Three rings later, her grandmother answered. “Hello.”

“Hi, Abigail.” Her grandmother always insisted she call her by her first name, never by the dreaded title of Grandma. At seventy-nine years old, her grandmother didn’t look a day over fifty, thanks—in part—to the cosmetic procedures she continued to have done.

“Hi, darling, I was just thinking about you this morning.”

“You were?”

“Yes. I saw a review of that movie you were in last year, Dancing on Fire . . .”

She cringed. Labeled as the Dirty Dancing of the decade, her latest film had brought in low numbers at the box office and depression-inducing reviews from critics. She’d had her doubts about the film, but Brantley had convinced her to take a chance on it anyway, claiming that it might be the project to save her downward-spiraling career after the last few box office disasters. She’d trusted his judgment against her gut and her agents’ warning, even though her “downward-spiraling career” had only started when she’d started to accept roles in his film projects.

He’d been the original director on the project, but had been replaced when the male lead refused to work with him. After their breakup halfway through filming, she was relieved that he had been replaced, but by that time, she also realized the movie was going to be a bust, not a boost to her career, and it was already too late.

She kicked herself whenever she thought about how stupid she’d been to trust him. Their relationship had been only as real as the ones depicted onscreen. Based on a mutual love of movies and a desire to be one of Hollywood’s powerhouse couples, it had lacked depth and a strong connection.

She wasn’t in any hurry to enter another one.

“Which review?” she asked. “The one from the LA Times claiming the only good part of the movie was the final credits or the one from USA Today that said ‘Parker Hamilton’s portrayal of a ballerina would have been more believable had the actress learned how to dance . . .’” She knew every critique word for word, and they shook her confidence every time she considered auditioning for a new role.

“No, this one was actually quite positive.”

She sat straighter. “Really? Where are you reading it?”

“The Phoenix Valley Review.”

She sighed. Her grandmother’s community newspaper was hardly the starred review she’d been longing for. Still, she said, “What does it say?” She must really need an ego boost these days if she needed to hear this.

Abigail cleared her throat, and Parker could hear the paper on the other end of the line as her grandmother read, “Dancing on Fire has to be Parker Hamilton’s best film since Lego Barbie . . .”

Okay, maybe this review wouldn’t make her feel better. She’d starred in sixteen movies since her second role at nine years old playing a little girl who builds a Barbie doll out of Legos and the doll comes to life.

“‘She was graceful and elegant and her character was wonderfully flawed . . . A hit for Ms. Hamilton . . .’ The rest just goes on about the movie’s plot,” her grandmother said.

Short and sweet. “Can you . . . uh . . . save that for me?”

“Sure, darling.”

“Anyway, I was calling because I have a new part I’m considering auditioning for . . .”

“That’s wonderful. Who’s the director?”

She flipped to the front page of the script. “Kilroy Clarke,” she said slowly, still unsure if auditioning for this part was the right thing to do. She’d heard of indie projects never getting finished because of lack of funding. Would they even have a budget to pay her high salary quote? The script was so good, she wasn’t sure she cared.

“Kilroy Clarke . . .” Abigail was repeating the name over and over, trying to place it. “Is he an international?”

“No. He’s an independent filmmaker. You’ve never heard of him either?” She’d been hoping her grandmother would have. With her sixty-plus years in the movie industry, there were few people she didn’t know.

“No. I’m sorry, darling . . . I can ask around. See if someone can put me in touch with him.”

“No,” she said quickly. “That’s not why I’m asking.” For years her grandmother’s influence and contacts had helped secure her roles. This time she wanted to do this on her own. Get the part because she deserved it, without having to wonder if Abigail’s influence had swayed the decision to cast her. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s fine.” She bit her lip as she retrieved the rest of the script from the printer and stared at it.

“What’s wrong?” her grandmother asked in her silence.

“I’m just undecided about whether or not to audition.” The day before she’d been excited and eager, but Tyson Reed had made her doubt her decision. Was he right? Would it be impossible for her to look and act like an MMA fighter in such a short period of time? After the reviews from Dancing with Fire, the last thing she needed was another role where she couldn’t live up to the demands of the character.

“Have you read the script?” her grandmother asked.

“Yes, it’s brilliant.”

“Then audition. Trust me, those are few and far between these days.”

Her grandmother was right about that . . . and even fewer were coming her way. She released a deep breath, decision made. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Grandma.”

“I don’t know who you’re referring to. There’s no old lady here.”

*   *   *

It was pitch black in his bedroom when Tyson sat upright, tossing his covers aside. He’d heard something, and he listened for a repeat of the noise that had just woken him. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was just after two a.m. The last time his sleepless eyes had drifted to the clock it had read one fifteen. Somehow between then and now, he’d finally managed to fall asleep.

And now he was wide awake again.

He waited.

Another loud crash had him on his feet in seconds. The noise was coming from the gym. Pulling on a pair of boxer briefs and grabbing the baseball bat he kept next to his bed, he raced from his apartment and down the stairs.

He’d expected to see the back door open or a broken window, but the door was still locked when he reached for the handle.

Whoever was inside his gym knew the security door code.

He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Typing in the code, he yanked the door open and went inside the dark gym. The only light came from inside the office; he knew he hadn’t left it on. O.C.D. from a young age, he followed routines and checked things to the point of annoying even himself. The light had been off when he’d ended his training and left the gym just before midnight.

He moved closer to the office, peering through the slightly open blinds. There was still someone in there. Adrenaline pumped through him and he was fully awake and ready to take on an army as he reached the door.

Inside the room, the glass from the trophy display case on the wall covered the floor and a man sat among the shards, his back to him, fumbling with the combination on the safe. “Hey! Get the fuck away from that.” He hit the desk with the bat for added threat.

The guy turned slowly as though unaffected by the words or the sound of the weapon Tyson held, ready to use if necessary. “Hey, little brother,” he said when his gaze met Tyson’s.

Tyson lowered the bat as he stared in disbelief at the guy sitting on the floor of his office claiming to be his brother. A man he hadn’t seen in almost three years and who bore no resemblance to the thin, strung-out guy in front of him. But he thought he recognized light blue eyes that matched his own, even though they were bloodshot and dilated. “Connor?”

The man tried to stand, but lost his footing and fell back to the floor, his hand landing on a fragment of glass. Instantly blood trickled the length of his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice as he ran his other shaking hand through his long, greasy hair. “I’d get up . . . but . . .” He laughed as his eyes drifted closed and his head fell forward.