Sara Shepard - Toxic

It was a stupid question to ask, because Emily already knew the answer. Sobs rippled through her body. “I will never love you!” she shrieked to the empty room. “Never, ever! And I will kill you! You will pay for this!”

The words rang out through the room, too true but also too raw. The bat slipped from her sweaty fingers. All at once, Emily felt horrified by what she’d said. It was what she wanted . . . and she knew she was capable. But she couldn’t believe she’d turned into this person.

Then she looked around the decimated room with fresh eyes. What had she done? Her friends would see the remains of this during their surveillance shifts. They’d think it was a lead . . . and Emily would have to tell them the truth. What if the Maxwells or a Realtor checked in on the place? What if they found this?

She jumped to her feet, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans, and quickly gathered up all the cabinets and drawers and put them back on their hinges as best she could. Then she used her hands to sweep the glass into a pile. You’re a terrible person, you’re a terrible person , she thought, the words like punches. How could she say she was going to kill someone? How had Ali driven her to this ? All at once, she wondered if Ali had succeeded in her master plan. She had twisted Emily into a lunatic. She had changed her from the sweet, sensitive, cautious girl she once was into someone exactly like her.

By mid-afternoon, she’d cleaned up entirely, and she emerged from the house sweaty, bloody, and exhausted. She scuttled to her car and threw herself into the seat, barely noticing all the blood she was getting on the steering wheel. She stared blankly through the windshield, for a moment not having any idea where she was going to go. She felt drained, used up, finished. She felt ready to wave the white flag.

“I surrender, Ali,” she said in monotone as she drove down the steep hill to the main road. “You win.”

And that was a terrible thing to say aloud, too.

“And that’s why we’re not friends anymore, Hanna Marin,” Hanna said harshly, eyeing Hailey under the hot set lights. Her Naomi Zeigler wig tickled her scalp, but she resisted scratching it. “Because you’re crazy . And you’re a liar. And there’s only so much a girl can take.”

Instead of Hailey looking shocked, as the script dictated, she stared glassily at the wall, almost asleep. A beat too late, she snapped to attention. “But, Naomi,” she whined. “You don’t, like, know the whole story.”

“Cut!” Hank bellowed. “The lighting is all wrong.”

The bell rang. Everyone snapped out of character, and Hailey fell gratefully into a raffia couch. “Oh my God,” she murmured, slinging a hand over her eyes. “I feel like death.”

“Late night?” Hanna asked cautiously. Hailey did look exhausted. Despite hours in hair and makeup, her hair was limp and her face was sallow and puffy. And even when she smiled, she seemed pissed off, like she was ready to lose it.

“Yeah, but super fun.” Hailey pulled her hand away from her eyes and peered at Hanna. “I was going to invite you, too, but you never texted me back.”

She sounded hurt. Hanna suddenly remembered Hailey’s “can you talk” text that had come in just as she’d pulled into Turkey Hill yesterday. She had completely forgotten to call Hailey, though maybe that was a good thing. Right now the last thing she needed was to get in more trouble. Every time she talked to Mike on the phone during his breaks at soccer camp, that horrible image of her and Jared kissing swirled in her head.

Hank made his adjustments, then ducked behind the wall again. “I need you to reply more quickly this time, Hailey,” he shouted out. “You missed your cue.”

Hailey rolled her eyes. “What does he know?” she murmured to Hanna under her breath. “ I’m the one who’s been in twelve major motion pictures and two hit TV shows.”

Hanna stuck her tongue into her cheek. How much longer could she watch Hailey butcher her character? She said nothing as she walked back to her first marker.

Hank called action, and they started the scene again. This time, Hailey not only missed her cue, she completely bungled most of her lines or else breezed through them tonelessly. Hank yelled cut again. Hailey fell onto the couch once more. “How long is this going to take ?”

Hank ran out from behind the wall and walked right up to Hailey, towering over her. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Hailey’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

“You missed your cue.” Hank placed his hands on his hips. “ Again . And I couldn’t even make out most of your lines. You had no inflection. And your eyes were completely dead.”

Daniel, Hank’s assistant, rushed up behind him with the scene’s script fastened to a clipboard. Hanna took a small step away from him—he still creeped her out—but he was paying no attention to her. His long finger searched down the page, finding the line. “Halfway through, you were supposed to say, ‘Naomi, there’s something you need to know,’ not just ‘Hey, Naomi.’”

Hailey made a face. “So?”

Hank looked at the cameraman. “Okay, we’re going to have to retake that. Again .” He rolled his eyes and started back to his chair, muttering something under his breath. It sounded like, “And this time, Hailey, try not to show the world you’re hungover.”

Hailey straightened up. “Excuse me?”

Hank trundled on, still muttering.

“Hey!” Hailey called after him. “I asked you a question!”

Hank still didn’t answer. “Uh, may I remind you that I’m the star here?” Hailey bellowed. “And you’re just the overweight, washed-up director!”

Her words rang out through the room. Hanna gasped. She was pretty sure everyone else on set did, too.

Hank wheeled around, eyes blazing. “You’re out of line, Hailey.”

Hailey raised her chin. “That’s what you get for talking behind my back.”

Hank gritted his teeth. “Maybe you deserved it. Your head isn’t in this. Your behavior is unacceptable. You’re always late, you’re always hungover, and your bad performance after bad performance is bringing down the quality of this whole production.”

His voice rang out through the high-ceilinged room, and after he finished talking, there was dead silence. Hailey blinked hard, as if Hank had just punched her in the stomach. She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it fast, tears welling in her big blue eyes.

Hanna’s stomach swirled around and around. She’d prayed for Hank to finally get through to Hailey, but hated that it was going down like this. This was so public. So embarrassing.

Hank sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and seemed to center himself. “Either you straighten up and actually listen to me, or you’re gone,” he said in a calmer voice. “You understand?”

Hailey turned away slightly. “You can’t fire me.”

“Hailey . . . ,” Hank warned.

Hailey raised her hand to cut him off. “Because I quit .”

Then she wheeled around, shoved Daniel out of the way, and stormed to her dressing room, slamming the door so hard some of the high overhead lights shook. In seconds, Hanna could hear her on the phone with someone—her agent, maybe. Hailey sounded furious.

Hanna dared to look around the set. Every single actor stood stock-still, awkward looks on their faces. The cameraman gripped the sides of the camera, his jaw slack. The hairstylist’s mouth was a perfect O. The production assistants nudged each other, and one of the guys in catering was already typing away on his phone.