Chapter Seven
Rainey
The replacement dress didn't fit quite right.
The maroon silk was a shade darker than my original costume, and the black lace overlay pulled tight across my ribs.
But it would have to do. I adjusted the bustle one more time, watching myself in the dressing room mirror as I pinned another strand of hair into place.
"You ready for this?"
Ransom stood leaning against the doorframe, worry etched in every line of his face.
He crossed the small space, his hands settling on my corseted waist.
"We can still call this off," he said quietly. "Say you're sick. Food poisoning. Nobody would blame you."
"And let them win?" I turned in his arms, my palms flat against his chest. "After everything they've done? No. This ends tonight."
He studied my face for a long moment, then leaned down to kiss me—slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my jawline.
"I'll be right outside that door," he said. "The second something feels wrong—"
"I know." I caught his hand, squeezed it. "Go. Vivian's about to start."
He kissed me once more, quick and fierce, then slipped out of the dressing room. I heard his boots fade down the hallway toward his hiding spot near the prop storage.
Through the thin walls, Vivian's voice carried from the stage, reaching even the back rows with Broadway-honed clarity.
"Good evening, and welcome to this special preview of our Annual Midnight Haunts Festival production!
" Applause rippled through the audience—a decent crowd for a last-minute event.
"I'm Vivian Crawford, director of the Midnight Springs Community Theater, and we're thrilled you could join us tonight. "
I turned back to the mirror, touching up my lipstick with careful fingers. The face looking back at me was Evangeline Vale's—tragic saloon girl, forever mourning her murdered love. But underneath the stage makeup and period costume, I was still Rainey Bell, and I was done being anyone's victim.
"As you may have heard," Vivian continued, "our production has faced some... challenges this week. But in true theater tradition, the show must go on! Tonight, our leading lady, Rainey Bell, will perform one of Evangeline's most powerful monologues for you."
More applause. I stood, smoothing my skirts, checking the tiny mic taped to my collarbone—Sheriff Turley's idea, so they could hear if something went wrong.
"She's backstage right now, preparing to give you all a glimpse into our production.
But first, let me tell you about the fascinating history of 'Murder at Midnight Saloon.
' The playwright, Theodore Grayson, actually based it on true events that occurred right here in Midnight Springs back in 1889. .."
Vivian's voice became background noise as I focused on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The plan was simple—make myself visible, walk through the circuitous hallways alone, wait for someone to make their move.
Just as I was rising from my chair, the lights went out.
Not dimmed. Not faded. Complete, instant blackness.
This wasn't part of the plan.
My pulse spiked. In the distance, I heard Vivian falter mid-sentence, then recover with a nervous laugh. "Well, folks, seems we're having some technical difficulties. Just a moment..."
The dressing room door creaked open.
Slow footsteps entered the room. Deliberate. Careful. Not Ransom's confident stride or Turley's heavy tread. Someone trying not to be heard.
I pressed back against the vanity, my hands gripping the edge.
The darkness was absolute—no emergency lights, no exit signs, nothing.
My breathing seemed too loud in the silence.
The vanity behind me creaked—or was that footsteps?
The darkness pressed against my eyes until I saw phantom colors dancing in the void.
"Where are you, Rainey Bell?" The whisper came from my left, near the costume rack. High-pitched, strained. "Haven't you learned?"
Something crashed—the mannequin in the corner, from the sound of splintering wood. I jerked sideways, nearly knocking over the makeup bottles.
"You should have quit when you had the chance." The voice was moving, circling. "Should have taken the hint. But you're too stubborn, aren't you? Too proud."
My hand found the heavy glass paperweight on the tabletop—a prop from last year's production of Glass Menagerie. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
Something else shattered, closer this time. The chair where Ransom had been sitting moments ago.
"Come out, come out," the voice sing-songed. "Let's finish this. It'll be quick. Just a little accident. Tragic, really. Local actress injured before opening night. Break a leg, right?"
Metal scraped against wood—something being dragged across the floor.
The lights blazed on.
