Wicked Games by Samanthe Beck Page B

wanted. We’ll go to my place. I’ll write my resignation and e-mail it to my agent. Then I’ll disappear. I’ll never come between you and a role again.”
    “No. You certainly won’t,” Mandy agreed, and stretched her lips into a wide, sharklike smile. She pressed the gun to Stacy’s forehead—right between her eyes. “But it’s too late to walk away. That offer came off the table the minute you spoke to the press and forced us into this little one-on-one conversation. Do you think I’m crazy? You’ve seen me. You know who I am. Turn around and climb over the railing.”
    Blood rushed out of her head, leaving an echo chamber between her ears. “What?” Her numb lips had a hard time forming the word. The only thing on the other side of the railing was the lighting rig, which hung suspended from the ceiling and extended almost the entire length of the stage. Other than that, nothing but twenty-five feet of free fall stood between the platform and the stage below. “I can’t climb over the railing. I’ll fall.”
    “That’s the idea. Everyone will think you jumped to your death.”
    “You don’t think they’ll notice someone stabbed me, and figure maybe I had some help?” She gestured to her bloody side.
    Mandy smiled and pulled a kitchen knife out of the folds of the habit. “You stabbed yourself, in an overdramatic suicide attempt, but when you realized you lacked the courage to inflict a fatal wound, you jumped instead.” She held the knife up for inspection, and Stacy recognized it as one from her own kitchen.
    “I took it tonight on my way to the limo, after I overheard you tell Kylie you planned to talk to the press.” She tossed the weapon behind her on the platform, where it landed with a hollow thud, and then she waved her gloved hand at Stacy. “No prints on the thing, except…hmm…yours.”
    “Why go to all this trouble? Why not just hide out in my house and kill me in my sleep?”
    “You die at home, under suspicious circumstances, and I’m the first person the cops question. You off yourself at some Halloween sleaze-fest, after…let’s add everything up.” She raised her index finger. “Breaking up with your boyfriend last month”—she raised another finger—“confessing your sinful past to the world tonight”—another finger—“downing several drinks in front of hundreds of eyewitnesses”—and, one last finger—“heading to the VIP room for a cheap hookup with a stranger.” She shook her head sadly. “Nobody questions your suicide. You’re clearly a woman in crisis.”
    Ian would. He’d question until his dying day. Because as much as she’d tried to convince them both otherwise, they were so not over, and he knew it. Funny how standing on the wrong end of a gun snapped certain things into perfect focus.
    “Party’s over,” Mandy said, and gave Stacy a shove. She stumbled and lost her balance. Her arms windmilled for a suspended moment as she fought for footing. Her heels slid off the platform. She screamed and fell backward into open air.
    …
    Ian hurried down the passageway toward the stage, hugging the wall and keeping his steps quick and light. He doubted anyone would hear him coming over the noise of the party, but he didn’t plan on leaving it to chance.
    The passageway widened at the back of the stage. A retractable metal security gate spanned the stage to prevent anyone from moving the festivities to the backstage area. The blackout curtain hung just beyond the security gate. He wrapped his hand around a slat and gave the gate a shake, testing it. Fully secure, with very little give. No one had slipped into or out of the backstage area through there. He worked his fingers between the slats, moved the curtain aside and looked out. A sea of zombies, ghouls, princesses, and pirate wenches danced under flashing purple lights. Nothing unusual.
    His phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. A text from Trevor read, At the back