10 A Script for Danger by Carolyn Keene

looking curiously at his empty cup.
    â€œI’m on this new project, and the hours are intense. I was up all night!” he explained.
    â€œWell, I’ll make this quick,” I said with a smile. Close up, I could see the physical effects of Ronan’s sleeplessness; his glasses actually magnified the deep rings under his eyes.
    â€œBy the way, it’s such a small world. I realized I’m friends with another filmmaker from your graduating class, Alex Burgess,” I began, curious to see Ronan’s reaction to hearing Alex’s name.
    â€œAlex . . . ,” Ronan sputtered, clearly nervous. “You should have mentioned that on the phone.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    Ronan paused. “He’s a great guy. Talented, too,” he went on, “but we’ve had . . . differences . . . in the past.”
    â€œOh?” I said innocently, hoping to get him talking.
    â€œOff the record . . . ,” he began.
    â€œYes, of course,” I promised.
    â€œAlex and I used to be writing partners. To make a long story short, it ended because I tried to take credit for something that he wrote.” He sighed. “I’m not proud of it, but Alex is a better writer than me, and that made me crazy. I would work the same number of hours as he did—sometimes more—but couldn’t come up with a single premise. Meanwhile, Alex could generate a hundred ideas in just fifteen minutes.”
    â€œThat must have been frustrating,” I said. “Are you friends now?”
    Ronan shook his head. “He hates me. I understand why, but . . . we were friends for a long time before moving to Los Angeles.” Ronan’s eyes misted over. “I wish we could put this behind us, but he refuses to speak to me.”
    â€œHave you tried to contact him since you’ve been in River Heights?” I pressed. “You know he’s also here shooting The Hamilton Inn , right?”
    â€œYeah, I know. Anyway, that’s enough about Alex,” Ronan declared. “You want to know about what I’m doing now, right?”
    â€œYes, of course!” I exclaimed. “What is this mystery project that’s keeping you up at all hours?”
    â€œI’m not writing anymore. I’m an editor now,” he said proudly.
    â€œWhat does that entail?”
    â€œThe editor gets all the film footage from the set, then assembles it in the correct order to make the final movie. It’s like putting together a puzzle! After that,we add the music and the titles, making the film look like what you see in the theater. They say that a director gets to make his or her film three times: once during the writing process, once while filming, and then again in the editing room.” I could tell how excited Ronan was with his new choice of career. “I’m also doing visual effects, which is something I’ve always been interested in,” he added.
    â€œAre you working on a feature right now?” I asked.
    Ronan’s phone beeped, and he glanced down to read it.
    â€œIt’s a documentary, actually,” he replied. “In fact, I should be getting back to work now. Was that enough information for you?”
    â€œYes, thank you. I’ll call if I have any other questions,” I said. He pulled some bills from his wallet, then paused.
    â€œDoes Alex know you’re meeting with me?”
    â€œI haven’t mentioned it to him,” I answered. “Do you not want me to?”
    â€œOh, no. It’s fine. Just tell him . . . tell him I’msorry,” Ronan mumbled, and scurried out into the parking lot. He’s in a hurry, I thought as I watched Ronan’s banged-up red car chug toward the traffic on Main Street.
    As I drove back to the set, I grew increasingly skeptical about Ronan. He was an obvious suspect—a former rival who had been, and maybe still was,