The sudden brightness stabbed at my retinas. I heard gasps from somewhere—the audience?—and Ransom's boots thundering across the floor. When my vision cleared, Darcy Coleman stood three feet away, a hammer raised in her right hand.
"Drop it." Ransom's voice, low and controlled, behind her.
Darcy froze and her face crumpled. The hammer clattered to the floor.
"I—I didn't—she made me—" Tears streamed down her face, smearing her heavy eyeliner into dark rivers.
"Hands where I can see them," Sheriff Turley commanded from the doorway, his service weapon drawn but pointed at the floor. "Now."
Darcy lifted her arms, her whole body shaking. "Brooke promised me everything! She said—she said you didn't deserve the lead. Said you stole it from her."
"Darcy, shut up!" Brooke appeared in the doorway behind Turley, her perfect composure finally cracking. "Don't say another word!"
"She knows people in LA!" Darcy continued, almost hysterical now. "She can get me into film school! She promised—all I had to do was help scare you off—"
"You stupid little—" Brooke pushed past Turley, but Ransom stepped between us, blocking her path.
"That's enough," he said.
"Oh please." A harsh sound that might have been a laugh escaped Brooke. "Like you haven't wanted to play hero this whole time? Big strong cowboy protecting his helpless little—"
"Actually," Darcy interrupted. She fumbled in her jeans pocket, pulling out her phone and scrolling frantically through her videos. "I have something you should hear."
"Darcy, no—"
But Darcy had already hit play. Brooke's voice filled the room, tinny but unmistakable through the phone's speaker:
"—stubborn bitch won't take a hint. Tomorrow night, when she's in her dressing room, go after her. Try to break one of her legs. Make it look like an accident." That horrible laugh. "It'll be our little joke, you know—'Break a leg!'"
The recording continued—Brooke detailing which breaker to flip, where to hide the hammer beforehand, and how to get rid of the evidence once the deed was done.
"You recorded me?" Brooke's face went white, then red. "You little—"
"I record everything," Darcy said miserably. "For my portfolio. You knew that. I didn’t even mean to catch this conversation, but now I’m glad I did.” She looked at me, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, Rainey. I never wanted to hurt you.
I just—I wanted out of this town so badly, and she made it sound so easy—"
"Save it for the statement," Turley said, pulling out two sets of handcuffs. "Darcy Coleman and Brooke Whitfield, you’re both under arrest. I’ll have one of my officers go over your Miranda rights—"
"Wait!" Brooke cried. "You don't understand! I needed this role!"
Vivian appeared behind her, horror dawning on her face. "Brooke?"
"I wasn't getting work in LA!" The words poured out in a frenzied rush. "My agent told me to take waitressing jobs—waitressing! Like I'm some nobody! But I have talent! Real talent! I was on Baywatch!"
Her hands clenched into fists. "And it should have led to more, but the casting directors, they just—they couldn't see what I could bring to their productions. I needed this lead role to show I'm still relevant, still working. My reel is three years old. Three years!"
She turned to Vivian, desperation replacing anger. "Collections agencies are calling me constantly. Process servers showing up at my door, threatening to take everything. I'm about to be evicted from that pathetic duplex. I could lose everything—"
"You already have," Vivian said, her voice carrying the same authority she used to direct. "You've lost your integrity. Your reputation. And any chance of working in theater again, anywhere."
Turley finished with Darcy's cuffs and turned to Brooke.
"This is all your fault!" Brooke lunged toward me, but Ransom caught her easily, holding her until Turley could secure the cuffs. "You couldn't just step aside! You had to have everything—the role, the attention, him—"
"That's enough," Turley said, leading both women toward the door. "We'll finish this at the station."
As they left, I heard Brooke still ranting, her voice echoing down the hallway. "I'm better than this town! Better than all of you! You'll see—"
The door closed, cutting her off.
The dressing room fell silent except for the faint buzz of the overhead lights. I sank onto the bench, my legs suddenly unable to hold me. The paperweight was still clutched in my hand, my knuckles white around it.
"Hey." Ransom knelt in front of me, gently prying the glass weight from my grip. "You're safe now. She didn't get the chance."
