Bad news item #1. Former child actor (and constant comeback candidate) Jarrod Jarvis fails to convince the California parole board not to release the stalker who has followed him since his first Oscar Meyer commercial. #2. Jarrod's NBC pilot flatlines before it even hits the air. #3. His agent/best friend Laurette decides to marry gorgeous, shady Juan Carlos Barranco, a really bad soap actor. But it gets worse. During Laurette's wedding, a guest has a heated scene of his own with Juan Carlos—just before he crashes into the three-tier wedding cake, poisoned by a glass of champagne.
Much to the dismay of Charlie, his hunky LAPD boyfriend, Jarrod is convinced that Juan Carlos has something to do with the murder. He's determined to get the goods, even if it means trailing him to the set of his latest movie, a “high concept” horror film, and taking a (gasp!) supporting role.
Now, trapped in surreal South Florida, Jarrod is living his worst nightmare, keeping one eye on his best friend’s cheating husband, fighting his own attraction to a butch P.I., doing a movie for scale, and running from the mob. But while Jarrod has been following Juan Carlos’ every move, someone has been tailing Jarrod. Someone who thinks Jarrod knows too much for his own good—and is ready to give him his final screen credit . . .
Release date:
August 25, 2026
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
320
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“I believe this man poses a serious threat to me and society in general, and I strongly urge you to keep him locked up behind bars where he belongs.” I paused for dramatic effect. There was a chill in the air. I was nailing this. Why couldn’t I have been this persuasive last week when I auditioned for the role of a power-house prosecuting attorney on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit? Maybe it was because today the stakes were much higher. The guest-starring gig was fifteen grand and another year of guaranteed SAG insurance, but this performance would decide whether or not I would spend the rest of my life living in fear, looking over my shoulder, expecting to find a knife-wielding madman bearing down on me. Today I was delivering testimony at the parole hearing of Wendell Butterworth, a forty-four-year-old mentally unstable career criminal, who when he was in his early twenties, tried kidnapping me three times.
When Wendell saw me make my acting debut on an Oscar Mayer bologna commercial just shy of my fifth birthday, he became convinced that I was his long-lost soul mate from another lifetime. He kept watching TV, hoping to see me, and he did on a slew of commercials for Juicy Fruit gum, GI Joe action figures, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I landed my hit series a few years later and became a big star, Wendell decided it was time for a long-overdue reunion in this lifetime.
My first encounter with him was during our first season of Go to Your Room! He had conned his way past the security gate at the studio posing as a messenger, and found me hiding from my tutor, who was on the warpath because she found out I’d lied when I told her I had a photo shoot for TV Guide. It was just a ruse to get out of one of her annoying little pop math quizzes. Wendell pretended to be a production assistant sent to retrieve me for a network run-through rehearsal. We were halfway to Barstow before a quick-thinking cashier at a Mobil Station recognized me from the special “Missing Child Star” news bulletins on TV and dialed 911. I never even knew what was happening. The whole time I thought I was on my way to a promotional appearance at the network’s Las Vegas affiliate station.
The second time, Wendell bought one of those “Maps to the Stars’ Homes,” and drove out to our Pacific Palisades house, where he locked our maid Gilda in the pantry and jumped out to grab me while I was pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal. Believe me, I didn’t feel so lucky that day. But fortunately, my parents arrived home just as Wendell was hustling me into his Dodge pickup. My father wrestled him to the pavement while my mother called the police from the car phone.
Finally, with his frustration growing to dangerous levels, Wendell got his hands on a Smith & Wesson and decided that if the Devil’s Disciples (namely my parents) were going to keep us apart in this world, then he had no choice but to escape with me into the other world. His plan was to shoot me dead, and then take his own life. We could finally be together for eternity.
