The crowd, at last, went silent.

Into the silence came a lone voice. Perhaps it was the voice of a Hellenor, or even of a SondraBeth or perhaps of a Pandy herself—the voice of any woman who was sure she didn’t belong and was sick of trying: “Kill Monica. Please.”

And then, like the fresh breeze that presages the arrival of better weather, a tinkle of laughter came from the audience. It grew and grew until it was rushing like the gathering waters of spring, racing downriver from the mountains to the sea. The noise of laughter commingled with those cheery notes from the Monica theme song, and SondraBeth and Pandy began singing along. And for one last moment, it was all a blur…

Until reality came flooding back in. Specifically in the form of wincing foot pain. Pandy’s feet felt like those of a young girl after a long, exhausting day spent pounding the pavement. Back then, her feet had been able to go on forever. With a sigh of relief, she realized that unlike the young woman she’d once been, it was okay to leave the party before the blisters set in.

She turned to Judy.

“Are you ready?” Judy asked, glancing quickly over her shoulder to where SondraBeth was still onstage, and probably would be for quite a bit longer. “Do you mind going down alone?” she asked, motioning for the stage manager to help Pandy onto the elevator.

“No,” Pandy said. “I don’t mind.”

She stepped onto the platform and, pressing the red button, went back down to earth.

Where PP was waiting. “Goddammit, PJ Wallis. I should have known this so-called ‘Hellenor’ was you. Now let me tell you something. If you think you and SondraBeth are going to get away with this little stunt, you’re wrong. You have absolutely no authority to kill a creation that no longer legally belongs to you. The studio already has a pack of lawyers lined up to deal with the two of you…”

Pandy held up her hand. “You know what, PP?” she asked. She paused to think of what she really wanted to say. And just like the Senator squeezing those imaginary balls, she realized the message was simple but effective:

“Fuck you!” she said with an exuberant shout.

And feeling quite pleased with herself, despite knowing that her career in the movies was probably over, she exited the building through the same door she’d entered. Where she ran right into Henry on the sidewalk.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” he asked, looking her up and down appraisingly.

Pandy glared at him. “I thought I was dead to you.”

“I said if you went through with it, you would be dead to me.”

“You know what?” Pandy said. “I’m too tired for this. You should be grateful to me. I may not be Lady Wallis, but at least I managed to keep your secret.”

“And I managed to keep yours as well.” Henry reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded letter. “While you were busy prancing around Manhattan like a moldy Monica, I was busy making us money. From your new character.”

“Lady Wallis?” Pandy gasped.

“This, my dear, is a commitment letter from your publisher to publish Lady Wallis, whether or not you yourself are alive.”

“Oh, Henry!” Pandy flung open her arms and hugged his narrow shoulders. “I knew you could sell Lady Wallis if you just tried!”

Henry sighed. “I suppose I have as much invested in her as you do.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re an angel,” Pandy declared. She started to head up West Broadway.

“And where,” Henry demanded, starting after her, “do you think you’re going?”

“To the Pool Club, to see Suzette and the others,” Pandy said innocently over her shoulder. “Now that I’m Pandy again, I’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do.”

“I would like to remind you that now that you’ve sold your Lady Wallis novel, they’re going to want another one. Immediately. Which means it’s a school night.”

Pandy stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Now listen, Henry. I told you, I’ve had enough. I’ve been rejected, blown up, blown off, and most of all, I’ve had to pretend to be you. And as much as I love you and as far as I’m willing to go to keep your secret, I want a night off.”

Henry paused. Then he shook his head and laughed. “That old secret? The next thing I know, you’ll be claiming that I’m the reason you did all this.”

“You are one of the reasons”—Pandy paused for effect—“Hellenor.”

Henry sighed. “Hellenor was such a long time ago.”

Pandy rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that long ago. Okay, maybe you’re right. It was twenty-five years ago when Hellenor went to Amsterdam—”

“From whence I emerged,” Henry said proudly. “You have to admit it is silly,” he added, taking her arm. “You pretending to be me. And then trying to kill Monica. It’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done.”

Pandy laughed, looking over her shoulder at the Monica billboard. Jonny had been removed, and Monica at last had her leg.

“In any case, I’m not looking for my happy ending anymore. In fact, I think I’d like to avoid endings of any kind for a while.” Pandy reached the corner and sniffed. Smelling the sweet childhood perfume of cotton candy, she exclaimed, “It’s the San Geronimo festival.”

“Don’t tell me you just noticed. Oh no,” Henry said, balking at the corner like a mule.

“Why not?” Pandy insisted. “I want to go. And remember, you still owe me.”

Henry sighed. “I suppose I could accompany you. As long as I’m not dragged to that dreadful watering hole known as the Pool Club.” He shuddered. “Compared to that, I suppose having my craw stuffed with cotton candy is preferable to being forced to listen to the caw of those crows you call your friends.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘crones.’ Come on, Henry.” Pandy laughed. And possessed of that spirit in which one could take as many acts as necessary to complete a full life, she grabbed her former sister’s arm, and together they went into the glittering neon lights.

Acknowledgments

There were many people who helped me along the crazy creative journey of writing Killing Monica. Thanks to everyone who sat tight and waited patiently as my imagination ran wild…

Thanks to the brilliant Heather Schroder of Compass Talent, my tried-and-true agent and partner in literary crimes, who trusts her guts and instincts and always believes. This book would not be possible without you.

Thanks to Deb Futter for her sure-handed guidance and for knowing what, where, when, and most of all, how to get there.

Thanks to Leslie Wells, whose deep wisdom and grace helped us steer this boat back up the river and safely into the harbor.

Thanks to Jeanine Pepler of AKA LIFE, whose bright spark of positivity and unwavering belief in any possibility is forever inspiring.

And to Jeanine’s team at AKA: Laura Nicolassy, Brooke Shuhy, Marina Maib, Allison Meyer, and Chloe Mills.

Thanks to Matthew Ballast, our very own “Henry,” along with the other terrific folks at Hachette: Brian McLendon, Elizabeth Kulhanek, Anne Twomey, and Andrew Duncan.

Thanks to Richard Beswick in London and Ron Bernstein in LA.

A huge thanks to Dawn Rosiello, who makes order out of chaos.

And a special thanks to my intern, Jennifer Foulon, who put up with all the zaniness and bought her first pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.