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Newcomer, Collin’s career had fizzled after three more films. It was disheartening, because his directors and most of his costars had seemed to like him.
    But then there was his mother. It was embarrassing to hear what people said about her. Apparently, she’d made all sorts of demands from the studio during the production of each of his films. Those demands had included: her pick of rental cars—always the most costly models, one of which she totaled; an expense account for her own personal wardrobe; and lodgings at the plushest Hollywood hotels. The studio managed to hush it up when they were kicked out of the Chateau Marmont after the police busted up a party in their bungalow. “When the cops showed up, that was about four thousand dollars’ worth of coke down the toilet,” Collin had heard his mom tell a friend later. “I’m sure it didn’t do the Chateau Marmont’s plumbing any good.”
    Collin couldn’t entirely blame his mother for his foundering career. He blamed himself, too. He hadn’t realized how much his looks had changed in the three years after The Night Whisperer . But one afternoon at a newsstand, he’d seen a current, unflattering candid photo of himself on the cover of The National Examiner . He was at a film premiere, sporting a bad haircut and sprinklings of acne. Inset was a publicity photo of him from The Night Whisperer , a picture his mother had once described as “absolutely adorable.” The headline above the two photos read: What Happens When Child Stars Are No Longer Cute? The caption below said:

    GROWING PAINS: Collin Cox is one of those sweet-faced kids from movies and TV who hasn’t aged well. From cute chicks to ugly ducks . . . Check out our gallery of FORMER CHILD STARS—NOT A PRETTY PICTURE! PAGE 3!”

    Of course, Collin had picked up the tabloid at the newsstand and turned to page three to find himself in the company of other child actors—some from two or three decades back—who had become overweight or bald or drug-addicted or just plain homely, like him. The captions were cruel. Not only that but all sorts of nasty items and blog posts about his declining looks had popped up on the Internet.
    â€œYou’re just going through an awkward phase,” his mother had told him. “The preteen years suck. I promise, by the time you’re sixteen, you’ll be beating the girls off with a stick.”
    It wasn’t what a twelve-year-old needed to hear. Four more years of everyone thinking he was ugly? The movie deals dried up. He guest-starred on some TV shows, but those stints did little to advance his career. It was as if he’d become this great big disappointment to everybody—including his mom—simply because he’d gotten older.
    Or maybe it was The Night Whisperer curse?
    By the time they were ready to leave for Seattle, the only work Collin could find in Los Angeles was at supermarket openings and horror film conventions. At each one, after being introduced, he was required to say, “The killings are about to start!” It usually got a laugh and some applause. But he always felt like a jerk at those things.
    Starting as the new kid at his Seattle high school, Collin figured he wouldn’t have too much trouble making friends because, after all, he used to be sort of famous.
    To his utter humiliation, the kids in his new school regarded him as a freak—and a failure. Even the theater arts gang snubbed him. He wasn’t sure why, maybe out of jealousy or spite. Or maybe because he’d had a chance they all would have killed for—and he’d blown it.
    He spent a lot of his free time riding on different Seattle bus routes, exploring the city. At home, he holed up in his bedroom, drawing. He revived a cartoon he’d created back when he’d been a little boy, Dastardly Dave & the Shilshole Kid . Dave and the Kid were good-guy cowboy outlaws—just