This was still a few years before the haunting and brutal murder of another sitcom child star, Rebecca Schaffer, in 1989. That’s when people finally started taking celebrity stalkers seriously. Rebecca was dressing for an audition for The Godfather 3 when a whacked-out fan rang her bell, and fired a gun at her as she stood right in her own doorway. She died at the scene. And Hollywood was finally jolted awake.
But my nightmare ended on a sweltering hot summer day in August. And as fate would have it, Wendell Butterworth would not succeed with his insidious plot. As my mother and I pulled out of the studio gate and stopped for a red light at the intersection of Melrose and Gower next to Paramount Pictures, Wendell ran up to the passenger’s side window, which was open, and pressed his newly registered gun to my temple. Before either my mother or I could even react, Wendell pulled the trigger. There was a loud click. And then silence. Wendell had forgotten to load his gun. As he fumbled in his pockets for the bullets, my mother grabbed my shirt collar and dragged me out of the car, both of us screaming and running into the street, bringing traffic to a screeching halt. A quick-thinking motorist saw Wendell stuffing bullets into the chamber of his gun, and slammed on his accelerator, plowing into Wendell and knocking him to the ground unconscious.
For weeks reporters and TV journalists besieged us with requests for interviews. I almost had an exclusive sit-down with Barbara Walters until she found out I made fun of the way she talked. Hell, I was only twelve. How did I know she was so sensitive?
More disturbing details bubbled to the surface about Wendell as the press dug deeper into his past. He was initially portrayed as a wayward orphan whose parents were brutally murdered by intruders in the summer of 1971 while he slept peacefully upstairs in his room. The killers were never caught. Well, a 20/20 investigation after his attack on me revealed that there was no home invasion by unknown intruders at all. It turned out his parents had refused to allow eleven-year-old Wendell to watch the series premiere of The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, so he took matters into his own hands by butchering both of them with a meat cleaver, watching the show, then going upstairs and turning in. After all, it was past his bedtime.
After a battery of psychological tests following his arrest, Wendell was found to be deeply disturbed (let me put on my big surprise face), and once convicted (his lawyer’s “innocent by reason of insanity” ploy failed), he was committed to a special psychiatric ward at Angola State Prison, where he managed to escape once and tried to find me again during our show’s second season. Luckily he was quickly recaptured and transferred to an even more secure facility at Vacaville State Prison in Northern California, where he has remained ever since.
It was tough making the six-hour drive up to Vacaville to speak at Wendell’s parole hearing. I hadn’t seen him since that terrifying day at the traffic light outside Paramount. When I entered the sparse, stuffy room where he was seated at a table, flanked by two beefy prison guards, I almost didn’t recognize him. Almost. Eighteen years had passed, and he was much older. In his twenties, he had only just started losing his fine blond hair, and he was muscled and compact. Now he was much paunchier, with only a few wisps of dull yellow hair combed over his forehead. His complexion was ruddy and pale from years of incarceration, and more than a few wrinkles creased his face. But one thing was the same as I remembered. His eyes. They were still a dull gray and they still had the wild look of a sociopath. He stared at me, and appeared to be fighting back a smile. I half expected him to jump up and grab me in a bear hug, as if he still believed we were separated soul mates. And that’s why I’d made the long trip up north. Because in my heart I knew Wendell Butterworth wasn’t cured. He wasn’t ready to reenter society a well-adjusted, law-abiding citizen. And I wasn’t ready for him to get out either.
Wendell sat quietly watching me as I delivered my speech. My hands were shaking and the paper made a loud rustling sound in my grip.
“I do not believe that Wendell Butterworth has made enough progress, and I fear that if you release him, he will continue his campaign of terror against me, as well as others.”
The sound of the paper was so thunderous, I was sure the parole board couldn’t hear a word I was saying. I glanced up at them to gauge some kind of reaction to my presentation. There were three of them. A corpulent man in his fifties who was bursting out of a cheap brown suit. A prim-and-proper frail gray-haired woman with a stern gaze over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. And a handsome doctor with curly, unkempt hair and soft, caring eyes. I made eye contact with him, because, after all, he was the cutest one on the panel. He smiled at me and I immediately lost my place. I had to consult my stack of pages again. More rustling. I kept reminding myself I was in a loving, fulfilling relationship with an LAPD detective named Charlie Peters. Damn, where was I?
