CHAPTER SEVEN
Jenna paused at the back of the auditorium and Jake came to a stop beside her. On stage, seven people stood in various postures of discomfort while an eighth—a woman with long dark hair—had sunk to her knees, her shoulders heaving with each sob.
“We should stay back,” Jake whispered, his voice barely audible.
Jenna moved deeper into the darkness at the rear of the auditorium. From this vantage point, they could observe without immediately announcing their presence. The theater seats—empty and silent—stretched before them in neat rows, their burgundy upholstery faded from years of use.
A man seated in the front row was watching the scene on stage intently. Gregory Ashton, Jenna presumed, the theater's managing director. A woman with a rigidly upright posture was seated beside him.
“Tell her again,” Gregory called out to a young man on the stage who was leaning over the crying woman. “Tell her exactly what you think of her.”
The young man hesitated, shifting from one foot to another. “I... I think we've gone far enough with this exercise.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Gregory's voice cut through the auditorium. “You're here to learn how to access raw emotion, not to hide from it. Again. Tell her what you really think.”
The young man's face tightened, but he turned to the woman on her knees. “You're pathetic,” he said, his voice flat. “You're talentless. Everyone just tolerates you because they pity you.”
The woman's crying intensified, again becoming the keening wail that Jenna had heard from the lobby.
Exercise? she wondered. This seemed less like an acting exercise and more like emotional torture, with the thin line between performance and real pain completely erased.
The other students had formed a loose semicircle, their expressions ranging from fascination to horror.
One girl had wrapped her arms around herself as if for protection.
Another was staring at the floor, unable to watch.
A third kept glancing at Gregory, seemingly seeking some sign that this exercise should end.
“Now tell her about her marriage,” Gregory directed, leaning further forward. “Tell her why her husband left her.”
Something in the air shifted—a collective intake of breath from the group on stage. The tension ratcheted up another notch.
“I can't,” the young man said, his voice breaking. “This isn't right.”
“You can and you will,” Gregory insisted. “Acting is truth. If you can't speak truth, you have no place on my stage.”
The young man tried again. “He left because—”
“Stop it!” Another male student stepped forward, breaking the semicircle. Tall and lanky, with dark hair that fell across his forehead, he moved to stand between the young man and the crying woman. “This has gone too far, Mr. Ashton. This isn't an acting exercise anymore; it's cruelty.”
The auditorium fell silent except for the woman's quieter sobs. Gregory Ashton straightened slowly in his seat, his posture transforming from eager observer to coiled predator.
“Excuse me?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
The student who had intervened didn't back down. “The purpose of improvisation is to explore character and emotion, not to exploit personal trauma. This crossed a line.”
Gregory rose to his feet, his movements deliberate. “And you're an expert on theatrical training now, Ted? You think after three classes with me, you understand what it takes to be a real actor?”
“I understand basic human decency,” Ted replied, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck.
Gregory ascended the steps to the stage. The woman beside him half rose as if to follow, then sank back down in the seat.
“Let me explain something to you,” Gregory said, walking a slow circle around Ted.
“Real acting isn't comfortable. It isn't safe.
It's tearing yourself open and letting an audience peer inside. What you just interrupted was a breakthrough—two actors accessing the kind of emotional truth that most people spend their entire careers running from.”
“It wasn't a breakthrough,” Ted countered, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “It was an ambush. Ellen didn't know her divorce was going to be used as material.”
The crying woman—Ellen—had stopped sobbing, though tears still streaked her face. She remained on her knees, seemingly unable to rise.
Gregory's laugh was short and sharp. “And you think actors in the real world get warnings? That directors coddle them and protect their feelings? This is exactly why this theater produces nothing but second-rate performances of tired commercial plays. Nobody here is willing to take risks.”
He turned to Ellen. “And you—if you can't bring your personal history to bear on your craft, you have no future as an actor. None.”
Jenna felt Jake tense beside her, his natural protectiveness flaring at the director's callousness. She placed a restraining hand on his arm. They were here as observers for now.
Gregory turned back to Ted. “I don't waste my time on students who think they know better than I do. Pack your things and get out. You're done in this class.”
Ted stood his ground for a moment longer, gaze locked with Gregory's. Then he turned to Ellen and helped her to her feet with gentle hands. “You okay?” he asked softly.
She wiped at her face with trembling fingers. Then Ted grabbed his backpack from the side of the stage and walked down the steps. Gregory watched him go, a satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Ted strode up the center aisle of the auditorium, his footsteps quick and angry on the carpeted floor. As he passed Jenna and Jake, his eyes registered their presence for the first time. A brief nod of acknowledgment, and then he was gone, the auditorium door closing behind him with a soft thud.
Gregory turned to face the remaining students. “Would anyone else like to share their thoughts on the pedagogical merits of my teaching methods?” His tone made it clear this wasn't a genuine invitation.
The students shifted uncomfortably. Jenna could read their body language as clearly as if they'd spoken aloud—disagreement, discomfort, even fear—but not one of them spoke up.
