Page 121 of The Unknown

Now that I have, the big question that remains is what to do with that information.

“There’s not going to be a movie, is there?” I say. “Not after this.”

I’d been too preoccupied with other things to give it much thought. Now that I do, I realize no one is going to take over a movie after its writer and director died during preproduction. It might be a different story if cameras had already started rolling. But not a second of footage was shot.

And it never will be.

“There was never going to be a movie,” Violet says. “Loretta had no intention of getting it made. We all knew that before we signed on. That’s why the budget was so small. So it wouldn’t be such a big loss to the studio.”

And Loretta will move on to a different project while Violet, Heather, Julianne, and Susie book new roles, if they haven’t already. But the crew hired to work on this sham movie? They’re all out of a job.

As am I.

That news lands on me like an H-bomb, obliterating all my hopes and dreams. There will be no five weeks on set in North Carolina. Which means no hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck, no SAG card, no screen credit for a name no one has ever heard of.

While I was uncertain about how to use the information in Mrs. Semple’s journal a minute ago, now I know exactly what to do with it.

“I have to tell the police what you did.”

“Go ahead,” Violet says with a shrug. “It’s my word against yours. And we both know who people are going to believe.”

“I know,” I say, because it’s absolutely true. No one is going to trust an unknown actress over Violet fucking Wright. “But I have proof.”

She finally notices the book still clutched to my chest, eyeing the worn leather of its cover.

“Ruth Hume Semple’s journal,” I say, handing it to her. “Covering the exact span of time Daisy wrote about in her diary. You might be interested in what it says.”

Violet opens the book, and I can tell that she’s nervous. Not even the best actress in the world can hide the way her hands shake. They positively rattle as she flips to the first page, squinting in the moonlight. I watch her read, scanning her face for the stunned reaction I know is coming. When it arrives, it’s more muted than mine. Just a brief widening of her eyes, a slight drop of her mouth, a single, hushed gasp.

“Interesting,” Violet says, snapping the book shut. “But it proves nothing.”

“It proves that you faked being possessed by Daisy,” I say.

Violet steps to the end of the dock, holding out the journal like it’s something dead and stinking. She gives me a single, sidelong glance before dropping it into the lake.

I run to water’s edge, but it’s too late. The journal is already out of reach, floating on the oil-black water as a century of dust spreads out around it in a murky cloud. It soon begins to disintegrate, the water eating away at it, page by page. Bits of paper peel off and float away. Damp leaves in a stream. Thirty seconds later, only a chunk of the cover remains, bobbing like driftwood.

“Now it doesn’t,” Violet says.

“You didn’t need to destroy it!” I cry, an ache in my chest because the truth of New Avalon is now gone. Not just Mrs. Semple’s version of events, but Daisy’s final moments, too. Her missing diary pages were tucked into that journal. Now, like Daisy herself, none of it exists.

“I absolutely did,” Violet says.

Her lips curl into a cruel smile as, smug and victorious, she turns back to the lake, noticing a light that appears in the distance. I see it, too, and hear the low hum of an outboard motor.

Loretta.

Returning at last.

Violet watches her approach, oblivious to me reaching into my pocket, pulling something from it, holding it up.

“Not when I still have this,” I say.

Violet deigns to turn my way, instantly spotting the flat square of plastic pinched between my thumb and forefinger. It takes just one look for her to realize what it is—the SD card from Susie’s camcorder—and that I had slipped it out before the camera, like the journal, was consumed by the lake.

Of course I suspected Violet hadn’t been possessed by Daisy, even before I read Mrs. Semple’s journal. Yes, her performance was perfect. Worthy of a third Oscar, in fact. But her previous deceptions had put me on alert, making me assume she had something more planned during the séance.

As for why I went along with it, well, I have my reasons. But make no mistake about this—my performance was just as impressive.