“I’m sorry…Let’s see…campaign of terror against me…Oh, right. Here we go. I simply don’t believe Wendell Butterworth is a changed man. And I beg you…for my own peace of mind, and for my family’s, please do not let this man out of prison because I know it will only be a matter of time before he strikes again.”
There was a moment of silence as the parole board digested my words. Then the gray-haired lady spoke first.
“Mr. Jarvis, we all appreciate you coming here today to speak with us. You make a very convincing argument.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m curious though. Did you read the psychiatric evaluations we sent you in the mail?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did.”
“Five reputable doctors believe Mr. Butterworth has made remarkable progress, and in order for him to continue in a positive direction, he should be able to reconnect with a life on the outside.”
“I don’t believe that to be the case.”
The cute doctor leaned forward. “Why not?”
“Look at his eyes,” I said. “They haven’t changed one bit. They still scare the hell out of me.”
Wendell averted his eyes from me, and fixed them on the floor. He didn’t want me blowing his chances of getting out of here. Not with something as inconsequential as the look in his eye.
The gray-haired lady broke out into a smile dripping with condescension. “Mr. Jarvis, are you disputing the findings of five doctors based on the mere fact you don’t like Mr. Butterworth’s eyes?”
“That’s right,” I said.
She stifled a chuckle, and then flashed her two colleagues a look that said, “How long are we going to indulge this idiot?”
The corpulent member of the board checked his notes before addressing me. “What about Cappy Whitaker?”
“What about him?” I said.
“He was a child actor just like you. He had a rather notable career in his own right, though admittedly not nearly as successful as yours, and he, too, was a target of Mr. Butterworth’s obsessions.”
“I’m very familiar with Cappy’s ordeal. It was very similar to mine.”
“And yet, we’ve received a notarized letter from Mr. Whitaker supporting a decision to release Mr. Butterworth at our discretion.”
This floored me. It downright knocked the wind out of me. Cappy Whitaker was an adorable moppet who hit the audition scene right about the same time I did. He had this cherubic face dotted with freckles, big twinkling brown eyes, and bright orange hair, and he made a lasting impression on the American public in a Disney adaptation of The Prince and the Pauper, which led to a situation comedy as Debbie Reynolds’s grandson. The show lasted six episodes, but Cappy’s TV Q rating was high enough to win him a memorable series of Kraft commercials, where he stood next to a ten-foot box of macaroni and cheese and wailed, “Hey, I’m supposed to be the big cheese!” The catch phrase caught on for a bit, and made the front of a few million T-shirts. It was bigger than that cute old lady screaming, “Where’s the Beef?!” for Wendy’s Hamburgers, but didn’t have the lasting impact of my very own “Baby, don’t even go there!” It did, however, become an instant footnote in eighties pop culture, and further endeared Cappy to the viewing public as well as Wendell Butterworth. He decided that Cappy, like me, was also his soul mate, and it was grossly unfair that they be kept apart. He staked out the apartment complex where Cappy lived with his grandmother, who was raising him after his alcoholic mother died in a drunken traffic accident. He made one botched attempt to snatch Cappy when his grandmother took him to the beach in Santa Monica one gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon, but he failed miserably when a gaggle of buff lifeguards beat him to a pulp when Cappy screamed for help. It caused quite a stir, landing the wholesome heroic hunks on the cover of People in their tight red swim trunks and holding life preservers. Some believe this story was the inspiration for the popular waves and babes show Baywatch. Days later, Wendell was quietly released for lack of evidence. He convinced authorities he was simply asking Cappy for directions to the Santa Monica Pier. That’s when Wendell turned his attention back toward me.