The woman who had been crying, Ellen, had gotten to her feet and moved to stand slightly apart from the group, arms crossed protectively over her chest.
The silence stretched, becoming its own form of tension. Gregory's assistant glanced at her watch, then got to her feet and looked up at Gregory, her expression a silent plea.
Finally, Gregory consulted his own watch. “Well, it seems our time is up anyway. Remember what you witnessed today. That kind of raw emotion is what separates mediocrity from greatness. Next week, I expect everyone to come prepared to delve deeper than you ever have before.”
The students began gathering their belongings, relief evident in the loosening of shoulders and quicker movements.
Conversations remained hushed, as if speaking too loudly might draw Gregory's attention back to them.
Ellen was the first to leave the stage, her departure hasty and head bowed.
The others followed, some casting concerned glances her way, others simply eager to escape the charged atmosphere.
They filed out past Jenna and Jake, some glancing their way curiously, others with their heads down. Then only Gregory and his assistant remained. The woman rose from her seat, holding a leather-bound notebook to her chest like a shield.
“Shall I check on Ellen?” she asked, her voice soft but carrying in the theater's acoustics.
“Leave her be, Bridget,” Gregory replied dismissively. “She needs to learn to handle criticism if she's going to survive in the theater.”
The woman—Bridget—pressed her lips together, her compliance reluctant.
Jenna and Jake exchanged a glance. Now was the time to make their presence known. They moved forward, stepping out of the shadows and into the dimly lit aisle.
Gregory spotted them immediately. “The theater is closed to the public during class sessions,” he called out, irritation evident in his clipped words.
Jenna continued her approach, badge visible at her hip. “Gregory Ashton?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
“Yes,” he replied, eyes narrowing as he registered her badge and Jake's uniform. “And you are?”
“Sheriff Jenna Graves,” she said, stopping at the foot of the stage. “This is Deputy Hawkins. We need to speak with you.”
Gregory descended the steps from the stage with casual arrogance, “I don't appreciate people observing my classes uninvited. My students are exploring private emotions. It's not a spectacle.”
Jenna noted how he emphasized the word “my”—my classes, my students—the language of possession rather than mentorship.
“That's not why we're here,” she said. “We'd like to ask you about Claudia Kingsley.”
Something flickered across Gregory's face—too quick to name. His assistant, Bridget, stilled completely.
“Claudia,” Gregory repeated dismissively. “Another student who couldn't handle the demands of serious acting. What about her?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Jenna asked, keeping her question deliberately vague, watching for his reaction.
Gregory sighed dramatically. “I’ve got nothing to say about her,” he said. “She’s through with me, and I’m through with her. Some people simply don't have the fortitude for real artistic work.”
“And you haven't seen her during the last few days?” Jake asked.
“No, I haven't,” Gregory said. “Look, what is this about? I have a design meeting in twenty minutes, and I need to prepare.
Jenna studied him—the careful arrangement of disdain on his features, the deliberate casualness of his posture. She decided on directness.
“Claudia Kingsley was murdered yesterday.”
Bridget gasped, her notebook slipping from her grasp and hitting the floor with a soft thud. Gregory, however, maintained his composure, his expression shifting only slightly—a tightening around the eyes, a faint clenching of the jaw.
“I see,” he said after a moment. “And naturally, as her former teacher, I'm a suspect. Is that it?”
“We're speaking with everyone who knew her,” Jenna replied evenly.
Gregory's laugh was brittle. “Well, I barely knew her.
She was a mediocre student with delusions of talent who couldn't handle constructive criticism.
That's the extent of our relationship.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And now, I assume, you're here to interrogate me about my whereabouts yesterday, my relationship with the deceased, and other details that might incriminate me.”
“We just have a few questions—” Jake began.
“No.” Gregory cut him off. “I've watched enough crime shows to know how this works.
I'm not saying another word without my lawyer present.
Not because I have anything to hide, but because I'm not naive enough to think the local sheriff's department wouldn't love to pin this on the outsider from New York.”
“Mr. Ashton—” Jenna started, but Gregory turned away.
“I'm leaving now. If you want to talk further, contact my attorney.” He glanced at his watch again.
“Besides, I have that design meeting. We're doing 'Little Mary Sunshine,' did I mention?
A saccharine operetta for the unsophisticated palates of Trentville.
It's a far cry from the Beckett and Albee I staged in New York, but one adapts or dies in this business.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode toward a door at the side of the auditorium. “Bridget, bring the production sketches to my office in five minutes,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Bridget knelt to retrieve her fallen notebook, her movements jerky with tension. Jenna exchanged a look with Jake.
“His reaction was—interesting,” Jenna said, as she turned back toward the main auditorium doors.
“It sure was.”
A voice called out.
“Sheriff Graves? Deputy Hawkins?”
They turned to see Bridget Henderson hurrying down the aisle after them. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door where Gregory had exited, as if worried he might reappear at any moment.
“I'm sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice low and anxious. “I don't think I should be telling you this, but … I think there’s something you really do need to know.”