Chapter 5 #2
Irene nods, lips pressed into a wobbly smile.
“Apparently, no one is willing to step up and take over once I’m gone, and the council says participation has been dwindling for years.
Fewer volunteers, smaller audiences. The space already gets used for dance recitals and rehearsals, so they think making it official is the logical next step.
” She sighs, and there’s a sadness in it that stings behind my eyes.
“I’m just happy they aren’t going to tear down the building.
There’s a lot of memories within these walls. ”
She gestures toward the darkened stage, the ghost light burning softly at center. “Forty years—gone in the blink of an eye.”
I try to smile so I don’t cry, but my chest tightens. “You can’t leave. This place is—”
“I know,” she interrupts softly. “It’s magic. It’s where I found my passion.” She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “And where yours blossomed.” Her gaze softens, her usual theatrics fading for a beat. “But magic only matters if someone new keeps it alive.”
I frown. “But you said it’s being turned into a dance studio.”
She motions the thought away, the bracelets stacked on her wrists chiming in protest. “That’s only if no one steps forward.
The city council is practical, not heartless.
If they can find a new managing director—someone who knows what this place means—they’d happily keep the arrangement as it is.
The dance company operating under the management of the theater, both parties sharing the space.
It’s been working smoothly for years. There’s no reason it couldn’t continue. ”
Her gaze slides to me, and I know what’s coming before she even says it.
“You’d be marvelous, you know,” she says, tilting her head, eyes glimmering.
“You’re patient, seasoned—a true professional.
You have that something that can’t be taught or learned.
You simply are, for lack of a better word, a shining star.
Someone with your talent and love for the craft could breathe new life into this place. The theater could use that again.”
I blink, caught somewhere between flattered and panicked. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she says, as if I’m being intentionally dense. “Who better than someone who grew up on this stage?”
“Irene…” I let out a small laugh that sounds shakier than I intend. “I’m only in town for a little while. A few months, maybe. Then I’m heading back to Chicago.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Chicago will still be there, darling. It’s been there since the fire of 1871—it can survive a bit longer without you.”
“I’m serious,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I came home to wait out the storm I left behind, not to start over. Once an opportunity arises, I’m out of here.”
Irene leans back, her bangles clinking again as she studies me with that knowing look she’s perfected. “Funny thing about opportunities,” she says. “Sometimes, they come from the most unexpected places, like the universe’s way of pointing you toward where you’re supposed to be.”
She rises, smoothing her floral scarf and turning toward the stage. The ghost light flickers, throwing her shadow long and thin across the worn floorboards.
“Think about it,” she says over her shoulder. “I can’t think anyone who would love this place with their soul like you would.”
As I’m walking to my car, replaying the conversation with Irene, a woman rounds the corner, carrying a tote bag and a stack of rolled-up posters. Her hair is pulled tight into a bun, her outfit all black—a wrap skirt over fitted shorts and a matching tank.
She reminds me of how my dance instructors always dressed.
It takes me a second to place her. It’s the bun. The hair is throwing me off.
And then it hits me—Kathleen. The same Kathleen I spotted at Novel the other morning, the one who was clearly talking shit about me. Her hair had been down then, glossy and curled around her shoulders, which is probably why I didn’t recognize her right away.
She catches my eye as she passes, and instead of a polite smile or even basic acknowledgment, her mouth flattens into a frown. Her eyes narrow—not quite a glare, but close enough.
No “hey.” No pleasantries. Nothing.
I stare after her, thrown by the brush-off.
Then, as I unlock my car, it clicks.
Kathleen is the dance instructor.
The one Irene mentioned.
Of course she is.
Walking into Malley’s Pharmacy is like stepping back in time.
It looks almost exactly as it did when I was a kid—from the wood-paneled walls to the faded signs still advertising one-dollar ice cream bars, even though the price has since climbed to $3.
99. The same glass candy jars sit behind the counter, the same squeaky ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, and the air carries just a hint of paper, antiseptic, and the powdered sugar from the bakery next door.
