From a bold new voice in noir fiction comes a shadow-drenched, cinematic thriller set in the dangerous heart of old Hollywood—where loyalty is currency, secrets are weapons, and one wrong move can get your life ruined or bury you in the California dirt.

“I can tell you, Benny… they’re coming for every one of us. They did it to Janie. They killed her. Same thing they did to Paul Bern, Harlean Jean, Thelma Todd—hell, they even tried to get Betty Davis at the Hollywood Canteen.

We should’ve never made that film or tried to run to the Feds. I can feel it, Benny. They’re now coming for me, my friend. And soon, I’m going to end up looking just like her.”

William Marc Able knew the newspapers were never innocent. They were weapons—sharpened by gossip columnists, polished by studio fixers, swung by men who understood exactly where to cut. When the headlines twisted his wife’s death into spectacle, mirroring private details only he should’ve recognized, a cold truth slipped beneath his skin. This wasn’t reporting. It was a taunt.

First it was the number—thirty-nine days. Then the location: 39th Avenue. Their marriage year, their private jokes. The killers’ fingerprints weren’t on the body—they were in the ink stained scandal sheets.

And when Marc read the columnist’s closing line—“A tragic ending befitting Hollywood’s unluckiest star”—he finally understood. They weren’t done with him. They were watching. Waiting. Enjoying the show.”