Lights Out Tonight Read online

  Caroline had reached out across the table. “You must be having a hard time, too,” she’d said, as she rested her hand on top of his. She had pulled her hand away, flustered, thinking that she might have made too forward a gesture. Nick supposed that was when he really fell for her.

  Now, he had an accomplished and attractive new wife, twelve years his junior.

  He got into bed, but sleep would not come.

  In less than twenty-four hours, he’d be experiencing the rolling, green Berkshire Mountains with Caroline. He hadn’t thought it was a good idea to return to Warrenstown last summer. There were things he didn’t want to be reminded of. What had happened to Maggie after their summer there together, and what he’d done to her, weren’t things Nick let himself think about.

  C H A P T E R

  3

  As the stylist blew out her damp hair, Caroline held the ice pack against her swollen eyes. The makeup artist had begun to apply foundation to Caroline’s face when Constance Young appeared in the doorway. Instantly, Caroline got up from the chair, deferring to the KEY to America host. “It’s all yours, Constance,” she said. “Mine can be finished later.”

  Wordlessly, Constance took her place in the chair. As Caroline left the room, she could feel the tension in the air. She knew the pressure was on Constance and Harry Granger. Ratings had slipped a bit lately, and while they were still strong, with millions of dollars at stake over each rating point, everybody on the KTA staff was feeling the heat, none more so than the hosts of the show and the executive producer.

  Back in her small office, Caroline booted up her laptop and worked on the movie review. She was relieved, but not surprised, that she’d actually liked Belinda Winthrop’s latest movie. It would have been uncomfortable interviewing and following the actress in the days ahead at the Warrenstown Summer Playhouse if she had just delivered a negative review. But the fact was, Caroline had enjoyed and appreciated just about every Belinda Winthrop film she had ever seen. And she had seen them all.

  She felt as though she’d been following the career of the Academy Award-winning actress forever. Fifteen years ago, when Caroline was nineteen, Belinda, at only twenty-three, had won an Oscar for her performance as Leslie Crosbie in a remake of the Bette Davis film The Letter. Nominated for the role in 1940, Davis had lost the Oscar to Ginger Rogers in Kitty Foyle. But Belinda had stunned critics and audiences alike and carried home her first gold statuette. Caroline had gone to see the movie five times. She couldn’t begin to count how many hours she’d spent watching Belinda Winthrop’s films since.

  When other kids her age were going to the mall on Saturday afternoons, Caroline loved nothing more than enveloping herself in the darkness of a movie theater. In college, she began reviewing movies for the student newspaper, and she had parlayed her writing skills and thoughtful insights into jobs at successively larger urban newspapers until landing this spot as KEY to America’s film and theater critic. It had been the dream job, at least until Linus had gotten on her case.

  Her mailbox was always overflowing with DVDs and, less common now, videocassettes of the latest film releases. She actually got paid for doing the thing that was her passion, watching movies. The fact that her opinion influenced the box-office habits of millions of Americans ensured her a steady stream of invitations to movie premieres, parties, and junkets as producers tried to win her over. But Caroline had stuck to the promise she’d made to herself at the beginning of her career. She was always going to tell the truth. Because of that, she had taken her fair share of irate phone calls, and even an occasional threat, from movie producers and agents angered over her reviews.

  Caroline was being truthful in her review this morning, but even as she wrote it, she was aware that her boss probably wasn’t going to like it. Linus would likely say it wasn’t edgy enough. Translation: It wasn’t smug, and it wasn’t critical just for the sake of being critical.

  “In this, Belinda Winthrop’s thirty-second film, she demonstrates once again why she is a superstar. She owns this role, just as she has owned almost every part she’s ever been cast to play.” Caroline continued reading the rest of the review out loud, knowing that how something reads silently isn’t always how it sounds aloud. The tone had to be conversational, as if she was talking directly to the viewer.

  “Sounds good. I’m going to try to get Mike to take me to see that this weekend if I can get a sitter for the twins.” Annabelle Murphy, tall and suntanned, stood in the doorway. “I love Belinda Winthrop.”

  “I wish you were coming with me instead of seeing a Belinda Winthrop movie in New York,” said Caroline as she tapped out a last line. “Then you could see her in person at the Warrenstown Summer Playhouse. And I would have an actual producer on this trip.”

  Annabelle stepped into the office. “Yeah, that would have been fun. Instead, I can hang around here and finish a two-part series on digital mammography.” She frowned. “And the best part is, no one outside this building will ever know that I researched the subject, planned the shoot, screened the tapes, constructed and wrote the piece. They’ll just hear and see Constance Young, and she’ll get all the glory. Ah, the life of a producer.”

  “She may get all the glory, but she takes the heat as well, and I think it’s really getting to her,” Caroline observed. “I just was with her in makeup, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a good day. I know you two are good friends, so maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but I think the word frosty would describe the reception I got.”

  “May I?” Annabelle asked as she began to pull the door closed.

  Caroline nodded.