"She was really going to do it," I whispered. "Break my leg. End my career here, maybe permanently."
"But she didn't." His fingers intertwined with mine. "You were brave as hell, baby. That took guts."
"I was terrified."
"I know. So was I." He pulled me against him, and I breathed in the familiar scent of him, willing my heart rate to slow down. "When those lights went out—when I heard that crash—"
"But you were there," I said against his chest. "Just like you promised."
Vivian cleared her throat from the doorway. "I hate to interrupt, but we have an audience full of people who came for a show."
I pulled back from Ransom, wiping at my eyes. "The show. Oh God, I can't—my makeup's ruined, and—"
"You can and you will." Her tone was firm but kind.
"Because that's what we do. We take the disasters and the drama and the absolute chaos, and we transform it into art.
Besides," her mouth quirked in a small smile, "they've been sitting out there for twenty minutes listening to me improvise theater history.
They deserve to see Evangeline's monologue. "
I looked at myself in the mirror—smeared makeup, hair coming loose from its pins, hands still trembling slightly. Then I thought about everyone out there. The rest of the cast members. The tourists who'd come early for the festival. The town that needed this production to succeed.
"Give me ten minutes," I said.
"That's my girl." Vivian squeezed my shoulder. "I'll go back out and tell them we had a minor technical difficulty but the show will go on. Because it always does."
She left, and I turned back to the mirror. Ransom stood behind me, meeting my eyes in the reflection.
"Are you sure you’re up for this?" he asked quietly. “I’ll support you either way.”
"Yes, I’m sure." I picked up a makeup wipe, starting to repair the damage. "Brooke's jealousy and Darcy’s recklessness won’t be the end of this story."
He kissed the top of my head. "Then I'll be in the wings, watching."
"My own personal ghost cowboy."
"Always."
Ten minutes later, I stood in the wings as Vivian addressed the crowd again. My hands were steady now, my makeup repaired, my hair pinned back in place.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Without further ado, I present Rainey Bell performing Evangeline Vale's lament from 'Murder at Midnight Saloon.'"
I walked onto the stage to generous applause. The lights were warm on my face, the audience a blur of shadows beyond the footlights. I found my mark, center stage, and let Evangeline's grief settle over me like a familiar cloak.
"They tell me you're gone," I began, my voice carrying to the back of the theater. "That I should stop looking for your face in every shadow, stop listening for your boots on the stairs. They say the dead don't come back, that ghosts are just memories we can't let go."
I moved through the monologue, letting the words pour out—all of Evangeline's longing, her refusal to accept loss, her anguished hope that love could transcend death. But underneath, it was my story too. The years of wondering, of waiting, of refusing to fully let go even when logic said I should.
"But I know you're out there," I continued, tears I didn't have to fake rolling down my cheeks. "Somewhere between this world and the next, trying to find your way back to me. And I'll be here, my love. Waiting. Always waiting. Because some loves are too strong for even death to break."
The monologue ended with Evangeline reaching toward an empty spotlight—where Silas's ghost would appear in the full production. I held the pose, arm extended, fingers grasping at nothing.
The silence stretched for a heartbeat. Two.
Then the theater erupted in applause. A standing ovation, people wiping at their eyes, genuine appreciation for art born from real pain and real triumph.
I took my bow, scanning the crowd. There in the wings stood Ransom, that proud smile lighting up his face. In the third row, Gran and Josiah stood side-by-side, clapping like children determined to show they believed in fairies.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vivian joined me on stage, taking my hand. "The show will indeed go on. Opening night is tomorrow, October 29th, and I hope you'll all join us for 'Murder at Midnight Saloon.'"
More applause. More bows. And as I stood there on the stage where I'd been threatened, where I'd refused to be driven away, I felt something shift inside me. The fear that had been coiling tighter for days finally loosened its grip.
Brooke was gone. Darcy was gone. The cloud that had hung over us for days had finally lifted.
Tomorrow, opening night would go on as planned. And Ransom would be there, haunting me in all the best ways.
The sabotage was finished.
But for us? We were just getting started.