I cleared my throat, gathered my thoughts, and addressed the three members of the parole board. “I can understand why Cappy Whitaker no longer believes this man poses a serious threat to society. He wasn’t attacked in his home while eating breakfast. Mr. Butterworth didn’t press a gun to his head at a traffic light and pull the trigger. I don’t mean to compare emotional scars here, but I believe my experience with Wendell Butterworth was far more harrowing and has haunted me a lot longer. I respect Mr. Whitaker’s opinion, but where is he? Why isn’t he here? Because he didn’t care enough to make the trip. I did.” I pointed a finger right at Wendell’s face. “Because this man is with me in my nightmares every time I go to sleep!”
Finally I had gotten to them. The parole board members sat in stunned silence. The corpulent one started making notes. The gray-haired lady stared at the floor. And the cute one, well, he looked at me with sympathetic eyes, and gave me an understanding nod. He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a chirping sound pierced the air. Everybody sat up and looked around. Where was it coming from?
I frowned, annoyed. It was obviously someone’s cell phone, and I was offended it had interrupted the impact of my speech.
The gray-haired lady looked up at me. “Mr. Jarvis?”
“Yes?”
“I think it might be yours.”
She was right. The aggravating chirping sound was coming from my back pants pocket. I had planned on leaving my cell phone in the car, but I was expecting a very important call from my manager/best friend Laurette Taylor. I had been cast in one of the lead roles in an NBC comedy pilot some months ago that insiders predicted would be sandwiched in between the network’s two biggest hits on Must-See Thursday. I played a lascivious massage therapist with designs on all the girls in a hip twenty-something apartment house. As a proud gay man in his early thirties, I had to congratulate myself on my ability to stretch as an actor. And the suits loved me. The networks were in the process of selecting their new series for the fall TV season. Laurette had promised to call me the minute she heard something. I checked the small screen on my cell phone. Sure enough, it was Laurette. I had to take the call. This could be one of those life-altering moments that could shift the entire trajectory of my career as an actor.
I sheepishly looked up at the bemused parole board. Even the cute doctor wasn’t smiling anymore. “I’m sorry. I really have to take this.” There was an audible huff from the gray-haired lady as I hastily slipped out of the room.
Outside, the drab, sterile hallway was even more depressing than the room where the parole board was conducting their hearing. It was empty except for a two-man cleaning crew mopping the floor a few feet away from me. I pressed the talk button and took a deep breath.
“Laurette?”
“Hi, doll face. Where the hell have you been? Haven’t you gotten any of my e-mails?”
“I haven’t been online today. I’m in Vacaville.”
“Where in God’s name is that?”
“Up north. Between Sacramento and San Francisco. I drove up for my stalker’s parole hearing.”
“I really need to get you a job. You do the strangest things to keep busy.”
“They want to release him, and I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Do you know how many actors would kill to have a stalker? You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
Laurette was always thinking of my career.
“Listen, I have to get back inside. They’re going to make a decision soon,” I said. “But I didn’t want to miss your call.”
“Good. Because I have exciting news.”
This was it. After years of struggling to shed the baggage that came with being a former child star, I was about to land my first significant series role as an adult. I had worked so hard for this moment. I sat down on a hard wooden bench to savor the news.
“I’m getting married,” Laurette said.
That didn’t sound like, “The network picked up your pilot.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I’m getting married. Can you believe it? After a lifetime of horrible dates and misfired relationships, I’ve finally found him. The one. Just when I came to accept the fact that he’d never show up, he’s here.”
“What about the pilot?”
“Oh, God, that loser? He hasn’t called in months. Last I heard he quit Delta after his divorce was final and moved back to Atlanta. Truth be told, he had this mole on his back I just couldn’t get past.”
“Not the airline pilot. The network pilot.”
“What network pilot?”
“My network pilot. On NBC. The one I’ve been waiting weeks to hear about. Did it get picked up?”
