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“No, the story is about capitalism and exploitation of personal information.”

“It’s about the people who have to live with the decisions they make and how they justify their actions.”

Bass groaned. “Listen, Katie.”

“Kate.”

“Fine. Kate. I don’t know what kind of screwed-up, love-hate relationship you have with your father, and I don’t care. Maybe it’stherapeutic for you to sit at your computer late at night and write scenes about Tom Junior confronting his father the way you wish you could confront yours. But I’m a director, not a psychiatrist, and this shit is not finding its way into my play.”

“Yourplay?I’mthe playwright.”

Sean raised his index finger, interjecting. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to raise this with Irving. The billing credit for the play should be a single line: ‘Developed and directed by Irving Bass.’”

“No,” she said. “It’s a playby Kate Gamble.”

“You’ll receive an appropriate acknowledgment as an independent contractor for a work made for hire.”

Any law student who’d taken a course on copyright law understood that a “work made for hire” was the lowest form of credit. Worse, it gave the writer no ownership rights. The sneaky assistant who was shopping her script to Hollywood behind her back was now claiming ownership of the copyright.

“Irving, are you in agreement with Sean?”

Irving made a face. “Sean, what the hell are you talking about? Kate never agreed to give up her copyright.”

“She has to give them up, or she’ll kill the film deal!” said Sean.

Irving glared with the intensity of burning lasers. “Have you been shopping the film rights without telling me?”

Sean stood silent, but Kate answered for him. “He has an agent.”

Irving pointed at the door, his hand shaking. “Get out.”

“You can’t fire me,” said Sean. “You can barely stand up, let alone direct a play.”

“Get out!” he shouted, his voice booming, but he was suddenly pale. The grimace on his face twisted into the same gruesome expression Kate had seen that morning at Swing’s Coffee Roasters. Just as he’d done there, Bass closed his eyes, placed his palms flat on the table, and drew a deep breath.

Then he passed out and fell to the floor.

“Irving!” one of the actors shouted.

Bass lay in a heap on the floor, motionless. Sean hurried to him, knelt at his side, and checked his vitals.

“He’s not breathing! Now look what you did, Kate!” Sean yelled.

Kate grabbed her phone and dialed 911.

Chapter 42

Kate caught a ride to the hospital with “Watson” behind the wheel. Fueled by fear of the show closing before it opened, he tailed the speeding ambulance all the way to the emergency room entrance. Kate and the entire cast watched from the sidewalk as paramedics whisked the gurney toward the ER. It was a relief to see that Bass was fully conscious. More than just conscious. He was practically himself again.

“Get lost!” he said, wagging his finger, his silver hair flowing in the rush of wind as the pneumatic entrance doors parted. “I don’t want any of you here! All I want—”

“Is a script,” said Kate, finishing for him.

Watson offered her a ride home, but she caught a ride with one of the other cast members who was headed her way—toward Jeremy Peel’s country estate. Kate phoned ahead and told him it was imperative that they speak in person. One of Peel’s staff met her at the gate in an all-terrain vehicle. They drove along the creek and then over a set of rolling hills to the grassy meadow, where they found Peel at the skeet-shooting range.

“Pull!”

A pair of clay pigeons took to the air simultaneously, one from each tower. Two quick shots followed, obliterating each target in rapid succession.