CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Sarah Brooks stood motionless in the darkness of the soundstage, her body still as sculpture while her mind raced.
The muffled voices outside—security personnel, no doubt, their confusion evident in their rising tones—confirmed what she had suspected: her carefully constructed plan was encountering its first true complication.
But she refused to surrender to panic. Decades of familial rage couldn’t be undone by a few rattling doorknobs and raised voices.
She tilted her head, listening as the sounds faded. They would return, of course. With greater numbers. With proper tools. With police, perhaps. But Stage Six housed the setting she needed.
Let them come. By then, her work would be complete.
A whimper broke the silence.
Sarah could just make out the vague shape of Lucy Morgan on the altar, illuminated only by thin strips of emergency lighting that outlined the stage doors. Lucy had stopped screaming behind her gag hours ago, her voice giving out after futile efforts heard by no one who could help.
“Patience,” Sarah whispered, her voice silken in the darkness. “Art can’t be rushed.”
She reached into her pocket for her phone, activating the flashlight.
The harsh beam cut through the blackness as she swept it across the meticulously arranged set.
Every detail had been considered, positioned exactly as it appeared in Shadows at Dusk.
The gothic arches. The ornate wooden pews.
The faux stained glass windows that would never catch real sunlight.
And at the center, elevated on three shallow steps, the altar where Lucy Morgan lay bound.
Sarah moved with confidence through the darkness toward the light board nestled against the far wall. She selected the switches with the expertise of someone who had spent countless hours in these spaces, bringing imaginary worlds to life.
With a soft electrical hum, the work lights flickered on overhead, washing the entire set in harsh, unflattering illumination.
The church set stood before her in all its gothic splendor, far more elaborate than strictly necessary for the period drama it had originally served.
She had personally lobbied for its construction, had altered the designs to include specific architectural elements from Shadows at Dusk, had overseen every detail with a passion that her colleagues had mistaken for professional dedication.
And there, upon the altar, Lucy Morgan stared back at her with wide, terror-filled eyes.
The arts and culture editor of The Atlanta Chronicle, whose hands had typed those damning articles a decade ago, now lay securely bound with rope, hand and foot.
Her auburn hair was damp with perspiration.
The gag across her mouth was stained with saliva and blood where she had bitten her lip in her earlier struggles.
Sarah approached slowly. In her right hand, she caressed a length of thin, flexible wire—the same garrote she had used on Crystal Keene. Sharp enough to slice through flesh. Its weight familiar, comforting in her grip.
“Do you appreciate the irony, Ms. Morgan?” Sarah asked, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
“‘Bad Blood Reckoning.’ That was the title of your series, wasn’t it?
Such a fitting phrase.” She reached the altar, looking down at her captive with clinical detachment.
“Though I wonder if you truly understood the concept when you wrote those articles.”
Lucy made a muffled sound behind her gag, her eyes darting frantically between Sarah’s face and the wire in her hand.
“I read them all, you know. Every word. Your exposé of Myrtle Carroway’s activities during the McCarthy era.
How she used her gossip column to destroy lives.
How she took particular pleasure in revealing my grandfather’s pseudonym, ensuring he would never work again.
” Sarah’s voice remained conversational, as if they were discussing the weather over coffee rather than in the midst of a premeditated murder.
Sarah circled the altar slowly, trailing her fingers along its polished edge.
“Yet here you are, alive and thriving, your career built on the back of her infamy—profiting from the very destruction she caused. While my grandfather, Weston Black, died penniless, forgotten, his brilliance snuffed out by the venomous pens of women like your great-great-grandmother.”
She flexed the garrote between her hands, the wire catching the harsh overhead lights.
“Bad blood, Ms. Morgan. It flows in your veins. The same blood that pumped through Myrtle Carroway’s heart as she wrote the words that finished what Roberta Rimes started.
And now, that blood will spill on this altar—the final scene in a trilogy decades in the making. ”
Lucy’s struggle renewed against her bonds, her body jerking against the unyielding ropes. Sarah watched dispassionately, unmoved by the display of terror.
Sarah knelt down next to Lucy.
“You’re wondering about the others, I imagine. Veronica Slate and Crystal Keene. Why them? Why now?” Sarah leaned closer, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Because the time was finally right. Because the pieces were finally in place. Because justice delayed is still justice deserved.
“It took me years to piece it all together, the betrayals my grandfather endured. Three women, three treacheries, destroying a genius who deserved so much more. Roberta Rimes was the first betrayal, naming him to HUAC to save her own rising career. But Myrtle Carroway delivered the killing blow when she exposed his pseudonym. Between them, they ensured he would never direct again.”
She smiled, cold satisfaction glittering in her eyes.
“As for Crystal Keene—well, she was simpler. A film critic, just like the victim in The Broken Window. And not just any film critic, but one who finished the process of erasing my grandfather, by not including him in her prized list of ‘pantheon directors.’ My grandfather was relegated to oblivion on account of her, once and for all.”
She straightened and resumed her pacing, still playing with the garrote wire.
Sarah’s voice took on a passionate intensity. “Do you know what it means, to be erased? My grandfather’s final two masterpieces—The Broken Window and Shadows at Dusk—aren’t even properly attributed to him in most film histories. They remain credited to a nonexistent man named Chip Raines.”
Sarah caressed the garrote lovingly.
“I knew what I needed to do long ago. But it took years of planning. I moved to Atlanta. I worked my way into the film industry, became invaluable as a production designer. I learned how to create perfect simulacra of reality—sets indistinguishable from the real world. I studied the original set designs from my grandfather’s films. I waited for the perfect moment when all the elements aligned. ”
Lucy struggled again, making desperate sounds behind her gag. Sarah reached down, brushing a strand of hair from her captive’s sweaty forehead with unsettling tenderness.
“Veronica was first, of course. Roberta’s daughter, carrying the blood of the initial betrayal. The poison was a bit difficult to obtain, but there are always resources available if you know where to look.”
“The old theater was perfect for Crystal—a true projection booth, with real film that could catch and burn exactly as it did in my grandfather’s day.
And now you, the descendant of Myrtle Carroway, the gossip columnist who delivered the final blow to my grandfather’s career.
Strangled on a church altar, just like in Shadows at Dusk. ”
Sarah’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “Three films. Three deaths. A trilogy of justice that will force the world to remember Weston Black’s name. To recognize the genius that was stolen from cinema history.”
The sound of voices outside grew louder—more insistent now.
“They’re coming for you, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your colleagues at the newspaper reported you missing. The police have made the connection to me by now. But they won’t stop what’s already in motion.”
She leaned down, bringing her face close to Lucy’s. “You’ve been quite the captive audience, Ms. Morgan. So much more attentive than Veronica or Crystal. They had no context for their deaths—just confusion and terror. But you... you understand. You know exactly why this is happening.”
The sounds of voices continued.
“I had hoped for more time with you,” she said, genuine regret coloring her voice as she stretched the garrote wire between her hands. “A longer final act for our little drama. A chance to truly make you understand the depth of what was taken from my family.”
She laid the wire gently across Lucy’s throat, not yet applying pressure, just letting her feel its presence against her skin. Lucy’s pulse visibly raced beneath the thin metal.
“But perhaps this is fitting,” Sarah mused, her head tilting slightly as she studied her captive’s terrified expression. “Art is often at its most powerful when it leaves the audience wanting more.”
Sarah smiled down at Lucy, serene amid the mounting chaos.
“It seems a shame, though,” she said softly, “that I’ll have to end your suffering so soon.”