Wednesday

I peel the painting mask off my face, careful not to tangle and tear out a clump of hair with the nasty little clasp on the back.

I'm bone-tired. I've been drinking coffee all day. It's done nothing to help me. If anything, it's made things worse. Now I have the jitters.

Primer paint doesn't need the steadiest hand in the world. It's fine.

Grey, white and black primed pieces lay drying, strewn across the entire warehouse. Even out here, the smell is strong enough to knock down an elephant.

'Everyone out?'

'All accounted for.'

'Okay, locking up for the day. Good work everyone.'

Once I've double-checked the doors, I begin my circuitous route to our next meeting place.

I'm still operating under the assumption that I'm being followed, but whoever it is is staying a lot further back. They're harder to spot. Hard enough to spot that I'm not sure I have yet.

As far as Charles will be concerned his spy lost me while I was shopping.

I'm sure he won't think much of it. He did just hand over an awful lot of cash. He seems to be under the impression that I'm shallow and vain, so obviously I'd go shopping the second I got paid.

I hate him so much.

If I go missing too often, he will be suspicious. This is two nights in a row. I can't keep this up.

They won't need me in person every day, just days when I need to record a statement. I've already done most of the ones I thought I'd need. Carefully worded descriptions of unrecorded events. A masterful explanation for why he thinks I'm in a fake relationship. I won't be 'missing' for long today, either. I'm just here to deliver a USB with the recording of the confrontation from yesterday. I could have given it to someone else. I could have sent it over the internet. Dead drops and file sharing risk it being intercepted by the wrong person, though. So, here I am.

I surreptitiously open the door to the Karaoke bar and duck inside. The receptionist sends me up the stairs.

Maggie hugs me the moment I open the door - startling me. I wasn't expecting it. I guess she must have seen Casey, and assumed it was the right greeting. It's more comforting than a hug from an almost stranger should be.

'Hello -'

'Seven.'

It's the private investigator. I think her name is Jo, just like me. It's going to be confusing.

'Seven?'

'I've found seven others. Like you.'

It takes a moment to sink in.

I said I thought there would be others. It wasn't a lie. I thought it was possible. I don't think I truly believed there would be.

'Oh.'

'I've barely even scratched the surface - there's going to be more. There are anonymous horror stories about him everywhere. Having all your actor friends has really helped my investigation. They're not conspicuous when they ask other performers questions. People open up to them.'

'How many will testify in court?'

'No idea, yet. Once I have a better gauge of the total number of people, it'll be easier to persuade all of them. Strength in numbers, you know.'

'Yeah.'

I had strength in numbers. These other people probably didn't. The horrible date that ended in an attempted kidnapping for me... well. For them, without someone watching and protecting them...

I fish around in my pocket and pass the USB to the Executioner. She takes it without a word.

I never fully contended with the possible outcomes that I avoided when Lionel punched Charles.

I don't think I wanted to.

I feel weak. Unprepared. Insignificant.

I shouldn't have come here alone. Now, I have to leave alone. I haven't seen anyone suspicious, but I'm probably still being followed. Whoever it is is doing a far better job than the other guy. They're professional. Their orders may not end with just following me.

My phone rings.

Charles.

I hold my hand up to the room to silence them.

'Answer it. We're here.'

I accept the call.

'Hello?'

'Jojo, my little Joey-jo-jo. Where are you right now?'

'I'm in the city, shopping. Why?'

'Where exactly, Joey dearest?'

I look around, hoping for some flash of inspiration.

'I'm near the corner of... I think Exhibition and Latrobe?'

There's silence for a moment.

'It's awfully quiet for such a busy intersection.'

'Like I said, I'm near there. In a store. I'm not standing right out in the middle of the street.'

'Well, wait there. I have something for you.'

He hangs up.

I'm shaking.

It's probably just the paperwork I asked for. It's fine. Everything is fine.

'Jo, it's okay, I'll go with you. You can say you came here to meet me for dinner or something.'

I look at Casey, so small and frail. I don't think I'd ever noticed how thin her wrists were. How tiny her ankles. She always seemed so sturdy - but she's no stronger than me, and I feel no stronger than wet tissue paper.

She takes my hand.

I nod.

She waves goodbye to the others and we leave the way we came - out of the thick-walled fortress, into the open air.

Why did I think I could go where I wanted? Of course, he wants me on a tight leash. He wouldn't want his investment going missing.

We walk silently toward the intersection until I pull away and into a brightly lit convenience store.

'Why are we in here?'

'I've got to have something on me, to prove I was shopping nearby, right?'

'That makes sense.'

I purchase a bright purple drink with a label promising all sorts of important vitamins and minerals.

We resume our march.

'Should you open it, take a few sips?'

I look at it, suddenly disgusted by the unnatural colour. I take a sip anyway.

We stand at the intersection, uncertain what we're waiting for.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

A messenger on an electric bike stops at the curb and holds out a paper bag. The label on the bag reads 'Jojo.'

I reach out and take it, exchanging a confused glance with Casey. The bag is light.

Inside is a brightly coloured toy gun. The words 'Bang bang' are scrawled on the receipt.

'That's a death threat.'

