The Island of the Skull

Chapter One

Fortieth Street and Eighth Avenue,

New York City

Ann Darrow sat on the hard wood chair -- one of three -- that faced the secretary's desk. The woman opposite her turned the pages of the Daily News while she chewed and popped her gum.

It was odd -- as if Ann weren't even here. The wooden blinds sent slices of brilliant sun into the room and, at this angle, she could see thousands of tiny dust motes floating in the air.

Floating, she thought, like me...loose, no direction.

Maybe even a bit lost.

Her dream of being an actress, of having a career...it all seemed so fantastic now, almost impossible.

She looked at the office door. Every now and then she heard a laugh indicating that the meeting was still going on.

She had been waiting for thirty minutes...thirty minutes past her appointment. As if she didn't feel worthless enough.

Ann turned and looked at the door to the office, the beveled glass showing the backward letters that read victor major theatricals. Then, below it, agents to the stage and screen.

Screen.

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