopping. She saw the light in the distance and heard the clunk-de-clunk and whirl—a deafening gale descending onto the tracks, drowning out the murmur of the passengers. Her ride to the most important meeting of her life. And it was the number 2 train. How appropriate. Just like her, relegated from number one.

Timing was everything, the oncoming gleam only yards away. She tightened her grasp on what was left of her world, recalling the face of the bitch who’d laughed as she’d stolen it all away. Then she took one last breath and jumped onto the tracks.

***

Excerpt from Deadly When Disturbed by DM Barr. Copyright 2025 by DM Barr. Reproduced with permission from DM Barr. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

It would be easy to float away in the darkness and let the current pull her under, too. She’d thought about it several times before—in her “dark times,” as her ex-husband used to call them.

Lisa’s life hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped. Abusive parents, a failed marriage, the booze—so much booze—all swirled together to set her on this path. Losing her apartment finally put her out here. Now this. She thought she’d escaped, but running from her past hadn’t worked. The ghosts of years past had stripped everything away. Lisa had nothing left, not even hope.

The tug of the Sacramento River on her legs was temping, and the spring snow runoff numbed Lisa’s thighs as she waded out.

Lisa closed her eyes and pictured herself lying back and allowing the river to put an end to it.

“Momma?”

Lisa’s eyes shot open.

Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted the faint outline of her daughter standing on the riverbank. The eight-year-old wore a thin blue t-shirt with a unicorn on the front, a threadbare pair of jeans, holding a stuffed bunny with one ear missing. The girl’s face registered confusion.

“Baby, go on back to the tent,” Lisa said.

Lisa felt her daughter would be better off without her. The mother’s sins cast a damning shadow. But she couldn’t abandon Willow. Not like this. Lisa knew what it was like to be an orphan in an unfriendly world. The future of an eight-year-old alone in a homeless camp wasn’t the life Willow deserved.

“Momma, what are you doing?”

Lisa’s eyes welled. She didn’t need to tell her daughter the world was a hurtful place. She’d keep the secrets and not let her know there was nothing worth living for—for now.

“I’m coming, baby.”

Lisa turned and waded back toward the bank. Her daughter spent the last two years in one homeless camp or another. The tightly packed shelters made Lisa’s claustrophobia itch.

Lisa reached for her daughter and grabbed her, lifting the girl into a tight hug. Tears streamed down Lisa’s cheeks. Not because Lisa wanted to end her suffering. She’d considered that option before. The tears came from nearly making Willow an orphan and leaving the innocent girl behind in a homeless camp. Willow couldn’t fight off the predators who lurked in the darkness—like they did tonight.

From the river’s edge, the camp spread a quarter mile in either direction. There was never any official count because people came and went, died, were arrested, or simply disappeared from the camp. Lisa guessed there were over two hundred people living here in the city’s forgotten shadows.

It was time to move. When the camps get too big, bad things happen, and people talk.

Lights flickered from small campfires and lanterns throughout the settlement. Lisa thought they looked like fallen stars. She hugged Willow a little closer and followed the trail back into the camp.

She unzipped the fly on their tent and scooted inside. Their belongings—a change of clothes, a towel to share, and two children’s books lay on one end of the nylon dome tent. A pair of sleeping bags took up most of the space. Lisa knew they were lucky to have them—others didn’t.

“All right, sweetie, let’s get you settled in for the night.”

Willow wiggled into her sleeping bag with her stuffed rabbit. Lisa grabbed a book, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, one of her daughter’s favorites. The eight-year-old could recite most of the story by heart.

Lisa opened the book when a loud commotion erupted outside. It wasn’t uncommon in the camp. Fights over property, drugs, or imagined slights fed by drugs, alcohol, and glitchy mental health were a daily occurrence. Lisa learned the best thing to do was stay out of it and never get involved.

It sounded like the usual dust-up until the screams began.

“Stay here, Willow.”

Lisa crawled to the tent flap, zipped it open, and poked her head out.

Fire.

Flames erupted on the far side of the camp. It was always a risk in the cardboard condos and plastic tarp shelters along the riverbank. This was different. At least six structures were ablaze. People were running, backlit by the orange and yellow glow. The evening delta breeze fanned the flames, igniting another dozen tents.

The cheap nylon shelters went up like dried rice paper.