There was nothing but dead air. I figured the news wasn’t good.
“Oh, honey…” Laurette said, her voice filled with a motherly, comforting tone usually reserved for occasions like telling a kid his pet hamster died. “It’s not going to happen. They passed on it.”
Now I felt just like that kid with the dead hamster.
“Why? You said all the suits loved it.”
“They did. And then they tested it. I think it set a new record for low audience scores. Didn’t I call you? That was something like, four days ago.”
“No, you didn’t call me.”
“Oh, I guess I’ve been so caught up in this new romance, I forgot. So, back to me. Isn’t this wild? I’m finally going to walk down the aisle!”
This was a double blow. First, my best friend neglected to break potentially devastating news to me as early as possible, so I could grieve properly and move on to my next career disappointment. Second, this same best friend, who always insisted on relating every last detail of her life, was getting hitched to a man I had never even heard about.
“Who is this guy? And why haven’t I met him?”
“We just met two weeks ago.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but felt there was no way she would not detect a hint of judgment in anything I said.
“I know it’s fast,” she said, reading my mind. “But it was one of those moments when you just know. We ran into each other at a screening at the TV Academy. It was some CBS Sunday night movie based on a true story about a little girl in Tennessee who was trapped in a mineshaft for eight days. The movie was crap. The kid they got sucked. But he played one of the firefighters, and believe it or not, he was quite good. He’s very talented. His name is Juan Carlos Barranco.”
Juan Carlos Barranco. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Laurette had discovered a propensity for Spanish men on our nine-day trip to the coast of Spain last summer. But an actor? I love actors. I’m one myself. But I know that most of them are one big red flag for inevitable emotional distress.
“So he’s an actor, huh?” I said, hoping she’d pick up the obvious concern in my voice.
“Yes,” she said, choosing to ignore it. “They had a reception after the screening, and we both went for the last finger sandwich. It was chicken salad. Not bad actually.”
Laurette and I also both have to fill in complete food descriptions during any story we tell the other.
“Anyway, he graciously let me have the sandwich,” she said. “And I told him how impressed I was with his performance, and then we wound up back at my place. And he’s been there ever since.”
“He’s living with you?”
“Don’t tell my mother, but yes. That’s why we’re getting married right away. I don’t want to compromise my Catholic upbringing.”
“Sweetheart, you compromised your Catholic upbringing in 1986 on our road trip to Fort Lauderdale when—”
“Don’t say it. Just tell me how happy you are for me!”
I sighed. There was no way to slow Laurette down once she made a decision. She was a freight train and you just had to go along for the ride and hope you didn’t derail from the high speed.
“I’m really happy for you,” I said.
“Now get your ass back down to LA so we can start making plans.”
“I want to meet this guy, and make sure he’s good enough for you.”
“Wait until you see him! He’s gorgeous! And so sweet. He brought home takeout from Red Lobster because he knows how much I love their garlic cheese rolls. He hid the ring in one of my popcorn shrimp! I almost choked to death.”
Laurette was laughing at the memory. I was still hung up on the fact she was planning to marry an actor. If I could just get her to talk to my boyfriend Charlie, he’d certainly tell her to run screaming for the hills, having lived with me for three years.
I was momentarily distracted when the door to the parole hearing opened and the three members of the board filed out into the hallway. They were followed by the two prison guards, who escorted Wendell Butterworth down the hall toward the processing room.
“Laurette, I have to go,” I said. “Something’s happening.”
“All right, but call me when you get home. I want you and Charlie to be the first ones to meet my new husband. Can you believe I just said that? Husband!”
“I’ll call you from the car.”
I hung up the phone and approached the curly-haired cutie from the parole board.
“Excuse me, are we taking a short break?” I said.
The handsome doctor turned and flashed me his winning smile. “No. We’re finished.”
“Well, what happened?”
“We unanimously voted to grant Mr. Butterworth his parole.”
I felt as if someone had ju. . .
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