Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tyler’s gaze finds mine and without a word, signals for me to follow him around the side of the theater.
Together we move unseen along the theater’s exterior. The side is hidden from the street by overgrown hedges and ivy scaling the walls. An old metal staircase wraps around the building like a skeletal spine of oxidized steel.
A weather-beaten service entrance is wedged behind the bottom of the stairs, covered by years of oversight. The metal door is scarred with dents and scratches with faded paint strips flaking away.
Tyler takes point and closes his hand around the handle. He gives it a careful tug.
The latch clicks.
Honestly, I’m not surprised.
The people running this operation are so convinced they are untouchable that security has become an afterthought. In their minds, nobody knows what they are doing inside this theater.
The door swings outward without so much as a creak. Tyler slips through first. I follow close behind, and together we ease the door shut, shutting ourselves inside this fucking horror show.
The corridor is narrow and dimly lit, the weak light of disintegrating fixtures barely pushing back the darkness. Dust drifts through the air, disturbed by our presence. The scent of old wood, aged velvet, and decades of forgotten performances lingers around us.
Each footstep seems unnaturally loud in the silence. Every breath echoes in my ears. The entire theater feels frozen in time with ghosts of forgotten applause and buried sins.
The muffled strains of classical music seep through the walls. Somewhere nearby, men laugh, unknowingly fanning the flames of my rage.
At the end of the hallway, another door is partially open.
Tyler peers through first, then I step beside him and look.
The theater unfolds before us. My breath hitches.
It’s stunning in the cruelest way, a masterpiece built over suffering.
Row upon row of crimson velvet seats stretch toward the stage. There must be hundreds of them, yet every single seat is empty. The vacancy makes the theater feel even more unsettling.
An auditorium this large should be filled with conversation, laughter, and anticipation. Instead, it sits in eerie silence.
Golden balconies curve around the auditorium in sweeping tiers, their ornate railings gleaming beneath the chandelier light.
Intricate scrollwork winds across every surface, the metal shaped into delicate patterns of vines, leaves, and flourishes that speak of a time when craftsmanship mattered more than cost. Private boxes line the balconies at regular intervals, each framed by polished columns and draped with rogue velvet.
From below, the balconies resemble gilded crowns elevated above the theater floor.
Glittering chandeliers dominate the soaring ceiling.
Hundreds of crystal prisms cascade from each fixture in shimmering tiers, capturing the light and breaking it into countless golden reflections.
Dainty strands of crystal drape between curved brass arms, while intricate metalwork winds through the center of each chandelier in exquisite patterns.
Any movement sends tiny flashes of light dancing across the burnished wood, regal balconies, and brass accents throughout the theater.
The kind of chandeliers designed to draw the eye the instant someone enters the room.
The stage stands showcased by a bank of spotlights at the center of it all, pristine and awaiting.
The dark hardwood shines, its surface smooth and immaculate despite the theater’s age.
Lush crimson velvet curtains frame both sides, their heavy folds descend and pool in opulent waves.
Gold trim borders the curtains, reflecting the light and adding to the stage’s grandeur.
The ceiling is lined with professional stage lighting, arranged in lines above the performance space. At the rear of the stage, heavy velvet drapery in deeper shades of red create a dramatic backdrop.
The detail is superb. It pretends to be a place built to celebrate art, which only makes the truth hiding inside it feel that much more grotesque.
Above the stage, steel cables and rigging lines crisscross the darkness, forming a tangled web over the performance space.
From down here, I know exactly what they are.
The strings for the ballerina marionettes.
It’s a monument to human cruelty dressed up in splendor.
Off to one side of the stage stands a glossy wooden podium beneath its own beam of light. The setup is simple, but impossible to miss.
That’s where the auctioneer stands.
From that position, he can see the entire auditorium, the private boxes lining the balconies, all bidders raising their paddles, and is able to command the room while whoever is being auctioned off beside him. The arrangement feels practiced. Refined.
My hand curls around my knife’s handle as I take it all in. The chandeliers, the velvet and the obscene amount of gold. They can dress it up however they want.
