TRENA MORETTI: And you’ll meet the supporters.
IRA REDMAN: I provide opportunity and the kind of well-paying jobs that work well around class schedules and
other priorities young people have. Unrivaled Nightlife Company employs over two hundred people, the majority between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. I ran a contest where the winner got to walk away with fifty percent of the door earnings—that’s a boatload of cash—enough to pay a few years’ college tuition. No one else out there can claim that.
[Footage of the long line of hopefuls waiting for a chance to interview for the Unrivaled Nightclub Promoter competition]
TRENA MORETTI: While there’s no denying some of Hollywood’s biggest stars can be found tucked away inside the VIP rooms, not all of them make it out of there.
ANONYMOUS MADISON BROOKS FAN (crying as she places a small stuffed pink bear outside Night for Night, where the Madison Brooks shrine grows increasingly larger each day): I still can’t believe it. I just can’t. To think that Madison was inside there, scared and alone . . . [needs a moment to continue] . . . Madison meant everything to me. When will they find her?
TRENA MORETTI: Stay with us, as we trace the events of the final days before Madison Brooks went missing, tonight on In-Depth with Trena Moretti.
[COMMERCIAL BREAK]
[In-Depth logo]
“Ms. Moretti?”
Trena glanced up from her script, trying to remember the name of the young gofer standing before her. Catherine? Caitlin? It was a blur of young faces, and they all looked the same—bright-eyed, hopeful, and eager to make their mark on the world.
“You almost ready?”
Trena nodded. Ready, amped, her star meter was on the rise and she couldn’t wait to get started.
“Great, we’ll begin in three. In the meantime, this was delivered for you.”
She handed Trena a large rectangular package normally used to hold long-stemmed roses, then shouted into her headset as she made her way toward the soundstage.
Trena set the script aside and studied the box. Her name was written on the front in a large boxy font, though there was no indication as to where it might’ve come from.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the makeup table, she sliced through the tape to reveal a dozen thorny rose stems, all of them missing their heads, the arrangement tied with a gauze bandage roll tied neatly into a bow.
The small card tucked inside read:
Break a leg!
Best-case scenario,
that’s all that happens to you.
With shaking hands and a pounding heart, Trena carefully replaced the note, closed the box, and stowed it under the table.
“You ready?” The gofer was back and stood fidgeting before her.
Trena took a moment to steady her breath and settle the wild fluttering that had overtaken her belly. Then, nodding firmly, she rose unsteadily from her chair. “Did you happen to see who delivered that package?” She fought to keep her tone as casual and even as her frayed nerves would allow.
The gofer lifted her shoulders.
Trena had expected as much, but still, she had to ask.
“Everything okay? You look sort of shaken.” The girl cocked her head in a way that saw a spray of frizzy bangs spilling over her forehead and into her eyes.
“Do I?” Trena turned toward the mirror. It was true. Her checks were flushed while her eyes looked wild, too bright. “Just some preshow jitters, I guess.” She forced a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”
The girl shot her a worried look, then led her to the soundstage, where another crew went to work hiding the mic under her blouse, removing lint from her blazer, and doing a last-minute powder.
“Ready?” The director motioned to her from behind the camera.