“Baby, get your shoes on.”

“What is it, Momma?”

“We need to—”

Lisa spotted two men in the chaos, both outlined by the flames behind them. They weren’t running. One set the next row of tents ablaze. The second man wielded a baseball bat and swung the aluminum cylinder at anyone who came near. A sickening tink sound echoed among the rows of tents when he bounced the bat off a man’s shoulder.

Lisa grabbed her daughter’s hand, pulling her from the tent. The girl’s eyes grew large when she spotted the fires.

Willow pulled away and ducked back into the tent.

“Willow Marie, don’t you pull away from me. Come here. We need to get away.”

Lisa felt the heat from the fire. It was spreading fast, and the flames jumped up into the trees within the camp.

Bending into the tent, Lisa found Willow gathering her stuffed animal and the books.

“Come now, we need to—”

Tink.

Lisa fell flat on the ground. The rounded end of the baseball bat shoved at her ribs. Dazed from a blow to the head, she didn’t move. Lisa registered a man’s boot stepping over her.

The flames grew closer.

Willow’s fear backed her into the far corner of the tent.

Lisa’s ragged voice called to her daughter. “Willow. Listen. I need—I need you to run. Hide. Go to the safe place—the rock where we hide things. Stay until I come for you.”

“I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”

“I know, baby. You have to be brave. Take Mr. Bunny and go, now.”

Willow clutched her stuffed animal, the book, and stepped through the tent flap.

“Momma, you have an owie.”

“I know, baby. I’ll be okay.”

It was a lie. Lisa knew she was far from okay. She could feel the pressure in her head building with each heartbeat.

“Go to the place we talked about, honey. Go quick.”

Willow’s eyes welled. She didn’t budge, frozen in fear before a scream from someone nearby broke her from the trance. Another row of tents went up in flames.

“Go.”

Willow hugged her bunny and trotted toward the river. Lisa lost sight of her through the smoke billowing through the camp.

She tried to get up and couldn’t move her legs. She crabbed forward using her arms, inching away from the burning camp.

Her tent flashed, and the flames consumed it in seconds. The melting fabric, plastic and nylon fibers fell on her. The molten material burned through her clothing and ate into the flesh on Lisa’s back.

The pain seared into her. Screams around her meant she wasn’t the only one. The two arsonists headed in the same direction Willow had fled.

“Stop them,” she cried. No one could hear over the chaos of the burning camp.

Lisa now wished the water had brought a calm end to everything. She didn’t expect this—the fire, searing flame, and torture. Part of her believed she deserved this fate for the pain she’d caused. Willow didn’t. The girl didn’t understand. Now, Lisa worried about what would happen to her sweet little girl. Mr. Bunny would not be enough.

The last thought before the flames ate at her pant legs. “I’ve failed you.”

***

Excerpt from River of Lies by James L'Etoile. Copyright 2025 by James L'Etoile. Reproduced with permission from James L'Etoile. All rights reserved.

Six Stone Jars

All six travelers arrived in the village of Cana late that Wednesday afternoon. As they traversed the final hill, the valley revealed more orchards and crop fields. Galilee really is beautiful, Simon confirmed. Hopefully, its vineyards produce wines that are just as fine. He was still smiling as they grew closer to the houses huddled together on the hillside.

As they approached the village, the sounds of children’s laughter and joyful conversations were intermixed with the loveliest music. Even the braying donkey sounded happy.

Simon was marveling at the masonry workmanship of the larger buildings, carved from limestone and granite, when Jesus announced, “It appears that we’ve arrived in time.” The rabbi’s smile revealed that he wasn’t surprised.

The traditional wedding procession from the bride’s father’s home to the bridegroom’s was underway. While the minstrel troop played at the front of the convoy, a squad of servants handed out dates to children along the road and wine to those of a more seasoned age.

A young girl, her dark, curly hair protruding from behind a white bridal veil, walked alone. Some of her relatives carried sprays of flowers, while others bore lit torches.

Wonderful, Simon thought. He loved his Jewish customs and celebrations.

Dusk was starting to creep in, as the parade’s onlookers clapped and praised the bride’s semi-concealed beauty. Jesus, Simon, and the others applauded before joining the back of the line, proceeding on to the bridegroom’s home, where the young man would carry his betrothed over the threshold of their new marital home.

