She was dead. The screen siren Jean Winters was dead—killed by the legendary director Wilson Jones. Mary couldn’t believe her eyes, but there Jean was, lying on the ground, lifeless, crimson red blood pooling around her head. He stood before the dead body, his anger beginning to cool. As he turned around, he saw Mary standing by the door, frozen in shock.
”You! What are you doing here?” he hissed.
”I-I… Just wanted to tell you… Your party was just marvelous…” Mary stammered, trying to control her nerves. But it was true. She had come to Wilson’s personal office to compliment his party in hopes of gaining his attention. She had wanted to be a star, and now perhaps, she had lost her chance completely.
”What’s your name?” he coldly asked.
”Mary… Mary Thomason.” She had no choice but to answer.
”Well Mary, don’t you think you ought to go home now?” It was some sort of hint. He was letting her go, under the premise that she said nothing of this incident.
”Why yes… I think I’ll be leaving now…” Mary turned around, and quickly left the room as fast as she could.

            The guests of the party were all in the living room, unaware of the crime that occurred in the very house they were in. Afraid for her life, Mary dared not to say a word. She did exactly as she had been told: she acted as if everything was normal, and said nothing to no one. She got into her car – always making sure to check her side mirrors—and drove home. Tomorrow she would go to the studio, play her small bit in the movie, and once again, go straight home. But the lifeless image of Jean Winters would not seem to leave her mind. Would she let Wilson Jones get away with her murder? Brushing the dark thoughts out of her mind, she entered her bedroom and quickly changed into her pajamas. She wanted nothing more than to sleep—to forget the horrors that she had witnessed. But she did not get one minute of sleep. When morning came, Mary was a nervous wreck. She had to tell the police. It was the right thing to do. Picking up the phone, she patiently waited for somebody to pick up.
”Hello, Los Angeles Police Department, how may I help you?” Mary quickly hung up. She couldn’t do it, no he would find out. No, she had to act as if everything were perfectly normal. 

            But things were definitely not normal. Jean Winter’s death was the talk of town, especially between the studio secretary’s gossips. Walking past them, Mary could not help but eavesdrop.
”I heard it was one of her lovers.” One secretary said, taking a sip of her coffee.
”Lovers? Gee, just how many lovers did she have!?” the second secretary replied, genuinely astonished.
”I don’t know, but they were bound to find out she was cheating on them.” The first secretary shook her head in disapproval, then went on to explain how a woman should be more conservative. Mary had heard enough. She continued on walking and left to one of the studio’s back lots. To her surprise, she saw a group of policemen standing by Jean Winter’s dressing room.
”The body was found here, correct?” asked a detective, interviewing a frightened janitor.
”Yes sir, she was lying dead on the floor. She must had taken too many of her pills, fell and hit her head against somethin’ sir.” The janitor answered.
”The crime scene isn’t here!” she wanted to scream, but she said nothing. Instead she continued walking towards her set.

            It was all over the news: Jean Winter’s murderer found. Her conscience at ease, and delighted to see Wilson Jones punished, she had ran to the nearest newsstand and bought a copy of the Los Angeles Report for a nickel.
”No! Oh no….” Mary muttered as she read that a young man—one of Jean Winter’s many lovers—had been found guilty of her murder. She sat down in her armchair, her mind heavy with remorse. She had to do something; she could not let an innocent man go to jail when she knew the real killer.
”That’s it! I’ll go down to the station.” She paused. “At least, that way I won’t end up changing my mind halfway. She grabbed her coat, put on her gloves and began walking to the police station. The truth must be told.
 
            To her surprise, the first person she saw down at the station was none other than Wilson Jones himself. Standing from a distance, all she could hear was Wilson telling them about how he had tried to stop the young man from murdering Jean.
”He told me that he was crazy for her. That if he could not have her, no man could. He told me all about his plan—how he would sneak into her dressing room, bash her head in before she even realized he was there. It’s all so tragic. I warned Jean to stay away from dogs like him, but she just would not listen…”
”The nerve!” Mary muttered to herself, clenching her fist.
”M’am may I help you?” a young policeman asked. Wilson turned around, his eyes glaring at Mary.
”No thank you, I’m just here to uhh… look through the lost and found. You see, I lost my good hat…” she hated to lie, but in all honesty, she feared much more for her own life. Once again, she returned home with the truth still buried deep within her mind.

            Late at night, there was a knock at her door. Half asleep, Mary put on a night robe and answered the door. Before she even realized who it was at the door, Wilson Jones pushed his way into her house.
”What were you doing at the police station!” he demanded, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
”I was going to complain about my neighbor…” she lied, her eyes scanning the room for a possible weapon to use against him.
”I knew I shouldn’t have let you live!” He reached for her neck, tightening his grip until she could barely breathe. She could feel the life being drained out of her as each second passed. She had to act fast. To her left there was a porcelain lamp. The only problem was that it was at least a good feet or two away. Without much thinking, she kneed him in the stomach. As she predicted, he instantly released her, clutching his stomach in agony. Using this precious minute, Mary ran to the lamp, pulled the plug, and smashed the lamp onto the back of Wilson’s head. He fell face down onto the ground. Gently rubbing her neck, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The nightmare was finally over. When she regained her composure, she made sure to quickly call the police. After all, Wilson could awaken at any minute.  
      
            The police arrived promptly, relieved that Mary was unharmed. Showing them to the door, she watched from afar as the men arrested a barely conscious Wilson.
”Who would have thought, that Jean Winter’s killer was the renowned Wilson Jones!” exclaimed the police chief, shaking his head as entered his car. His partner— the young policeman that Mary had met earlier today— had stopped to talk with Mary.
”I’m awfully sorry about what happened miss, if only we had caught Wilson while he was down at the station…” he began, but Mary cut him off.
”No, it’s all right. Part of it is my fault too, you know.” She smiled, shyly crossing her arms. The young man smiled back, tipping his hat as a goodbye gesture. He had started to walk away when suddenly he stopped.
”Say, weren’t you in that movie…?” he asked.
”Why little old me? No, I would never want to be in Hollywood.” She replied, laughing. The man apologized, and Mary watched as he got into the car and drove away. She entered her house, locked the door behind her, and began sweeping the shattered glass off the floor. Although she had lied about her identity, everything else she had said was true. She was done with Hollywood.