Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Baptist. What the hell?”
“Relax, Webb. Your dad’s gone. If you need me to come back and beat him bloody for you, just call.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, you’re so helpful.”
“Seriously. Whatever you need.” He gives me a long look then unlocks the door and leaves.
I watch him go and deflate slightly once he’s gone.
What the hell am I doing? My hand comes to my abdomen and a thousand thoughts swirl in my brain. If not telling Baptist about the baby is one thing, my father finding out is another matter entirely. He’s going to kill me—literally, I think my dad might try to murder me if he finds out I’m pregnant by my business partner.
Throw in Max, and Cowan, and my absent mother, and I’m a walking nightmare.
Chapter 15
Baptist
Cowan meets us in the lobby of Rodrick’s hotel the following morning. His eyes are rimmed with red and he’s drinking espresso as fast as the cafe will pour it. His hands shake as he flips through the pictures of the abandoned farm, first through my phone, then through Blair’s. He’s barely listening as we give him our report and doesn’t even react when she tells him about the Polaroids.
“You should’ve gone inside,” he says, looking frustrated as he tosses her phone back. “Too scared, suit?”
“You’re damn right we were,” she says, giving me a look like, I knew this asshole was going to complain. “You saw the Polaroids, right?”
“Creepy,” he says, nodding, some of his anger softening. “Exactly what I wanted.”
“Did you plant them?” I lean toward him. “Were there more tricks inside that house? Maybe some spooky skeletons and some giant spiders?”
Cowan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t plant a damn thing. A friend told me—”
“You have friends?” Blair asks, sounding surprised, and I try not to laugh.
He ignores her. “I was told that place would be perfect for a horror film. There are apparently some truly appalling rumors about the things that happened inside that house over the years, and now I suppose I understand why. Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors after all.”
“You’re lying,” I say, leaning back and crossing my arms. “You really want me to believe that some random abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere has a murder room with dead girl pictures hanging on the wall? Right there in plain sight? Come on.”
Cowan shrugs. “I don’t care what you believe. Either way, go back and go inside and get me some damn pictures.”
“No,” I say flatly. “We won’t be doing that.”
He stares at me aggressively for a moment. I stare back at him, not giving a shit. Let the old bastard bitch and moan all he wants—I’m the money, and if he wants to make this movie, he needs me to keep writing the damn checks.
Finally, Blair breaks the tension.
“We’ll hire location scouts, all right? We have the money for it.”
“Fine,” Cowan says and waves a dismissive hand. “We’ll need to increase the budget.”
“You have plenty,” I say, working my jaw. “What’s with you today? You’re worse than usual.”
“Nothing is with me, thank you.” Cowan rubs his temples and finishes his third espresso. “I am, however, dealing with a lot of stress at the moment. This film hangs by a thread—”
“How?” Blair asks, looking around. “You haven’t done anything yet. How is the film hanging by a thread when you haven’t shot a single frame?”
“Stop interrupting me.” Cowan snaps at her, which is a first. He doesn’t usually lose his temper and I wonder if he isn’t lying about the stress. But what the hell does he have to feel stressed about? Blair and I have done all the groundwork for this, and he’s been sitting in an expensive hotel room feeding heroin to his leading man.
Cowan looks annoyed, and reluctantly says, “Every film is like a freshly planted tree. You must take care of it or it will wither and die. This project is at the critical junction where it can either flourish or fail, and I do not want another failure.”
I study him and exchange a look with Blair. This is the first time Cowan’s expressing any real desire to make this movie happen beyond the usual platitudes. I was beginning to think he didn’t actually give a damn, but maybe I was wrong. Cowan hasn’t made a decent film in years—and it’s possible the old director is beginning to feel the weight of time pressing down against him.
“We’re not going in that house,” I say finally and Blair nods her agreement. “If you want to make this movie for real, then you need to start acting like a damn professional and not like some insane control freak. Hire people, Cowan.”
“Fine.” He slams a hand down on the table and leaps to his feet. “You two are about the most worthless producers I’ve ever worked with.”