I run my fingers along the edge of a shelf stacked with greeting cards that haven’t been updated since 2008. There’s comfort in how little this place has changed. Compared to Chicago, which is always in a state of change, it’s nice to know Red Mountain moves at a slower pace.
After Irene dropped that bomb in my lap, I stopped by the real estate office to double-check that I’d locked up—which I had.
Small victories, considering my track record with remembering things.
I was halfway to my car when the alert pinged on my phone: Your prescriptions are ready for pickup.
Perfect timing. My body might be running on caffeine and fumes, but even I can’t survive without my meds.
I’m down to my last dose of insulin, and I took my final ADHD pill this morning.
“Prescriptions for Scotland James,” I tell the pharmacy technician, resting my elbows on the counter.
She nods and clicks around on her keyboard before disappearing behind a shelf of amber bottles. A moment later she’s back, holding two small white bags.
“Hmm.” She scans the barcode on the first one, frowning. “According to our system, your insurance says you’re no longer covered.”
At first, I laugh—because that has to be a mistake, right? I’ve been covered through the Stage Performers Guild Union ever since I joined. Even between gigs, even when money was tight, the union kept me afloat. The one reliable thing in a career that’s anything but.
“Can you scan it again?”
She gives me a look that screams bless your heart, you clueless child, but humors me anyway.
“Please,” I add, because begging feels appropriate.
She scans it again. This time her expression softens into something close to pity. “Sorry. Still says inactive.”
Great. Perfect. Just what I needed—another reminder that my life is basically one long game of whack-a-mole. Fix one problem, three more pop up.
“I’ll have to make some calls tomorrow,” I mumble. “How much is it without insurance?”
She types a few things into the computer. I watch her eyes widen. That’s never a good sign.
“For the insulin and the lisdexamfetamine dimesylate,” she says slowly, “it’s going to be…eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
I choke on my own spit. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Eight hundred and fifty,” she repeats, wincing like she said something offensive.
That should be illegal. I’d laugh if I weren’t busy calculating what I can cut from next month’s budget. Food? Gas? Air?
I can’t afford both. One is mind-saving; the other is life-saving.
“I’ll pay for the insulin,” I say finally, even though it feels like handing over a kidney.
The hole burned through my debit card from that one purchase scorches all the way back to the car. By the time I’m behind the wheel, I’ve gone numb.
Driving is one of those things I do on autopilot—zoning out, losing track of time, somehow ending up where I’m going without remembering a single turn.
Sometimes I’ll get these intrusive thoughts—Did I run that red light?
Was that bump in the road actually a squirrel?
—and have to talk myself down before the panic spirals.
It’s not great for my blood sugar or my mental health, but that’s the ADHD for you.
Tonight is no different. My mind drifts between the conversation with the tech, the long list of things I need to figure out tomorrow, and the vague, heavy ache of being way too old to be this lost.
And then—
My heart slams into my ribs as my foot hits the brake.
Three cars are stopped dead in front of me. Red taillights blaze like warning signs.
“What the hell—” I mutter, blinking hard, trying to reorient myself.
Up ahead, firetruck lights pulse through the dark, bouncing off the dark pavement. Two police cruisers are parked sideways across the road, blocking the entrance completely. The air smells like smoke.
Without thinking, I kill the engine and jump out. My sandals slap against the asphalt as I jog toward the nearest officer.
He spots me immediately and waves me back. “This area’s closed, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Seriously? I resist the urge to check for new wrinkles. If that’s not a sign I need to schedule my next Botox appointment, I don’t know what is. “I live in those townhouses.” I point past him to where the roofs peek out over the trees. “I need to get through.”
“Sorry, can’t let anyone in right now,” he says firmly. “There’s a fire in one of the units. It’s spreading fast. The department’s trying to contain it before it gets worse.”
My pulse spikes. “Do you know which units?”
He flips open a small notepad. “Last I heard—120 through 125.”
For a moment, everything goes quiet.
Elyse’s townhouse is 122.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my voice catching.
The officer starts to say something else, but I don’t hear him. My brain’s already filling in every possible worst-case scenario. Smoke, flames, sirens. The place I’m living in now, gone up in smoke.
Just when I started to think my life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire, the universe decided to literally torch it.