Southern Star

Prologue

Hey, Blaze! Smile, honey,' a photographer called out.

For the fraction of a second that it took for the flash bulb to do its thing, everything froze – the jostling crowds, the thick-set security staff, her anxiously hovering PR. And Blaze Gillespie imagined that she could leave them frozen in place, turn and run back along the red carpet, past the waiting line of limousines and across the square into the park, where she'd kick off her thousand-dollar, crystal-encrusted heels and disappear into the trees.

By the time the spell was broken and they'd realised she'd bolted, she'd be long gone.

'Hey, Blaze. The paps wouldn't mind getting a bit of the action you showed the Bad & Co. crew.' The photographer whose flash had just blinded her leered, while the others laughed and raised their cameras ready to catch her response to his crude insult. 'How 'bout it, babe?'

'Watch it, Sweeney. Dicking around with Blaze Gillespie gets people dead,' another photographer responded with twisted humour.

And, just like that, Blaze crash-landed back into her nightmare reality.

A month ago, the media had been fawning, adoring. But a month ago she hadn't been celluloid's 'slut of the century,' as one newspaper had tagged her. A month ago, Mitch hadn't been found slashed open from throat to groin in his hotel room, the knife lying next to his wrecked body bearing Blaze's fingerprints. A month ago, life was as normal as it ever got for movie goddess Blaze Gillespie.

But today was today – her reputation was trashed, her career in free fall. Very soon her liberty might be forfeit, too. Blaze wanted nothing more than to hide in shame, but damned if they'd take her pride along with everything else; not while she still had breath in her body.

Lifting her chin, she flicked her mane of fiery hair over her shoulder and let her gaze wander coolly past the braying pack of paps. Her PR, Monica, tapped her watch anxiously. It was time to head into the theatre. But Blaze wasn't quite done with the red carpet yet. Spying a group of fans, flushed and eager, calling her name and holding out books and postcards and photos for her signature, she walked regally over, smiled, and gave them the autographs they wanted.

'Ms Gillespie, I just wanted you to know I thought you were awesome in The Quiet One,' whispered one teenage earnest girl. 'I don't care what everyone else says. I hope you get more great roles like that.'



Blaze stopped, surprised. Few people mentioned her brief appearance as a pastor's repressed wife in a period piece released last year. And if they did it was usually to mock her attempt at serious drama. She took the movie festival program the girl held out to her.

'Thanks. I hope so, too. What's your name?'

'Bethany,' came the shy reply.

Blaze scribbled a personal message for the girl on the paper. As she reached out to hand it back, something hissed close to her head and she jerked away. Someone screamed, and Blaze turned back to face Bethany, but the pretty round face was now a grotesque death mask, her right eye socket a black and bloody mess.

As Blaze tried to process that this was no nightmare or special effect, a tidal wave of alarm swept through the crowd. Screams of shock turned to panic as fans tried to flee. Hemmed in by the people behind them, those near the red carpet had nowhere else to go but on to it. Surging forward, they surrounded Blaze, buffeting her. Across the crowd, she glimpsed the face of the nearest security guard, yelling and trying desperately to reach her, but he was too far away. And as her feet were swept from under her, she caught a glancing blow on the temple and everything faded to black.