She sounds baffled.

An echo of my own emotional state.

Is this only because I'm defying him by hiding from his hired stalker?

Did he catch wind that my friends are looking into his past misdeeds?

Did he find out I secretly married Jaq?

It can't be that. If he knew that, I'm sure I would be dead. No silly toys made out as threats.

'Hey, Jo, let's get off the street.'

I nod absently and allow myself to be pulled into another store.

Casey's on the phone, telling someone about the gun.

Can he kill me?

He's sunk a lot of money into keeping me in line. If I die now, now that Jaq knows about the will... he doesn't get any of that money back. Jaq can marry anyone he likes. Whenever he likes. Charles' current gambit relies on me being reluctant and playing hard to get while stringing Jaq along. My death would only hurt him - unless he killed Frances at the same time.

How much is Frances' deceased estate worth?

Is it worth enough to risk being caught for a double homicide?

I don't even have a frame of reference for how much hiring a hitman would cost. Are those even real? It sounds like the kind of far-fetched fantasy you'd find in a silly gangster movie. I can suspend disbelief for the sake of enjoying a film, but in reality?

'Annie says you need to go home now - just go home and go to work tomorrow; do nothing weird or suspicious.'

'Sure. Ok. I'll call a lift.'

I don't even remember who Annie is.

I barely remember the car ride home - my mind is too preoccupied with trying to understand what on earth would make someone act like this. The only conclusion I can come to is that I'm not equipped to comprehend his motives. An incomparable sense of entitlement, unrepentant greed, some unknown cause for an outsized act of revenge... even a combination of all three isn't enough to make this make sense to me. I'd have to be someone else to get it. Probably as someone who's spent time around these kinds of people as a 'peer' rather than as a pawn, or as their prey.

I get into my room and lock the door. I push a chair up under the handle for good measure. I can't do anything about the window.

I dial Charles. He doesn't answer. It might be better this way.

To the answering machine, I say;

'Last time we spoke in person, I asked you to stop treating me like an enemy. I guess you can't help yourself. A water gun? For real? Your death threat is about as childish as you are. What have I done to upset you? Were you trying to reassert dominance? Why did you even feel the need? I'm following your orders. I'm behaving. This kind of treatment makes me want to misbehave, so at least I'll feel like I deserve it when you inevitably try to hurt me again.'

I sigh, trying to assemble my thoughts into sentences. I should have written a script for this before I called.

'I'm going to pretend it didn't happen. This time. Next time... Next time you'll see just how badly I can act out.'

I hang up.

Moments later, there's a knock at the door. I tense, expecting someone to knock the door off its hinges.

Jaq calls out to me.

I relax.

I move the chair back out of the way, feeling foolish. I let him in the room.

'I thought you said you'd be out late?'

He looks concerned.

'Yeah, Pitch sent me a death threat, so I came home early.'

'He what?'

I hand him the bag with the gun.

'Bike messenger delivered this to me.'

He looks inside, then puts it back down on the desk.

'I thought this way was supposed to be safer...'

I whisper to him;

'Did you ever get that pre-nuptial agreement drafted?'

'What? No. I didn't think I needed it anymore. You said this plan didn't involve getting married.'

'You're going to need the agreement drafted. It puts pressure on him.'

'Pressure? He's already threatening to kill you!'

He's not going to do it.

I sigh, exasperated this time.

I open a sketchbook to a blank page and write;

I, Joanne Knight, swear that if I gain control of any trusts or other funds intended for the benefit of Jaques Glarean, I will relinquish all control and rights to those trusts or other funds to Jaques Glarean immediately. If I ever divorce Jaques Glarean, I relinquish all claim on his estates (current or future), and will take only that which I entered the marriage with, is given specifically to me as gifts, or earned from my own work during the marriage.

I date it, sign it and hand it to him. It's probably not written right. It doesn't matter. The point is that it exists. Maybe it's better that it's something I scribbled. Maybe that makes it look more like I mean it. When he finds out we're married, the fact I made it and gave it to him should be evidence enough to prove that I didn't fraudulently marry him to steal from him.

It shouldn't need to hold up in court. I have no intention of taking his money.

'Keep it safe. Make copies. Give one to your lawyer. Tell him you meant to send it sooner, but you didn't think it was important.'

'Why are you putting yourself in so much danger?'

'I'm not in that much danger. He needs me alive. He's just throwing a tantrum about it.'

He looks like he wants to ask more questions, but I shoo him out the door. He nervously folds the page in half as he walks down the hallway, back to his own room.

I close the door and lock it again. I leave the chair where it is, by the desk. If I can't block the window, there's no reason to barricade the door.

We should have had that discussion as messages on that stupid little white board.

Hopefully, the room isn't bugged.

Surely it isn't.

Right?

Handover

I go through the motions - work, home, work, home. I've been blocked from interacting with my own investigation. It's fair, I guess. If they're seen with me, they risk being targeted alongside me.

Charles hasn't bothered to call or text me since the threat. I suppose he can't have much to text that wouldn't be incriminating if I showed the message to a judge.

I dream about being shot by well-dressed 1930's mafia hitmen in glamorous nightclubs.

