I stayed at the edge of the road, where the asphalt met the curb, and kept my head high to listen for oncoming cars. Thanks to the tall shrubs and blind corners, they seemed to sneak up on me at fifty miles an hour. By the time I completed the looping route that took me back to the house, I was panting from the uphill climb, my feet were aching in my flip-flops, and I was totally jumpy from almost being run over about nine times. But at least the walk served its purpose — it took my mind off the Hollywood Killer and Wyatt’s awful notebook.

I couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes and drink a tall, cold glass of water. I reached for the handle of the heavy wood gate and pulled.

But the gate was locked.

I didn’t bother trying the call box, because I knew no one was home. And even if I had my phone with me, there was no point in bugging my mother at the salon.

The skin on my cheeks felt like it was cooking in the brutal sunlight. My throat was parched. It was so dry here — as Jonathan pointed out once, with his usual misplaced pride, the city of Los Angeles is an actual desert.

I tried typing numbers into the keypad — 1-2-3-4. 0-7-2-0, Mom’s birthday. 0-2-1-4, Mom and Jonathan’s anniversary. I knew they wouldn’t work, but it was all I could think to do, and I had to do something. Then I just started randomly punching the buttons.

Finally, I stepped back to assess whether I could climb over the fence. Not a chance. It was eight feet tall, with metal spikes at the top. It went all the way around the property, and the backyard was bordered by a steep ravine that was full of cactuses and probably snakes.

I was on the verge of crying, but before I could muster a sniffle of self-pity, the gate swung open.

“Excuse me.” The guy standing there was a couple of years older than me, with messy-on-purpose dark hair and piercing green eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I had no idea who he was.

“Trying to get in?” I said.

He stared me down. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you shouldn’t be ‘trying to get in’ to someone else’s private property?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, mortified. “I just moved here and … I must be at the wrong house. I thought I was locked out. I’m sorry.”

Loser, loser, loser.

I was about to turn away to find the right house when his green eyes brightened with understanding.

“Hang on — what’s your name?” he asked.

“Willa.”

“Willa?” he repeated. “You’re Willa? Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.”

He held the gate open, and I hesitated, still unsure as to who he was or what he was doing at the house.

He gave me a friendly, slightly crooked smile. “I’m Jonathan’s assistant, Reed.”

This was Jonathan’s assistant? I guess in Hollywood even secretaries look like they could be on TV.

“I just got a call from the alarm company saying somebody was punching a bunch of random codes into the gate,” Reed explained. “How long have you been stuck out here?”

Heat and frustration were under my skin like a coating of grit, and I was a little afraid I’d burst out crying if I tried to talk. So I shrugged without making eye contact, and we walked in silence across the front yard.

“Come on.” He opened the door, and clean, cool air came billowing out of the house. “Let’s get you some water.”

I followed him to the kitchen, where he filled a glass from the filter next to the sink. After a few gulps, I felt a little more stable. Brave enough to look at him again.

Holy crab shacks, was he cute.

“Your name is Reed?” I said. “I’m Willa … but you knew that.”

He gave a little bow. “Reed Thornton, at your service.”

The old Willa might have said something flirtatious. Bold. And maybe it would have made me blush, but I would have done it, because I used to do things that were unknown and even a little scary just for the thrill of it.

But not anymore. I didn’t feel thrilled about anything these days. Not even being in the presence of someone so unbelievably handsome.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry for inconveniencing you.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I’m an assistant. It’s all part of the job.”

I tried to smile back, but I was pretty sure that my attempt came out as a weird grimace. So I drained the rest of my water glass and darted out of the kitchen.

Back in my room, I got my bookbag out of the closet, vowing not to let some stupid rude boy’s stupid notebook scare me.

I’d just sat down on the foot of my bed and pulled my chemistry book out again, when there was a knock on my door.

As I swung it open, I said, “You’d better not be blond.”

“I’m not,” Reed said.

I gasped, then felt my cheeks grow warm. “Sorry, I — I thought you were my mother.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” He grinned, and it felt like someone had opened a window and flooded the room with sunshine.

“Um … what’s up?” I asked.

“Well, I …” He frowned slightly and scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I’d say good-bye, because I’m leaving, only … it seems way weirder now than I imagined it.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s because I make everything weird.”

He laughed. “I thought I was the only one.”

I searched for something semi-intelligent to say. “Do you come to the house every day?”

“No,” he said. “Mostly I work at Jonathan’s office at the studio. But sometimes there’s random stuff that needs handling, so I come by here.”

I nodded. “Are you going to be a director, too?”

He shrugged, his modest, crooked smile returning. “That’s the dream.”

“Did you go to film school?”

“Not yet. I’m taking a couple of years off before college to get experience and make some money. I figure working for Jonathan will get me into any film school I want.”

“Is he that big of a deal?” I thought back to how Marnie had described the other Hollywood kids — as if their parents were the industry elite — and how it was unspoken that I fit right in.

“He’s good at what he does,” Reed said. “That’s more important than being a big deal.”

I hadn’t seen a single Jonathan Walters movie until he and Mom started dating and she’d made me watch them all with her. Actually, I liked them a lot. They were exciting without being mindlessly action-packed and thought-provoking without being boring or preachy.

Then again, I didn’t know enough about movies to know if that made someone a good director or not. I guessed I’d have to take Reed’s word for it.

“Right.” I felt weird about wasting his time and figured he must be eager to go. But he didn’t act like he was in a hurry.

He leaned against the doorway and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You started at Langhorn today, right? How’d you like it?”

“It’s okay. I haven’t met many people yet.”

He nodded. “They can be a bit closed off, until they get to know you.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“I’m a proud fighting Rattler. Graduated two years ago.” He smiled. “Ebony and emerald forever, right? ‘Rattle, rattle! is the cry of our battle!’ ”

“Yeah … guess I don’t quite have the rattle in my heart yet.” I thought of Wyatt’s icy rejection. “And ‘closed off’ might be putting it mildly.”

Reed sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I was on scholarship, and my parents were nobodies. I had no connections. No famous friends. A lot of doors never opened for me.”

“I’m extremely nobody,” I said. “That doesn’t bode well, door-wise.”

“No, it’ll be different for you,” he said. “You’re Jonathan Walters’s stepdaughter. Even if I weren’t obligated by the terms of my employment to say that counts for something, I’d say it counts for something.”

“And you work for Jonathan,” I shot back. “So you’re connected, too. See how it all worked out?”

Reed laughed again. I felt a twinge of happiness, realizing that I could make him laugh. I wanted him to like me — not necessarily like me like me, but to want to be my friend. Being in his presence was like being on a walk in a peaceful forest. The longer it went on, the calmer and more grounded I felt.