  Annabelle leaned with her back against the door. Her blue eyes glistened.

  “Are you crying, Annabelle?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t know if it’s out of hurt or anger. Except for Mike, Constance is my best friend. We’ve known each other for years. We met when I was a researcher and she was just starting as a reporter here.”

  Annabelle wiped away a tear that trickled down her freckled cheek before continuing. “When I left KEY News to have the twins, Constance stayed on, working her way up, volunteering for the stories none of the more seasoned correspondents wanted to do. She paid her dues until, finally, after pretty much total concentration on her career, she got the cohost spot in the morning. We’ve stayed friends all these years. Constance paved the way with Nazareth when I wanted to come back to work. She supported me when I was going through the tough time with Mike. She’s been there for me, and now I want to be there for her when she needs help.”

  “That sounds right.” Caroline wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “It is right,” said Annabelle. “But she won’t let me help. Constance keeps pushing me away. She never has time for lunch. She hasn’t been returning my phone calls. When we do talk, she’s irritable and has no patience. She was almost surly when I asked her to record the narration for the last piece we worked on. It’s as if her whole personality has changed.”

  “Maybe you should find a time to pin her down so you can sit together and clear the air,” said Caroline.

  “Maybe. But at this point, I’m afraid that if I push things, it could damage our friendship forever,” said Annabelle, shaking her head ruefully. “Constance is burning bridges with a lot of people. That’s a huge mistake in this business.”

  C H A P T E R

  4

  “In this, Belinda Winthrop’s thirty-second film, she demonstrates once again why she is a superstar. She owns this role, just as she has owned almost every part she’s ever been cast to play.” At least there was something to agree about with Caroline. Both of them were big Belinda Winthrop fans.

  Meg listened to the rest of her stepmother’s review before snapping off the portable television set. She pulled on a white T-shirt and gray yoga pants, and slid her feet into a pair of pink flip-flops. Twisting her long, jet-black hair into a bun, she secured it with a clip. Meg picked up the blue rubber mat and hurried from the tiny do
rm room on the Warren College campus.

  She was excused from morning warm-ups because she was assigned to run crew for Devil in the Details. There would be two rehearsals today—first tech and then dress—the last run-throughs before the opening. But Meg was going to exercise class anyway. It would make her feel better.

  Meg hadn’t slept well. She was dreading Caroline’s arrival this afternoon. But even with the demands of her apprentice duties, Meg wouldn’t be able to avoid her stepmother completely. She could make just so many excuses about having to be at the theater. The actual preview began at eight o’clock and would run until ten, but it was common for the cast, crew, and audience to go for a late supper afterward. If Caroline insisted that they go get something to eat, Meg was going to have to acquiesce. She had promised her father that she was going to try harder with Caroline. When she thought about it, which she tried not to, Meg supposed her real mother would want her to try harder with Caroline, too. But while Caroline may have taken her mother’s place with her father, there was no way she was going to take her mother’s place with Meg.

  Striding across the campus lawn, Meg wished for the umpteenth time that it was her real mother who was going to be there tonight. Mom was the one who should be with Dad. Together they should be visiting their only child as she completed the Apprentice Program at the Warrenstown Summer Playhouse. They should be sharing Meg’s excitement at being part of the first stage performance of the new play that so many people were talking about. They should have the thrill of watching their daughter spotlighted at the late-night cabaret this weekend. It wasn’t fair that Maggie McGregor wasn’t going to be here and, almost as bad, Caroline Enright McGregor was.?

  All through high school, mother and daughter had daydreamed about how wonderful it would be if Meg, with her acting aspirations, could spend a summer at Warrenstown. The town and the college were named for the Revolutionary War leader James Warren, but the theater festival held on the college grounds emphasized his wife. Mercy Otis Warren was one of the most educated women of her time and wrote a number of plays.

  With its prominent alumni and the proximity it provided to first-class theater professionals, the Warrenstown Summer Playhouse was one of the leading summer training programs in the country. Nearly seventy novice actors were chosen to do the least glamorous work at the festival yet also have the opportunity to attend classes, observe the professionals at work, and audition for parts. Occasionally, an apprentice got a part in one of the Equity productions, which meant hundreds of paying customers would see him or her perform on the Main Stage. Far more likely, there might be a role in one of the skits and one-acts put on by directors in training, which mainly festival participants would see in a cafeteria or church.

  After years of weekend classes at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute during high school and summer programs at the New York Film Academy and the Neighborhood Playhouse when Meg was on break from college, their dream was finally coming true. This was Meg’s last summer before the college graduation on which her parents had insisted, and she was spending it at Warrenstown.

  She stopped in the cafeteria to grab a banana and a container of orange juice before continuing on to the sports complex. She pulled open the plate-glass door and headed for the wrestling room. Why that room had been chosen for the apprentices to begin their day was a mystery to Meg. It was hot and smelly and gross.

