I did now.
Gently closing the door behind me, I crept down the steps, which opened into a room roughly the same size as the room upstairs.
On the far wall was a small pull-down movie screen, like the kind you use in classrooms with an overhead projector. A small olive-green leather sofa faced the screen, and a rolling cart directly behind the sofa held an old-fashioned film projector.
This must have been Diana Del Mar’s workroom. I remembered Paige’s blog entry about her — how she had wanted to make movies. In this room, Diana didn’t have to be a smiling starlet or box office poison. She got to be who she really wanted to be — a filmmaker.
Close to me there was a large table that looked like some ancient version of a computer, with a screen in the back, raised up like a monitor. On the flat part of the table was an array of buttons and control dials. There were also six big, flat turntable pieces. Two of the turntables held a film reel each, and the film wound through the spools on the machine from one to the other, connecting them.
It must have been an editing machine — the kind they used before everything was edited on computers.
Next to the table was a small rolling cart, with a metal rack that stood about five feet high. Curling pieces of film hung from the rack’s thin metal hooks like snakeskins.
I walked toward the desk on the side wall. It was sturdy, constructed of heavy steel. On it were a typewriter, a telephone, and a few piles of paper. There was a tray marked IN and one marked FILE and another one marked READ. I reached toward the typewriter and tapped out a series of letters on the dusty keys: q w e r t y
The e on the page was slightly lower than the rest of the letters, the t slightly raised.
This exact typewriter had been used by Diana Del Mar, more than seventy years ago — to write the script Paige had presented to me in the bathtub.
I picked up the phone to check for a signal, but the line was dead — it probably had been for decades.
In the corner of the room, there was a simple door, painted the same drab color as the walls. I tried the handle, but it was locked.
As I turned back to the stairs, the lights cut out.
I stood in perfect, horrific darkness for about three seconds, and then with a groan, the editing machine came to life behind me. The film reels began to spin, and a movie scene appeared on the screen.
It was a man and woman sitting at a dinner table set lavishly with flickering candles and a huge vase of roses. The woman was played by Diana Del Mar herself – there was no mistaking her radiant, heart-shaped face and her shining eyes. The man was played by an actor I didn’t recognize, a handsome man with dark hair.
There was no sound, but you could feel the tension between them. The camera slowly moved in on Diana as she took a sip of her wine. Then it cut to the man, watching her carefully. Diana was speaking. They conversed for a minute, and then the man spoke a single angry line.
The shot cut to Diana. She stared into her wine glass and said something quietly. And then her mouth moved in the shape of the words I’d know anywhere —
This is the kind of dream you don’t wake up from, Henry.
I’d known it was coming, but it still stopped me cold.
This was a scene from Diana’s movie. The one Paige had written about in her blog. I searched my memory for the film’s title. The Final Honeymoon.
On a shelf next to the table was a stack of empty film cans — the ones that had held the reels that were loaded on the editing table. I picked one up and looked at the label on its top.
It read: THE DINNER PARTY (WORKING TITLE ONLY)
I’d heard that name before … but where?
Then it hit me. From Reed. It was one of the movies he’d listed as his favorites. But it wasn’t even the real name of the movie. It was only a working title, one that even Paige hadn’t known.
Which meant … Reed had been down here. He’d seen this movie. He’d heard that line.
Suddenly, there was a jump in the action on the film. Diana’s character was standing up from the table, holding her wine glass. The camera was close on her dazed eyes. The glass slipped from her hand. She stumbled, trying to walk away from her chair, and made it almost all the way out of the dining room before collapsing to the ground. The man watched her with a small smile.
It was a murder scene. She was dying. Henry had poisoned her.
It was the scene I had seen references to in my vision. The one Paige had been meant to perform. It was supposed to be Paige’s murder, only something had changed — this wasn’t how Paige had died.
The film stopped with a jerk and rewound itself, then started playing, so I had to watch Diana recite that line again: This is the kind of dream you don’t wake up from, Henry.
It made me think of Marnie’s line, that she’d used so proudly. He’s no gentleman, see?
And just thinking that gave me an uncomfortable twinge. Like the one I’d had on the stairs earlier. That feeling of overlooking something important. Of a piece not fitting in the puzzle.
Weirdly, I thought of Reed. And it occurred to me … Why hadn’t he been surprised to see me? I mean, yes, he was surprised to find me carrying an alleged dead bird in a shoe box. But he shouldn’t have expected me to be at home. As far as anyone but Marnie, Wyatt, and I knew, I was at Marnie’s for the weekend.
Then my heart seemed to slow to a stop, as I remembered his words in the garage that morning.
I guess I’m no gentleman.
It was too similar to Marnie’s words: He’s no gentleman, see?
Had Reed been watching Detour?
Maybe Reed knew I wasn’t at Marnie’s because he knew Marnie wasn’t there, either.
I glanced back at the frame frozen on the editing machine, Diana Del Mar’s face in a stricken expression of regret and sorrow.
Reed called this one of his favorite movies.
What if those weren’t Jonathan’s files I’d found on the computer?
What if they were Reed’s?
And with that thought, the pieces came smashing together with a deafening, horrifying impact.
Reed was an insane psychotic killer….
He’d killed all those girls.
And now he was after me.
I paced Diana’s office. Reed’s priorities would be to keep me from getting to a phone or computer and to keep me from escaping out the front gate. Eventually, he’d realize I had to be in the guest cottage and find a way to force me out.
Keeping me from calling for help was easy enough. He had my cell phone. The landline was useless. And now he had the only computer in the house, too.
I felt faint and flushed. Now that I knew his secret, there was no way he would let me live. Which meant I had to either find a way out … or be his next victim. I could scream and hope someone heard, but by the time anyone came to help, Reed would have found me.
There was no way out. I was trapped.
I made my way back upstairs to the main floor of the guest cottage, looking for something to use as a weapon. My best chance for escape would be to knock Reed unconscious and then run for my life. A baseball bat could work, or even a broken chair leg.
In the end, the best I could find was the metal base of an old lamp. I dropped the bucket out the window and began to climb out. As I left, I looked at the closet in the corner of the room.
And that’s when I remembered …
My father’s old laptop was in my bedroom closet.
Reed didn’t even know it existed.
I scanned the yard for a full sixty seconds before scrambling to the trellis and climbing back up. I had to leave my lamp behind, but there would be other blunt objects inside the main house.