Upon arrival, Jesus gestured for his disciples to remove their sandals at the outer door, before proceeding onto the courtyard, which was being used as the reception hall.

From the first step in, Simon was impressed by the stone courtyard, which had been decorated for the great celebration. Adorned in ornamental rugs and cushioned couches, low tables were arranged for the guests to dine; each person would be expected to lay on one elbow with their feet positioned away from the table.

While servants scurried to and fro, carrying food and drink, Simon and his brethren washed their hands and feet, complying with the precepts of the ancient law. Upon drying their extremities, each was officially welcomed with a cup of water drawn from one of the large stone jars.

The sweet notes of a talented musical duo permeated the warm air, the harp and flute creating a simple but elegant symphony.

Quenching his thirst, Simon looked around. Flowers, he noted, there are flowers everywhere. He nodded his appreciation. They’ve turned this courtyard into a garden.

Beyond a table overlaid with bowls of fruits and nuts—even a stack of sweet date cakes—Simon spotted the intricately decorated Chuppah. Ivy, flowers, and greens were wrapped around four legs that had been fashioned from cedar timbers, approximately eight feet in height. It was just wide enough to host the bride, bridegroom, and officiating rabbi. The entire wooden frame was covered in a canopy of flowers—yellow, white, pink, and red—which had been strung together to create breathtaking strands of garland.

The sight of it instantly brought Simon’s thoughts back to his wife. No, he scolded himself, quickly pushing the melancholy out of his head. I’m here now, and I need to be here…and she understands.

Catching the first whiff of roasting lamb, Simon turned to see Jesus and an older woman locked in a lengthy embrace. He needed no introduction to understand the scene. She’s his mother.

Mary was beauty in its purest form. She was not tall, but above medium height. Her oval face was slightly bronzed by the sun. Beneath black, slightly arched brows sat a pair of gentle, olive-colored eyes. Her hair was light and her nose slender, much like her hands. But there’s something more, Simon thought, considering it. She has an unmistakable aura, he finally decided, a striking beauty that can only come from within. He studied the embracing pair further, while they swayed in each other’s arms. And she must be the most beautiful woman, having given birth to the Messiah.

Breaking from the hug, Jesus and Mary held hands, exchanging a long, blissful look that revealed more about their sacred bond than any words ever could.

Jesus then turned to face his disciples. “Mother,” he said, “I would like you to meet my students.”

Without thinking, Simon was the first to step forward.

Jesus smiled. “Mother, this is Simon Peter.”

Rock? Simon swallowed hard, as he considered the peculiar title.

“Simon,” Jesus said, “this is my mother, Mary.”

It was the second time in the simple fisherman’s life that he could feel the air leave his lungs, only to remain lost while he fumbled for the right words. Silence.

Mary was gracious, even angelic. “I hope my son is taking good care of you?” she jumped in.

Simon smiled. “He is,” he managed.

As though offering her blessing, she nodded once.

John was the next to step forward, while Simon’s mind spun in circles. What must it be like to be the mother of the Messiah? he wondered, seeking out one of the servants for another cup of water. And what will it take for the rest of us to truly follow him?

***

Excerpt from You Will Be Peter by Jerry Lathanand Steven Manchester. Copyright 2025 by Jerry Lathan and Steven Manchester. Reproduced with permission from Jerry Lathan and Steven Manchester. All rights reserved.

JUNE 21 8:10 pm

Joey felt frustrated that she was late getting back to the shoot. By this time, nearly an hour after wrap, most of the movie crew had packed up and gone home after what had been a long, discouraging day. As key costumer, Joey usually started the morning on set, then ended her day at one of the specialty shops that made clothing for the film, or one of a dozen other tasks that went with her job. But tonight was different.

She’d made the long drive back to the shooting location in Malibu because she wanted to talk to Courtney in person, and even though she wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, she wished she’d made it back before wrap. The second AD hadn’t answered her texts, and now Joey worried she’d missed the chance to do timely damage control, to smooth over the tension between them after their flare-up on set earlier that day. The hectic pace of the movie had everybody on edge, but their confrontation could threaten the costume department’s entire working relationship with the assistant directors. If she couldn’t talk to the second AD without starting a fight, it was game over.

