Catriona took a deep breath and decided to start from the top. “Look, we’re security from the studio. Just let us in.”
The doorman tapped his tablet. “You’re not on the list. I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”
Catriona dug through her evening bag for the badge identifying her as Parasol Pictures security. With the exception of her phone, the badge and lipstick were the only things she’d been able to fit in the child-sized purse she’d found in her old bedroom closet.
In the end, she’d had to strap her gun to the inside of her thigh to keep it from showing beneath her condom of a dress.
The doorman peered at the badge as she held it aloft triumphantly, and then shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Burson. Step aside.”
Catriona was about to tear into the young man when a booming voice cut her short.
“Catriona!”
Director Konrad Burson appeared on the threshold of the warehouse, arms raised in welcoming, his round belly leading the way. The doorman stepped aside, clearly perturbed his tiny bit of authority had been stripped.
Catriona smiled. “Hey, Konrad.”
Nice timing. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at the boy and he scowled.
“Here to save me from myself?” Konrad asked hugging her.
“Somebody has to.” She motioned to Broch as Konrad released his anaconda-like grip on her. “This is my new partner, Brochan.”
Just Brochan.
Konrad thrust a hand toward Broch. “You’re a big one. Ever do any acting?”
“Na.” Broch shook his head. Catriona had tried to slick back his shaggy locks with some hair gel she’d left at Sean’s years earlier, but his head shake sent wavy strands tumbling front and back. It only made him more handsome, which didn’t seem fair.
Konrad waved for them to follow him. “Come on in. The party’s about to start.”
Catriona and Broch trailed Konrad to a large room set up as a dining hall with two enormous tables in the center. If Henry the Eighth had walked in and taken a seat at the head of the table, Catriona wouldn’t have been surprised.
As they entered, a slight, dark-haired young man lingering at the end of one table turned to watch them. Judging by the scraggly hair on his chin, Catriona guessed him to be about eighteen, though his diminutive size made him seem much younger. She recognized him from pictures she’d seen online while researching Pinky’s history.
Konrad headed toward him as if he were magnetized.
“Catriona, Broch, this is Mason Lang.”
Mason smiled and held out a hand to shake. As Catriona took his hand in her own she felt the nub of a missing digit. Watching as he moved to shake with Broch, she saw the boy’s pinky was missing.
He caught her looking and held up his right hand.
“Dad needed a spare,” he said with a chuckle. Catriona could tell he’d used the line before to break the tension. She imagined life had to be difficult for Mason, knowing people knew him as the son of a monster. He probably had a hundred ready-made comments designed to put people at ease.
But something was odd about his missing pinky...
“I thought he always took the left?”
Catriona said the words before she could stop herself and then winced.
That might have been rude.
Mason smiled. “You did your homework.”
She shrugged, grateful he hadn’t been offended. “It’s my job.”
“They’re security,” explained Konrad.
“Ah.” Mason turned to him. “Can I tell her?”
“Go ahead. I’m going to greet the guests.” Konrad leaned to Catriona. “This is one of the secrets we’re revealing in the movie. You’ll love it.”
She nodded and returned her attention to Mason. “If it’s a secret you don’t have to—”
Mason ignored her. “My mother was missing her right pinky. Childhood accident.” He touched the nub of his own finger. “Dad took the left from his victims because they weren’t quite her.”
Catriona squinted one eye. “So it was kind of romantic?”
Mason chuckled. “I guess, in a way. Only family loses the right.” As he spoke, Catriona thought she saw a flash of pride cross his expression. She imagined the boy’s sick father had tried to convince him the loss of his right pinky was an honor.
She felt terrible for probing. “I’m sorry. It must have been hard, reenacting what he put you through.”
Mason shook his head. “Cathartic, really. Helped me get my head around things.”
“Really?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but Dad seemed like a pretty normal dad to me, most of the time. Believe it or not, he was a nice guy.”
“He murdured eight wummin,” mumbled Broch, taking a goblet of red wine from a tray carried by a passing server.
Catriona tried to surreptitiously elbow him in the ribs, and he struggled to keep his glass from sloshing. “Whit? He did, dinnae he?”
Mason held out a palm, implying all was well. “No, you’re totally right. I meant, when he wasn’t doing terrible things, he was a nice guy to me until the end. Boring even.” He reached into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he withdrew a photo of a pudgy, smiling, balding man. A tall man holding a golf club stood in the background.
“Is that Brooks Koepka?” asked Catriona, zeroing in on the man in the back. While she didn’t watch a lot of golf, it seemed every time she visited Sean he was watching, and she’d come to recognize many of the top players.
Mason’s expression registered his surprise. “Good eye. This was taken at the U.S. Open tournament. He was so happy to go—watched it from the moment it started until the end. He went to every event he could.”
Catriona looked away and tapped into the photographic memory she’d only recently discovered she had. Sean called it a mini-time-travel,
