Chapter 1
THEN
LAUREL
The last member of the corps exited stage right and darted past as I waited for my cue.
This is it.
I looked down at my pointe shoes and rolled my ankles, testing the new ribbons for the third time. I’d be taking the biggest steps of my professional career in these, and I’d be damned if they slipped or came undone.
At twenty-six years old, I was finally a principal dancer in the Chicago Ballet Company.
The theater was almost full. It hardly ever sold out anymore, but all the decent seats were gone.
On stage, Martin and Albina were in the final choreography of their pas de deux, a lovely piece where Albina’s lines were breathtaking.
I would have watched to the end, but it was taking every fiber of my being to keep my nerves at bay.
The music finished, and the pair of dancers exited to thunderous applause. Both winded, they passed by and flashed brilliant smiles. I was in their elite club now.
I floated across the floor to my mark and set.
The theater quieted as I waited for the orchestra to start the next movement. The moment the flutist breathed life into her instrument, a calm spread through me.
“Beast,” the director had called me in the final rehearsal. I’d worked so hard to get to this moment, and as the music swelled, my adrenaline surged. Tonight, I’d be a force who commanded the audience’s attention.
Blood rushed in my ears, but the work felt effortless as I nailed every turn and soared with each leap.
It wasn’t just powerful. It was magical.
And, God, how I wished this moment could last forever. There was an electric charge in the air—one which let me know I had the audience with me. As if they were on the edges of their seats, breathless.
Finishing my final jeté, I jerked when a loud crack rang out.
The sound was disorienting, but I pushed on with my choreography, refusing to let it derail me. What was going on, and where had it come from? The boxes to the right?
A horrified scream made the orchestra peter out, and I stumbled out of my pirouette, forced to identify the sound. My blood turned to slush, awareness seizing me.
Was that a gunshot?
I turned into a statue on center-stage while the theater became a sea of chaos. People scrambled for the doors, climbing over each other while others ducked between the rows of seats.
Run, a voice in my head screamed.
I needed to get out of the lights, somewhere where there was cover. I launched forward to the edge of the stage, and when I dropped down into the darkness of the orchestra pit, my landing sent a music stand flying.
A violinist hiding there cowered, clutching his instrument to his chest.
As I crouched beside him, the sound of panicked patrons flooded the cavernous theater. Should I stay where I was? Risk fleeing for the exits like most had done?
Where was the shooter?
It was impossible to catch my breath. My stomach twisted with anxiety. Any moment, I expected to hear another gunshot—
But it didn’t happen.
I forced air into my lungs and glanced around, looking for danger. I found nothing but scared faces.
The hysterical focus in my ears widened until I noticed another unfamiliar sound. It was rasping. Someone was struggling to breathe, and my focus zeroed in on him.
Oh, my God.
Lying face up in the front aisle was an older man, ash-white and with a hand clutched to his neck, blood and life spilling out through his fingers.
Something took hold of me, and an unseen force drove me from my hiding spot. It told me to ignore the danger and that I had to hurry. My pointe shoes were silent as I stayed low and moved swiftly around upended chairs and instruments.
I was more exposed once I reached the main floor and got lower.
I crawled toward the man, the edges of my tutu snagging on the carpet, but I ignored that and kept a sharp watch around me.
Even in the low light, it was clear his shirt and collar were soaked a deep crimson.
I didn’t understand what compelled me to do it. Maybe it was instinct.
I drew a deep breath and clamped my hands over his to try to dam the bleeding. His eyes went wide with pain, but he made no protest.
Blood soaked into my tights as I knelt beside him. There was nothing else I could do as his breathing became more labored and pain filled, longer pauses between each breath. My heart beat so fast, it ached in my chest.
“No,” I whispered.
His eyes turned glassy and his gasps slowed to a halt. I kept my hands in place even when his went limp beneath mine.
There was no sound in the theater now. Everyone had run away or hidden themselves so well I felt desperately, utterly alone. There was nothing more I could do, and I slumped back, drawing away my bloody hands.
I felt no emotions as I peered down at the dead man. Either I had too many and couldn’t sort through them, or I’d gone numb with shock. But then an eerie sensation prickled across my skin, like a warning.
