Page 10 of The Unknown

“Let’s get you settled in,” Brad tells me. “Each of you will be living in the same place your real-life counterpart stayed.”

“An incredible opportunity,” Loretta chimes in. “I think it’ll really help give you a sense of who your character was. Not every actor gets a chance like that. Especially on their first film. You should consider yourself very lucky, Marin.”

Maybe so, yet right now I feel more overwhelmed than anything else. There are a hundred questions I’d like to ask, starting with why the actress Ronan previously hired is sending me warning texts. Or maybe a more pressing one is why he’s decided to have us eat, sleep, and live in the same place where five women vanished. Yet overriding even that is a desperate urge for basic information.Can I see a script? What is my part in all of this? Why am I here?

Every single one of these questions must flicker across my face, because Ronan says, “This is a whirlwind for you.”

“A little bit,” I say, in what might be the understatement of the year.

“Well, Brad will take you to your cottage, and you can regroup for a few minutes before the table read.”

My heart hopscotches in my chest. “That’s happening now?”

“Yeah,” Ronan says. “The sun sets at—”

He looks to Brad, who doesn’t even need to think about it. “Six fifty-seven.”

“There’s a lot of script to get through, you see,” Ronan continues. “And we can’t do it after dinner.”

I want to ask why not, but the answer becomes obvious after another quick look around the cluster of buildings. There are no streetlights here, no porch lights, no lamps visible behind the lace curtains at the windows.

“There’s no electricity here, is there?”

Brad shrugs in apology. “Afraid not.”

“How do the bird people or whoever they are stay here?”

“Generators,” Brad says. “Lots and lots of generators. Which they took with them when they left.”

Under normal circumstances, say, on a camping trip or during a weekend power outage, my heart would sink at the thought of being forced to live without electricity. And I’m sure that will happen here, too. Later. But for now, any dread I might have at living in blackout conditions is overridden by a sense of anxious curiosity.

I’m finally going to see the script.

Which means I will at last know who my character is; what she’s like; what Ronan, Loretta, and, yes, Violet Wright expect from me. But first I must drop my belongings in the place where this person once lived.

Whoever she is.

Well,was.

Brad leads me to the first cottage on the right. No. 1. “You’re lucky. You get this place all to yourself. I have to stay in the main house with Ronan and Loretta. Not much privacy there.”

I look to the other cottages. No. 2 sits next to mine, with 3 and 4 across the green. Even though I know the rest of the cast is here and presumably also staying in the cottages, there’s no sign of them. Including the woman I’m most excited—and nervous—to meet.

“Where’s Violet staying?” I ask Brad as we step onto the porch of my cottage.

“Oh, she’s also in the main house.”

I sneak an envious glance at the towering Victorian, peering at the upper windows for a glimpse of Violet herself. Lo and behold, I get one. A dim shape parting the lace curtains of a second-floor window. Although I can’t make out who it is, I assume it’s Violet. Loretta and Ronan have yet to enter the house and are currently talking in hushed whispers beside the oak tree. But whoever’s at the window isn’t looking at them.

She’s looking at me.

Instantly I stand up straighter. If one of the greatest actresses to ever grace the screen is indeed sizing me up, I want to make a good first impression. So I keep my spine rigid, smile, and feign enthusiasm as Brad opens the cottage door and gestures for me to enter.

Not that it matters. Before stepping inside, I return my gaze to the window. The curtains have fallen back into place. If Violet Wright was watching me, she’s now gone.

Inside the cottage, I survey my surroundings, which read college dorm more than a sacred space where I might discover my character. Mostly a single open room, it’s about the size of my Manhattan apartment and organized into two main areas, one for living and one for sleeping.

Any history the place might have contained has now been replaced with white walls and disposable furniture. The only sign of its age are the floorboards, which groan beneath my feet whenever I take a step.