Determined not to let that happen, Joey bypassed the wardrobe truck and headed straight to the AD trailer as soon as she got back to location. She’d seen firsthand the problems that came from bad blood between departments.

On one of her first films, the costume supervisor had gotten into a feud with the transportation captain. After that, the wardrobe trailers were permanently parked in base camp Siberia, as far from the actors’ trailers as possible. The time it took to travel those extra yards added up fast when you had to cover them many times each day. Then drivers suddenly became unavailable to do runs of any kind for the costume department, no matter the urgency. That might not sound like a big deal, but transpo can be a lifesaver when you’re up against an impossible deadline by making an important pickup or drop-off when everybody in your department is too slammed with work to do it, which can happen several times a week on a busy film.

Getting on the wrong side of the AD department was even worse. Assistant directors are like air traffic controllers on a movie. Without them, everybody crashes into everybody else, literally and figuratively. Alienate the ADs and you’re just asking for trouble.

The costume department already had enough problems on this movie between the lack of prep time, late casting, and a director with an ego as big as his box office grosses. Making an enemy of the second AD wasn’t an option. The thought sent a shiver through Joey, and she picked up her pace.

When she didn’t find Courtney in the AD trailer, she continued her circuit of the movie’s base camp, asking everyone she passed if they’d seen the second AD.

“She was by the cafe set last I saw her, but that was a while ago,” one of the grips said.

Joey headed for the Paradise Cove Cafe up by the beach. All the actors’ trailers,

nearest the set, were dark and locked up for the night. She tried the back door of the cafe, but that too was secured, so she peered through the windows. A single work light remained on, but there was no sign of anyone inside, the cafe apparently deserted now that the day’s filming was done. The sun was low in the sky, dipping toward the ocean.

The longest day of the year, and that’s exactly what it felt like to Joey.

She’d run out of places to look. Anxiety tugged at her. Her relationship with Courtney was complicated, like it is whenever your ex is dating somebody new. And she needed to be honest with herself about the way her personal feelings may have clouded their interactions.

With daylight dying over the water, she stepped onto the beach, hoping to feel a scrap of the serenity she always found in the natural rhythm of the breaking waves, like a favorite refrain, a golden oldie that just gets better with time.

At the water’s edge, she noticed a pile of clothing, buffeted by the incoming tide scudding across the sand. Her first thought was that one of the extras had abandoned their costume, but that didn’t make any sense. As the sun dropped out of the sky, she took a few steps closer to investigate, at the same time as a larger wave swept aside what she’d taken for coils of kelp swirling around that bundle of fabric.

Horror sliced through Joey like a scalpel; she stumbled and fell to her knees. Courtney Lisle lay motionless in the shallow water at the shoreline as the cold blue Pacific surf washed over her body.

FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER

Chapter One

The first day of principal photography on a film is always a milestone in production, like opening night in the theater. After working mostly independently of each other for three months or more, all the different departments merge to become one big machine. No matter how many movies you’ve done, every new job is a blank slate. Each time, you ask yourself: Do I have what it takes to climb that mountain again, to create a new world out of whole cloth?

Put up or shut up time.

Joey slept poorly the night before, which was par for the course; but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that dropped on her like a net as soon as she opened her eyes that morning. She’d had a bad feeling about this job from the start; she’d nearly passed on the movie for a number of reasons, both personal and professional. But the carrot of working so close to home was finally too tempting to resist.

The costume department had been prepping for months, but the schedule was rushed for a project so large and complex. Lots of special effects, stunts, and complicated costumes; lots of money and reputations on the line. Still, she felt her department was as ready as they could be, and her standards for readiness were high. So she tried to chalk up her misgivings to first day of shooting jitters. Later, she’d wonder if they’d been a premonition.

Just before sunrise, she pulled her car into the crew parking lot, about a mile south of base camp in Malibu. A shuttle van idled, waiting to ferry people to the set. It was empty save for the driver, whose head rested against his seat back. The teamsters were respon- sible for the setup of vehicles and equipment, so that all was ready for the shooting company when they got to work. They were the first in and last out every day, and most of them were expert at grabbing a few winks when they had the chance.

Joey gathered her purse and work satchel, then locked her car and pinned her keys to her waistband. She had keys to the costume offices and storage space for the movie as well as her personal keys, and this was the only sure way to keep them at hand throughout the day without losing them.

