Read Chapter 7: Driving Lessons

The call came at seven in the morning, and Evelyn answered it with her eyes still closed, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

“Evelyn, darling.” Fiona’s voice crackled with that particular energy she only reserved for good news. “Peter Ashworth’s office just called. They want you for the screen test. Today.”

Evelyn sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. The film was a small independent piece—a mother searching for her missing son in the Welsh hills, all rain and grief and raw edges. The role was everything her career needed right now: a chance to remind the industry she was more than tabloid bait.

“Today,” she repeated. “When?”

“Eleven. Soho. I’ve sent the sides to your phone. They want two scenes, maybe three if it goes well. Peter will be there himself.”

“I’ll be there.”

She hung up and swung her legs out of bed. For the first time in weeks, her pulse quickened with something other than fear. Then she remembered Marcus was in the kitchen, eating his oats with that infuriating stillness of his, and the feeling curdled.

He was already at the counter when she walked in, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the hard line of his shoulders. He’d been out late last night. She’d heard the front door close at half past two, and the quiet click of his boots on the stairs. She hadn’t asked where he’d gone when he returned—she was still deciding how much to confront him about.

“I have an audition,” she said, pouring herself coffee. “Eleven. Shoreditch.”

“Shoreditch.“ He didn’t look up from his phone. ”The workshop is in Shoreditch.“

“Different building. Same area.” She took a sip of coffee, watching him over the rim. “I need to leave by ten-fifteen.”

“Then I need to see the call sheet.”

“Marcus, it’s a screen test for Peter Ashworth. A closed set. It’s not a street festival.”

“I don’t care if it’s a private audience with the Queen.” He set his phone down and finally met her eyes. “You’re not walking into an unknown location without a plan. You’ve been photographed in places you didn’t announce. Someone is watching you with resources you don’t fully understand. We don’t have the luxury of spontaneous outings.”

She put her cup down harder than she meant to. Coffee sloshed. “I’ve been hiding in this flat for six days. I lied to the press to make this go away”—she gestured sharply between them—“at your suggestion, by the way—and now you want me to bury myself in protocol every time I try to work? The one thing I’m good at? The one thing that keeps me sane?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. That was the only crack his expression allowed. “I want you to be alive to do the work.”

The words landed somewhere between her ribs. She hated how easily he delivered sentences like that, level and calm, as if they cost him nothing. But she’d seen the way he’d looked at that photograph of her on the rooftop, the barely controlled anger tightening the muscles in his neck. It cost him plenty. He just refused to show the receipt.

She took a breath. Made herself slow down. “What do you need?”

He blinked. Whatever response he’d been braced for, it wasn’t that.

“I need to see the building layout,” he said after a moment. “I need to scout it first. I need your phone’s location-sharing turned on for the duration. And I need you to take the route I give you—not the one the GPS suggests.”

“Fine.”

“And I’m in the room. Out of frame, but in the room.”

“That’s not—“

“Non-negotiable, Evelyn.”

She held his gaze. He held hers back. In the kitchen light, she could see a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. He’d been chasing the Hendricks lead half the night, she realized. And still here he was, bracing himself for another day of keeping her alive while she fought him for every inch of autonomy.

“Fine,” she said again. “But you stay out of sight. If Peter thinks there’s security on set, he’ll change his mind about working with me.”

Marcus nodded once, already pulling his phone out. “Send me the address. I’ll be back in forty minutes.”

He was gone before she could ask where he was going.

---

Ten forty-five. Marcus drove her through streets that twisted and doubled back on themselves until Evelyn lost all sense of direction. They stopped twice at traffic lights that didn’t need stopping for, and once he took a turn that led them directly into a dead-end, reversed, and headed the way they’d come.

“You’re running counter-surveillance,” she said.

“Checking for tails.”

“I know what it’s called, Marcus.”

He glanced at her sideways. The ghost of something almost resembling approval flickered across his face. Then it was gone.

“We’re clear,” he said. “The studio’s two minutes out. Keep your head up, walk in like you own the place, and don’t answer questions about your personal life. Peter’s a director, not a journalist—he should know better.”

“He’ll ask about the stalker. Everyone will ask about the stalker. It’s why they want to see me.” She looked out the window at the passing brick buildings, graffiti scrawled over their faces. “Let them. I’m not the woman they saw on the news. I’m the woman who’s still doing her job.”

Marcus said nothing, but his hands tightened on the wheel. It was the closest thing to pride she thought she’d ever get from him.

---

The studio was a converted warehouse on a side street, iron gates and frosted glass. A young woman with a clipboard met her at the entrance and walked her through a cavernous space of black curtains and coiled cables. Evelyn caught a glimpse of Marcus out of the corner of her eye, leaning against a wall, hands clasped in front of him, indistinguishable from any other assistant or runner. He wasn’t wearing his usual dark layers; he’d changed into a plain grey hoodie and carried a backpack. He looked like he belonged.

The room was small, warm, lit by a single practical lamp and a camera on a tripod. Peter Ashworth was older than she remembered from film stills—silver-haired, with kind eyes and a nervous energy that made him feel like a fellow performer rather than a director.

“Evelyn.” He shook her hand with both of his. “Thank you for coming. I know this is—well.”

“It’s fine, Peter.” She smiled, and for the first time in weeks, the smile felt real. “I’m just glad to be reading again.”

They ran the first scene. A mother on a hillside, calling for a son she knows she’ll never find. Evelyn let the words settle in her chest and found the grief there easily—too easily, perhaps. She thought of her father. She thought of the brass compass still sitting on her nightstand, an object she’d touched that morning for luck.

When she looked up, Peter’s eyes were wet.

“Again,” he said softly. “One more take, just for me.”

They did the second scene. And then the audition was over, and she felt the familiar hollow rush of having given too much of herself to a room that might never see the result.

Peter was already writing notes on his script. “Beautiful. Genuinely—I’ll speak to Fiona this afternoon.”

Evelyn thanked him, gathered her things. As she turned toward the door, a man in the corner—she hadn’t even noticed him there until now, tucked behind a light stand—lifted a small camera and took a quick, mechanical shot of her face.

Not a cast photo. Not a moment. Just her, caught in the flat artificial light, unposed and unguarded.

“Your assistant,” she said, turning to Peter with a lightness she didn’t feel. “He’s got a good eye.”

Peter looked confused for a moment, then followed her gaze. “Sorry, that’s not—Tom’s a friend of the producer. He’s been shadowing the production for the behind-the-scenes documentary. Just a few test shots today.”

The man—Tom—smiled at her. His smile was too quick, his eyes already looking past her as if calculating something else.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Hart,” he said. “Break a leg today.”

She walked out into the corridor and found Marcus waiting exactly where she’d left him. His eyes were on Tom, who was now checking his camera screen with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly what he’d captured.

“That’s not a studio photographer,” Marcus said quietly. Veins corded in his neck as his gaze locked onto the man. “I know the type. That was a buyout shot—he’ll have it on a wire by lunchtime.”

Evelyn’s stomach dropped. “Peter said he’s shadowing for a documentary.”

“Peter was wrong.” He said it with such flat certainty that she felt the hope she’d carried all morning drain out of her. “I’m following him when he leaves.”

“You can’t—we don’t know—“ She stopped. There was a cold, familiar prickle at the back of her neck, the sensation of being watched that had haunted her for weeks. Through the frosted glass of the studio door, she could see Tom’s silhouette. Still standing there. Still holding the camera. Still watching her through the translucent pane.

“He’ll know you’re following him,” she whispered.

“I’m counting on it.”