The backlot of Studio 4 was a maze of trailers, tangled cables, and PAs smoking cigarettes with the thousand-yard stare of war veterans.
Aria walked toward the exit, phone pressed to her ear.
"No," she said into the receiver. "I'm not going to the wrap party. I'm coming home. We still have half the Delta list to get through, and my eyes are already crossing."
"You don't have to punish yourself," Damien's voice rumbled on the other end, warm and low. "Take the night off. Celebrate. You just wrapped a hit."
"I'll celebrate when we find the thief," Aria countered, stepping over a coil of thick black wire. "Besides, The Rusty Anchor smells like stale beer and bad decisions. I'd rather have takeout on your office floor again."
Damien chuckled. "I can arrange that. I'll see you in twenty—"
A shrill, familiar scream echoed off the aluminum siding of the star wagons, cutting him off.
Aria froze. It wasn't acting. It lacked the polish. This was raw, messy, unscripted drama.