She trotted over to the van and pulled the side door open, startling the driver out of his catnap. A grizzled veteran in his late forties, he sat up with a frown until he saw who was climbing into his back seat.

“Joey Jessop! Girl, how you doin’?” A wolfish grin lit his face. “You are lookin’ fine as ever, Sweet Cheeks.”

Pete O’Neill was a relentless lech, and even though he was basically harmless, he could be tiresome, especially first thing in the morning.

“Pete, what a nice surprise,” she said, trying to hide her true feelings. “I didn’t see your name on the crew list.”

“We ran three weeks over on the last job down in Louisiana. Made it back in the nick of time to get on this one. Didn’t want to miss out on a big show in LA, for a change.”

“No kidding,” she said. “This is the first job I’ve booked in the past four years that’s shooting here. I’m thrilled to be sleeping in my own bed for the next six months.”

“You coming off location, too?”

“I’ve been back here prepping this one for a while, but before that I was out of town shooting a Western.”

“How’d that go?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You meet a lot of hunky cowboys?”

She managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “It was an education.”

“Never done a Western before, huh?” He gave her a knowing look. “Whole different animal.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Joey had been on dozens of location shoots, but the Western was a real eye-opener. From the wild temperature swings in the desert—25 degrees at night to over 100 in the afternoon—to the dust storm that took out their generators one day, or the flash flood that nearly trapped them in a box canyon on another, the experience had given her a fresh appreciation for the comfort of shooting on a studio back lot.

She stifled a yawn. “At least it was fast. Six-week shoot.” “Yeah?” His expression was skeptical. “Who was directing?”

“Clint Eastwood.” She smiled as she pictured the director on set, watching the shot in progress on a handheld monitor. Despite the difficult conditions, Joey enjoyed working with him.

Pete nodded appreciatively. “That man’s a class act, old school Hollywood.”

“Yes, he is,” she said. “A real filmmaker. We could use more like him in the business these days.”

“You got that right.” Pete checked his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any more customers for a while. Crew call’s not for another hour. If you want, I’ll run you up to base camp now.”

“That’d be great.” She slid the door closed. “I can use some quiet time before everybody gets here.”

He dropped the van into gear. They turned north onto the Pacific Coast Highway as a pale watercolor wash of daylight began to spread across the ocean, sketching in the horizon line to the west. Joey took a deep breath, bracing herself for the nonstop activity the next sixteen hours would bring.

“Have you read the script for this one yet?” Pete glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“Didn’t have much choice,” she said lightly.

“That bad?”

“Not my cup of tea. I’m not a big fan of comic book movies.”

“’Bout all they make around here anymore,” he said, “if you want to earn a decent living.”

“Don’t I know it.”

The screenplay was 125 pages of special effects–driven gobbledygook, but Joey had no doubt it would play well with the movie’s crucial fourteen- to twenty-year-old target audience.

“I heard this one’s about some new superhero.” Pete caught her eye in the mirror again.

“It’s actually the Legion of Phenomenals, based on some underground comics that have a big cult following. Nothing new, but they haven’t been used in any movies so far.”

“Why not just call it that, instead of UMPP?” He was asking about the working title for the movie. “Sounds like a noise you’d make if you got punched in the stomach.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “It’s code for Untitled Marcus Pray Project. You know how paranoid the producers are. They’re trying to keep the fanboys in the dark.”

“Like that’s going to stop them. The director’ll probably be posting pictures on Instagram from the set, and the studio won’t say boo to him.” Pete leaned back to talk to her over his shoulder. “Marcus Pray’s no Eastwood, even if he is a big dog in the business right now. I’m taking care of his trailer, and I got a mile-long list of special stuff that’s gotta be on board for him and his friends.” Pete gave the word a suggestive emphasis.

Marcus Pray was a powerful Hollywood hyphenate, a producer-director with a string of action-adventure blockbusters to his credit. This movie was sure to be another lucrative notch on his belt. Joey hadn’t worked with him before, and some of the stories she’d heard made her think twice before she signed onto this job.

***

Excerpt from FINAL CUT by Marjorie McCown. Copyright 2023 by Marjorie McCown. Reproduced with permission from Marjorie McCown. All rights reserved.