Chapter 50
He stumbled over the edge of yet another ostentatiously expensive rug—those ludicrous displays of wealth, plus Stephen’s damn inflexible boots—while turning toward the bed. He caught himself on the doorframe: unplanned, unscripted. No one called to cut, so the clumsiness must’ve worked.
The next breath vanished out of his lungs.
Colby lay on that bed. Colby lay on that bed, limp and unresponsive, asleep or—
Jason’s brain shouted rationality at him. Acting. The scene. Will. Will was sick. Not Colby.
He knew it wasn’t real. He did know.
His heart didn’t know.
Colby seemed smaller in the lavish four-poster bulk. His face was drawn and pale, and he didn’t stir.
The lighting and the stark white bedsheets and the cloth lying beside the bed—the cloth with blood on it, because Will had been coughing—bit into Jason’s chest and tore out his insides. That was makeup and staging—of course it was, Colby wasn’tsick—
But it was so good, so convincing—