Ian Whitestone was a man of highly cultivated habit, a creature of such detail and precision and economy of thought that those around him were often treated like items on an agenda. In all the time he'd known Ian, Seth Goldman had never seen the man exhibit a single emotion that seemed to come to him naturally. Seth had never known a man with a more icily clinical approach to personal relationships. Seth wondered how he would take the news.
The climactic sequence of The Palace was to be filmed in a virtuoso, three-minute shot, filmed at the Thirtieth Street train station. It would be the final shot of the film. It was the shot that would secure the nomination for best director, if not best picture.
The wrap party was going to be held at a fashionable nightclub on Second Street called 32 Degrees, a Euro bar named for its fashion of serving shots in glasses made of solid ice.
Seth stood in the hotel bathroom. He found he could not look at himself. He held the photograph by the edge, flicked his lighter. In seconds, the picture caught the flame. He dropped it into the hotel bathroom's sink. In an instant, it was gone.
Two more days, he thought. It was all he needed. Two more days and they could leave the sickness behind. Until it all began again.