  When the apprentices had started the program in late June, they’d been informed that attendance at warm-ups was mandatory. As the summer wore on, however, attendance at the exercise classes had dwindled because the theater wannabes realized there were no consequences for missed sessions. This morning only about two dozen had shown up. Meg found a spot at the side to spread out her mat. Derek, one of the Equity actors, was standing at the front of the room, ready to lead the class.

  As she got down on the floor and began to stretch, Meg wondered what her mother would think of her assignment. She decided that, once Mom had gotten over the fact that her daughter wasn’t appearing onstage, she would be pleased at the idea of Meg helping Belinda Winthrop with her wardrobe each night. Mom, too, had been a big fan of the actress. Meg remembered her mother coming home after spending a week with Dad in Warrenstown two summers ago, raving about Belinda and her performance in Treasure Trove, a light comedy about a woman who wins the lottery, written by Daniel and Victoria Sterling.

  That was before they knew that, by the time the next summer theater season rolled around, Mom would be dead. Meg often wondered how Mom would feel if she knew how quickly Dad had found someone to take her place. Though Meg was heartsick at the thought, she was glad her mother, at least, didn’t know that her husband had remarried so quickly.

  C H A P T E R

  5

  Caroline finished delivering her review, and the broadcast went to commercial. As she unclipped her microphone and got up from the studio desk, Dr. Margo Gonzalez was waiting to take her place. Margo was the latest addition to the KEY to America family. A practicing psychiatrist, she had been hired to contribute her expertise on a range of stories that would interest morning viewers.

  This was Margo’s first week on the job, and Caroline sympathized with her. No matter how accomplished one was in her field of expertise, television had rules of its own. Caroline had keenly felt them when she came onboard six months ago. Working on newspapers, she’d been used to concentrating solely on the content of her work, the written words she used to express her opinions. But when she began at KTA, how she looked and how she sounded suddenly became extra important. The camera was unforgiving, picking up every stray hair, every extra pound. Caroline had learned to wear colors that would complement her on camera. She’d gotten into the habit of reviewing tapes of her reviews and critiquing her performances. She’d practiced setting her face in pleasant lines, analyzed her delivery, taken some private diction lessons.

  “How’s it going?” Caroline asked, passing the microphone to the slim redhead.

  “I have new respect for all you guys,” said Margo as she took the mike. “You make it look so effortless. But it’s not, is

  it?”

  Caroline smiled. “Hang in there. It’ll get easier, and if there’s anything I can do to help, give me a call.”

  Standing in the back of the studio, Caroline watched as Constance Young introduced the next segment. “Far too often, there are crime stories in the headlines which mention that the perpetrator has a mental disorder. Perhaps the most feared is the label sociopath. But what exactly is a sociopath, and how can we spot them? KEY News psychological expert Dr. Margo Gonzalez is here to explain.”

  Caroline turned to look at one of the monitors that dotted the edges of the studio to see how Margo looked on air. The camera wasn’t doing her justice. She was much prettier in person.

  “Good morning, Constance. Yes, sociopaths are feared, and justifiably so, because a person suffering from sociopathy has no conscience. Think about it, Constance. Not having any feeling of guilt or remorse, no concern for strangers, friends, or even family members. Imagine having no shame, no matter what kind of harmful or immoral thing you do.”

  “I don’t think I can imagine that,” said Constance.

  Margo nodded. “Most of us can’t. And that’s part of the problem, too. Everyone assumes that all human beings have a conscience, so hiding the fact that you don’t isn’t hard. You’re not confronted by others for your actions. Your cold-bloodedness is so completely out of most people’s experience that almost no one even guesses at your condition … until it’s too late.”

  “You mean when the crime takes place?” Constance asked.

  “Sometimes. But even though we are accustomed to thinking of sociopaths as violent criminals, there’s evidence that about four percent of ordinary people have developed no conscience whatsoever.”

  “Wait a minute.” Constance held up her hand. “You mean that one in twenty-five people are secretly sociopaths? I find that very hard to believe.”

&nb
sp; “Well, it’s a scary thing to wrap your mind around, Constance. But yes, your neighbor, your boss, your teacher, your colleague, your husband could be, and I emphasize could be, a sociopath.”

  “But wouldn’t I be able to see that?”

  “Not unless you knew what to look for, and even then, it’s difficult to be sure. But the clinical diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder should be considered when someone has three of these seven characteristics.”

  A graphic popped up on the television screen. Caroline read along as Margo ticked off the list.

  Failure to obey society’s rules

  Consistent irresponsibility

  Impulsivity, failure to plan ahead

  Reckless disregard for the safety of self or others

  Irritability, aggressiveness

  Deceitfulness, manipulativeness

  Lack of remorse after hurting, mistreating, or stealing from another person

  “Anything else we should be on the lookout for?” Constance asked.

  “Sociopaths can be seductive, Constance. They can be very charming and interesting. They may brag about themselves in unrealistic terms. They’ll take physical, financial, or legal risks just for the thrill of it. And they are especially noted for their shallowness of emotion. They have no trace of empathy and no real interest in bonding with other human beings.”