We stood there frozen for about five seconds, Olivia's nails digging into my arm, until the young woman behind the lens looked away from the viewer with a thumbs up.
"We're out," she said before ambling away, the complicated looking camera rig she wore over her jeans and t-shirt more from a science fiction novel than a film shoot.
Olivia released me and spun to face me, hand now firmly grasping my wrist, those same oval nails painted matching red to her prim suit carving little crescents into my flesh, all pretense vanished as panic flashed on her face.
"They're stuff is already moved in," she said. "But there's a couple in the carriage house. You need to get them out now." She almost panted with anxiety. "Thank god you're empty already or this would have been a disaster bigger than it already is."