At the end of the day, this place is nothing more than a cage wearing a crown.
My gaze travels upward to the balconies, where private boxes overlook the theater floor. Three of them are occupied.
Three men.
Three buyers.
They sit behind the gold railings decorated in rich red velvet, faintly tinted glass and bathed in warm chandelier light, giving them the appearance of luxury suites rather than front-row seats to a fucking nightmare. All of them have an unobstructed view of the stage.
I scrutinize as one buyer lazily swirls amber liquor inside a crystal glass between his fingers, the ice clicking against the sides with each rotation.
Another buyer sprawls comfortably in his chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee as though he’s settling in for an ordinary night of entertainment.
The third bends forward, elbows braced on the railing in front of him, his stare riveted on the empty stage below. Anticipation radiating from him.
None of them have cellphones near them, they could be in their pocket or not allowed.
None of them look nervous or guilty.
They look eager.
The performance hasn’t even started yet, and they are already entranced, preparing for the curtain to ascend that they’ve paid a fortune to see.
They wear the faces of respectable men, but I’ve seen enough of the world to know evil doesn’t always come covered in blood. Sometimes it sits in private balconies counting down for a show to begin.
A darkness black and poisonous unfurls inside of me, staining every thought it touches. My rage crystallizes into a deadly calm that only ever means one thing, blood is about to spill.
I shift my grip on the knife, like an extension of my own body.
“Three,” I whisper.
Tyler follows my line of sight and gives a slight nod.
“Three.”
My focus continues analyzing through the auditorium, searching for anything out of place.
There are no security guards patrolling the aisles, no bodyguards standing watch outside the private boxes, and no employees lingering near the exits.
The buyers sit completely alone, undisturbed and unprotected.
Which means the real threat isn’t out here, it’s backstage.
My eyes lock onto the enormous velvet curtains hanging at the edges of the stage. The reason we are here is waiting behind them.
“The doctor?” I breathe out.
Tyler’s eyes darken, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Back there.”
Near the edge of the stage, his eyes roam to a small gap in the curtains uncovering a peek of the space beyond.
“The businessman too.”
I glare at the opening between the curtains.
I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can sense it.
The women. The victims.
The evil we have already unearthed and the evil we are about to fucking drag screaming into the light.
My chest constricts.
Somewhere past that curtain could be a piece of the puzzle I’ve been chasing for two years. A name. A face. A lead. Anything.
The possibility hits harder than it should.
Air slips from my lungs in a shaky stream.
Alongside me, Tyler slides a hand over his holster and rests it on the grip of his Glock. The suppressor picks up a faint shimmer from the stage lights before vanishing back into the darkness.
Around us, the theater holds a suffocating silence.
The buyers stay secluded, the stage shines beneath the chandeliers, and the curtains stand motionless at its center.
Everything feels poised on the edge of disaster, hanging in the air for the moment the first crack appears, and the truth finally steps into the light.
Then suddenly, the gigantic curtains begin their slow ascent.
My pulse kicks harder.
Showtime.
The moment the curtain reaches the ceiling, a thick hush blankets the theater.
Eight ballerinas stand beneath the spotlights, perfectly spaced across the stage.
The scene looks majestic as if it was pulled straight from a dream. I recognize the production at once, Swan Lake. One of the most beloved ballets ever performed.
The ballerinas are dressed in pristine white pancake tutus that sparkle from the stage lights, layers of delicate tulle splaying around them like feathers.
Tiny crystals are woven throughout the fabric, twinkling every time they move.
Their bodices are fitted and embroidered with intricate silver detailing that curls across the material like frost spreading over glass.
Then I notice something else. My breath stutters.
My hand clamps over my mouth as revulsion surges through me.
The women are bare under their tutus with black ribboned labia corset piercings, finished with a perfect bow, a gift presented to be unwrapped.
My teeth bite into my palms until they throb, but I’m too numb to care.
Once I get my breathing under control, I take in the rest of them, committing their faces to memory.
White satin slippers adorn their feet, their ribbons winding faultlessly around their slender ankles.