If you walk out of Apex Media to play live-in nurse to that washed-up recluse, you are dead to this family and blacklisted from Hollywood, my uncle Victor Cross told me five years ago.
The dry California sun beat down on Eleanor’s small Pasadena bungalow. It was exactly as I’d left it: the paint peeling, the rose bushes overgrown, a testament to years of quiet neglect that, paradoxically, had kept it safe.
As I stepped onto the porch, a cluster of brightly colored notices slapped against the front door caught my eye. They were official-looking, printed in sharp black ink.
“NOTICE OF ESTATE FREEZE. ACCESS DENIED. CROSS LEGAL SERVICES.” The date was yesterday. Victor hadn’t wasted a second.
A sharp gust of wind peeled back the corner of one notice, revealing another beneath it: “PROBATE FILED. ALL ASSETS SEQUESTERED. BY ORDER OF VICTOR CROSS.”
My stomach tightened. He wanted to lock everything down, to control the narrative, to erase Eleanor’s existence entirely. He didn’t know I’d already been inside, or what Arthur Pendelton had revealed.
I pushed open the unlocked front door, ignoring the official papers. The familiar scent of old books and dried lavender filled the air, a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d missed. Every surface wore a fine layer of dust, undisturbed since Eleanor’s last breath.
I walked directly to the master bedroom, the floorboards groaning under my weight. Her closet door was slightly ajar, just as I’d left it after helping her with laundry a few weeks before she passed. Inside, her meager collection of clothes hung neatly: a few housecoats, some sweaters, a faded silk scarf she always wore.
I moved the clothes aside, my fingers brushing against the rough wood of the back wall. Arthur had been very specific: “A 1974 film canister. Tucked away. Behind the false panel.”
My hand found a loose section. I pressed, and a small, narrow panel popped inward with a soft click. The space behind it was dark, musty.
I reached in, feeling around blindly until my fingers closed around something cold and metallic. I pulled it out.
It was a rusted metal 35mm film canister, its silver finish tarnished to a dull grey-brown. The label, faded but still legible, read: “Unedited Outtakes – 1974.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it.
With trembling hands, I pried open the lid. Inside, nestled amongst what looked like crumbling bits of film stock, was a heavy, sealed plastic sleeve. I pulled it out.
Through the archival plastic, I could see thick, yellowed parchment. The words “STOCK TRUST DEED” were emblazoned across the top in an elegant, antique font. Below it, names: “WESTWOOD PICTURES, INC.” and “ELEANOR WESTWOOD.”
A bold, flourishing signature — Eleanor’s, I knew it from her old letters — stood out at the bottom. The document was dated 1974, just as Arthur had described.
A red wax seal, still perfectly intact, bore the impression of a lion rampant, the controlling interest seal of a studio. This wasn’t some minor stock certificate. This was the original, un-cancelled deed. Victor’s entire empire, I realized, rested on a foundation of sand. And I was holding the tide.
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