Free Talk of the Town by Lisa Wingate

people there. In her hotel today, there was left at the desk a communiqué from a recording company in Austin. If she were to exit American Megastar to engage with a tiny unknown company, this would reflect badly on us. If you find such to be true, you will let me know immediately.”
    A little ache started right between my eyes, like Chinese water torture. I didn’t even want to know how Ursula had managed to see Amber’s hotel messages. Surely Amber wouldn’t be stupid enough to openly negotiate with a recording company just days before the announcement of the Final Five. This had to be yet more of Ursula’s paranoia. “Is it possible that this company just contacted her out of the blue? Do we have proof of any ongoing dialogue?”
    “Not at this time. This could be nothingk, of course.”
    I rubbed the thrumming in my forehead. What now? What other possible nugget of insanity could be heaped into the alreadyteetering Amber basket?
    “Be watchful when Am-beer arrives. Marta will email the final travel schedules to you tomorrow.” As usual, Ursula was through dumping and ready to have the conversation over with. She was probably headed out to some lavish dinner with one of the many vendors who serviced the production company and periodically stroked Ursula’s ego with expensive perks. “Have a good eveningk, Mandee . . .” The words faded into static, and I drove with the phone pressed to my ear for a mile or so, wondering if she would come back. Finally, I set the phone down and concluded two things—Ursula had hung up, and judging by the setting sun, I wasn’t headed in the right direction anymore. I’d passed through more than one fork in the road, so there was no possibility of backtracking. Essentially, I was lost in the middle of nowhere.
    An appropriate metaphor for my life lately.
    The road turned into a couple of dirt ruts with a grass hump in the middle, and my hopes plummeted. I envisioned myself stuck in the car overnight with no food, no water, no help, and unfortunately, less than a quarter tank of gas. Not a pretty picture.
    There were probably wild animals out here. Coyotes and mountain lions. Prowlers that came out after dark, searching the hills for stranded tourists and careless city girls with inadequate navigational skills. Taking out the map, I drove on, carefully checking occasional signs at dusty dirt-road intersections, where both paths seemed to wander off into the hills and disappear.
    By the time I finally found my way back to Daily, the sun had gone down. The café, where I was going to treat myself to a nice relaxing supper, was closed. I settled for to-go food from the Dairy Queen and then drove through the darkened streets to the hotel, ravenously consuming soggy French fries. I was glad, at least, that I’d managed to secure lodging in Daily, rather than having to drive all the way to the nearest real town.
    Turning the car into the alley behind Main Street, I reconsidered my lodging plans and the forty-mile drive to a Holiday Inn. The back alley was shadowy and silent, lit by the glow of a single flickering streetlamp and a faded neon sign over the hotel’s rear entrance. It simply said Hotel Welcome —like something from a Stephen King novel. Overhead, the windows were dark, the high arches reflecting the glow of the streetlight in shifting, uneven shapes. From the end of the alleyway, the gargoyles on the bank building watched me, their fang-filled mouths hanging open, as in, Come into my parlor, my pretty . . .
    A shudder ran over my shoulders as I worked up my courage, took a fortifying breath, and got out of the car. Grabbing my overnight bag, my purse, and my briefcase, I hurried to the door as fast as my Italian leather slingbacks would carry me. As I fiddled with the keys, someone or something knocked over a tin can near a stack of pallets not far away. I jumped, did a back flip with a triple twist, and landed in fighting position with my karate fists en garde—in my