It pulled my gaze up.
A shadowy figure stood in one of the boxes, just at the exit, a large case clutched in one hand and something else pointed toward me. A white flash of light made me flinch, but as soon as I focused on him, he vanished through the doorway.
I hadn’t seen his face, but it was clear he’d seen mine.
And he’d taken my picture.
The police and FBI kept everyone there for hours. I gave my account to at least three different agents and was photographed before being allowed to clean or change out of my costume. The pointe shoes I’d hoped to frame from tonight’s performance were an awful, bloodstained mess.
There had only been one victim, and I was sure I had never seen him before. I was handed a card of a counselor if I wanted to talk to someone, and an agent’s in case I remembered anything else.
They asked if there was someone to call, perhaps family, to notify I was all right. The officer meant well, but it only made me feel worse. Both my parents had died, and the last form of communication I’d had with my sister had been a wedding invitation, sent years ago.
I texted my best friend, but it was two a.m. on the East coast, so I wasn’t surprised there’d been no response.
Finally dismissed, I went to my shared dressing room and discovered Albina waiting for me.
“My God!” She pulled me into a hug but kept her torso away from my ruined costume. Without prompting, the Russian woman helped me out of it.
“You are all right?” She looked me over like she’d make that assessment herself, regardless of my answer. “Martin and I, we did not hear. Only the screaming, panic after.”
I gave her a slight nod. “Yes, I’m all right.”
She pressed her lips together, preparing for more bad news. “Guillermo says we might cancel the show.”
In between my many interviews, I’d thought about this possibility, but then pushed the thought away and focused on the bigger picture. I’d witnessed a murder. It was selfish to worry about my career tonight.
“Where you go? Home?” She checked the clock. “Don’t take the El. I’ll ask Anton to give you a ride.”
“No, that’s okay. I splurged on a room at the Opulent. I thought I was going to be too tired after the opening night party.”
Hanging on a rack beside my mirror was the garment bag that held my premiere party dress, the most expensive thing I’d ever bought. A celebration of my accomplishment. Sadness descended on me. Would I ever be able to wear it?
She gave me an empathetic look as I pulled down the bag and folded it delicately over an arm.
“I text you tomorrow.” She sounded like a worried mother. “You get a drink and some sleep.”
I gave her arm a squeeze. “Will do.”
Coming out the stage exit meant I could avoid the media I’d been told was camped out front.
I kept my head down, fought the cold wind, and hustled across the street to the Opulent.
It was no surprise the after party had been canceled.
There was a tinge of relief because I wasn’t good at small talk, and the director had made it clear as a principal now I’d be required to mingle with the donors.
It was late, so I snatched up the keycard as soon as I was checked in and made my way to the elevators. The doors peeled back when I stabbed the button—and thank God for that. I stepped inside, put in my floor, and waited impatiently for the ride to start.
I was beyond ready for this night to be over.
“Miss?” A deep voice came from around the corner. “Can you hold the elevator?”
A man came into view, flashing a polite smile as he hurried toward me. He was dressed as if he’d just come from an important business meeting, even though it was the dead of night. Tall, with sandy hair and piercing blue eyes, his presence filled the elevator like he owned the place.
“Thanks,” he lobbed and turned to face the doors as they slid shut.
The elevator lurched upward. In the quiet, I fought a wave of exhaustion that made me want to close my eyes. He hadn’t put in his floor, though, so I pointed to the panel. “What number?”
“Twelve, like you.” He had a hint of a southern accent. “You in the wedding tomorrow?”
My face contorted, confused.
He gestured to the bag in my arms. “The welcome sign by the front desk said something about a wedding.”
My gaze dropped to my white garment bag. “No, it’s my dress for the CBC premiere party. I mean, was.”
“CBC?”
“Chicago Ballet Company.”
His expression went wide. “That one?”
Of course he knew. There was no way to get to the hotel and not see all the police and media.
I nodded.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Did you see what happened?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I chose to watch the floors tick by, not wanting to see the dying man’s face again in my head.
“Oh, man. Sorry. That’s . . .” He searched for the right words but came up empty.
The elevator dinged, we came to a stop, and the doors peeled open. I delivered a polite smile before stepping off.