Emma Clarke's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Emma Clarke had driven to this town to become a movie star, and now she stood on a rotting porch waiting for a man everyone told her to avoid. Rain dripped through a hole in the roof and landed on her audition binder. She had three lines memorized. She had one shot. Every other studio in the world had turned her away, but this one had answered her letter. The door opened before she knocked. The casting director filled the frame, short and broad, gray hair shoved back from a face that looked permanently disgusted. Vincent Morrow looked her up and down like she was a stain on his carpet. Rings crowded his fingers. Something dark stained the cuffs of his red jacket. "You're the one who keeps writing me," he said. Not a question. "Emma Clarke. You said you'd give me an audition." "I said I might." He didn't move from the doorway. "Girls come here every year thinking this town makes stars. It makes something. Rarely stars." Emma held out the binder. Her hand shook, and she hated that he saw it. "I drove eleven hours. I sold my car deposit to pay for gas. Please. Just let me read." He studied her for a long moment. Then he stepped back and waved her inside. The house was colder than the rain. Candles burned in the front room, though the sun was up. A single chair faced a black curtain. Vincent pointed at the chair. "Sit. Read the scene on the table." Emma picked up the pages. The lines weren't the ones she had practiced. This scene was different. A woman begged something in the dark to take her place. Emma's throat went tight. She read anyway, loud and clear, the way her acting teacher had drilled into her. When she finished, Vincent didn't clap. He didn't smile. He circled the chair slowly, rings clicking against each other. "That," he said, "was the best cold read I've heard in twenty years." Relief rushed through her. "So I got it? The part?" "You got a part." He slid a single sheet of paper across the table. A contract. The top read Silver Reel Studio. "My studio. My picture. Lead role. Filming starts tonight." Emma grabbed a pen before he could change his mind. She signed her name. Vincent watched the ink dry. Something shifted in his face. Not joy. Satisfaction, the kind a fisherman feels when a hook sets deep. "Wonderful," he said softly. "You should know one thing about my pictures, Emma." "What's that?" He folded the contract and tucked it inside his stained jacket. "My last three leading ladies never made it to the premiere." He walked to the black curtain and pulled it aside. Behind it waited a dark hallway, and cold air poured out. "But their films were unforgettable. Come. Your first scene is downstairs." Emma stood, contract signed, her name now his. She had wanted this more than anything. She followed him into the dark.