I go on little 'dates' with Jaq. He does his best to flirt. I do my best to play along.

Every time I go out with Jaq, I expect Charles to call again, send another threat. Do some other stupid thing.

He hasn't sent me the paperwork with the things he intends to give me if I play along with him.

I want to demand it.

I get little updates almost every day about Frances' worsening condition.

I need that paperwork.

I might not need it. Maybe the investigation is fine without it.

I hate being out of the loop.

I pour all of my energy into painting my sets. The throne is amazing. An elaborate, sparkling edifice to hubris.

I'm not sure whose yet.

Perhaps it's mine.

The choreographer visits every few days with a couple of cameras, checking how this or that flip or twirl will look at this or that angle.

It's done too soon.

I'm not ready to hand it over.

I'm not ready to have nothing to occupy myself with.

I'm not ready to see Charles again. I needed more time to build up enough fake machismo to survive the encounter.

Whether I like it or not, there he is: darkening the doorway to my warehouse.

His warehouse, really; it was never mine. I deluded myself into believing it was mine.

I have a few of my burlier friends on site, with the superficial excuse that I might need them to help move the larger props around. In truth, I'm dead scared.

We stay to the side, watching him wander around, climbing risers, knocking on hanging flats. He seems pleased.

Finally, the choreographer summons me.

'Can you set up the round table?'

I nod, and the stage is cleared; unnecessary flats lift up while new flats are lowered. Elaborate chairs are collected from the wings. A button is pressed, and the central rounded riser elevates into a massive round table.

There's a gleeful cheer from Charles as he watches the stage transform from a castle exterior to interior.

'If you have a stagehand for every chair, the swap only takes about 6 seconds. You just need to be careful about staying outside the taped areas. You don't want scenery dropping on your head.'

'Can you bring out the horse too?'

The horse's legs 'walk' and the head bobs up and down rhythmically as the thing is wheeled across to centre stage.

'I didn't put an engine in it, so you need someone behind it to make it move. The mechanism isn't particularly complex. It could be motorised easily - it just doesn't have a good way for the rider to steer, so you're safer with a person propelling it.'

Charles looks like a child on his birthday.

I step off the stage and wait again.

They seem to be arranging a time to start filming. Dates are loudly thrown around.

I feel compelled by something entirely outside my own will to go and speak to him. To interrupt him and request the paperwork I'm owed. I hold myself in place.

Finally, the huddle breaks apart, and I approach him alone.

'You seem pretty happy.'

'I didn't think you could do anything like this!'

I regard him coldly, my earlier fear forgotten.

'I didn't have many opportunities to prove myself before this.'

'Come on, why are you so grumpy? You should be happy!'

'Then you're officially satisfied with my work.'

'I am.'

He turns and shouts to the room.

'I'm officially satisfied with Jojo's work.'

He turns back, still grinning.

I could leave it be. I could walk away. I'd be safe.

Safe.

Frances is barely hanging on to life. The second she dies, he'll find out I'm actually married to Jaq. Then -

Safety is a temporary illusion, no matter what I do.

If I come out and say it, will he snap?

I'm pretty sure he's willing to back up his threats with actions.

He hasn't needed to.

If I ask... then will he need to?

'You owe me some paperwork.'

'Oh, you're still on about that? I thought we'd come to an agreement.'

'You threatened to murder me. That's not an agreement.'

'It was all in good fun.'

How is he smiling?

'Threats aren't 'good fun.' I want my paperwork. You don't want to give it to me because you don't want me to have physical proof of what you're planning to do - but if I don't have that proof, how do I know you'll give me what you've promised?'

'Aren't you a smart girl?'

I want to strangle him.

He thinks - no - he's absolutely certain he has all the cards here.

'You know, the time you spent stalling allowed the cooling-off period for my 'notice of intent to marry' to expire. I can be legally married to him as early as tonight if I don't get the paperwork you owe me. As far as Jaq's inheritance is concerned, I might as well be his wife.'

His expression shifts much faster than my fancy stage.

'You wanted my obedience, but you've been unwilling to trust me or put any of your own skin in the game. You forced me to do this. Give me the paperwork, or deal with the consequences of your actions.'

I feel like I should be withering under the intensity of his rage.

Somehow, I'm not.

'Enjoy your sets.'

I wave to my crew.

'Time for us to go.'

I make it outside before I start shaking.

'You okay?'

Sal's hand is on my arm.

I shake my head.

'I need to go home right away. You should all go home too.'

'No celebration?'

'Not tonight.'

They look disappointed... and unsettled.

I feel unsettled.

'Actually, no, you can celebrate. Do celebrate. Make sure you talk about how glad you are you don't have to deal with your bitch boss anymore, though. Say it loud, say it often.'

He shakes his head.

'We can't do that.'

'Do it. But, stay inside, away from windows.'

He looks at me like I've lost my mind.

I think I might have.

That was an idiotic risk.

When am I not taking idiotic risks?

My lift arrives, cutting the conversation short.

I watch them as we drive away, nauseated by my own bravado.

When I get back to my room, I shut myself in the wardrobe. I can't be shot if I can't be seen.