Chapter Six
Rhodes
Iwoke Tuesday morning to Presley's phone buzzing on the nightstand. She was still asleep, face buried against my shoulder, one hand curled on my chest. The buzzing stopped. Started again ten seconds later.
I reached over her carefully, grabbed it. Two emails from parents—Christine Chambers and Rebecca Morrison. Both sent around midnight.
My stomach dropped before I even opened them.
Dear Presley, I'm so sorry, but after yesterday's social media incident, I can't in good conscience bring Crystal to Austin this weekend. Her safety has to come first. I hope you understand...
The second message said basically the same thing. Mary-Kate wouldn't be competing either.
Two families withdrawing. Four days before the competition.
Presley stirred. Her eyes opened, found mine. "What's wrong?"
I handed her the phone without answering.
She sat up, reading. I watched the words sink in—color draining from her face, her throat working like she was trying to swallow something sharp.
"Mary-Kate's been practicing that dance routine for three months." Her voice came out thin. "And Crystal was so excited about her vocal piece."
"They're scared," I said. "Can't blame them for that."
"No, I don’t blame them." She set the phone down, pressed her palms against her eyes. "But the other families—Harper, Addison, all of them—they're counting on me to get them to that stage safely. What if I can't?"
"You can." I drew her hands away from her face, made her look at me. "We've got Austin PD coordinating security. Plainclothes officers will be everywhere Saturday. Backstage access locked down. Anyone who doesn't belong gets flagged immediately."
"You really think that's enough?"
"I think we do everything possible to make it enough. Then we trust the plan."
She leaned into me. I wrapped my arms around her, felt her heartbeat against my ribs.
"My girls and their parent sare counting on me," she said finally. "We proceed."
No hesitation. Just that steel core I'd seen from the beginning.
By eight o'clock, I was on the phone with Austin PD.
Detective Marshall had worked protection details for visiting politicians, knew how to lock down a venue.
We spent forty minutes walking through the Austin Convention Center layout—entry points, backstage corridors, dressing room access, emergency exits.
"We'll have four plainclothes officers positioned throughout the venue," Marshall said. "Two more outside monitoring vehicles and perimeter. Anyone acts suspicious, we'll know."
"Backstage access?"
"Essential personnel only. Photo ID required, checked against our approved list. No exceptions."
"Good." I pulled up the photos Mae had sent—Landon Barrett, Blythe Tanner, Tiffany Hammond. "I'm sending you images of three persons of interest. If any of them show up—"
"We'll have eyes on them immediately."
After I hung up, I found Presley at her kitchen table with her laptop open. Competition registration forms. Two names now marked as withdrawn.
"Security's set," I told her. "Austin PD knows what they're doing."
She nodded but didn't look up.
TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Presley worked with Harper on interview prep.
The twelve-year-old's confidence had grown over the past weeks—shoulders back, eye contact steady, answers flowing naturally.
I stayed near the windows, scanning Main Street through Crown & Grace's glass front, tracking every passerby.
Wednesday brought Brynlee for vocal coaching.
Her voice filled the studio, rich and controlled, hitting notes that would've made half the competition cry.
Presley beamed with pride. Between sessions, we grabbed sandwiches from the bakery, ate in the break room while Presley talked through last-minute logistics.
Thursday morning, Gabriela practiced her walk—tiny eight-year-old in her practice dress, taking the runway with the poise of someone twice her age. Her mother Maria thanked us three times before they left.
The days blurred together. Each session another chance for threat assessment.
Each parent drop-off another opportunity to scan for vehicles that didn't belong, faces that watched too long.
My shoulders stayed tight, jaw clenched.
Four days until Austin. Four days to prepare for every possible scenario.
Thursday afternoon brought Addison's final roping lesson.
The kid was ready—planted her stance in the dusty arena like she'd been born doing it, built her loop overhead with smooth confidence, released three perfect throws in a row.
When she nailed the thirty-foot mannequin on her first try, Presley actually teared up.
"You're going to be amazing Saturday," Presley told her, gathering the girl into a hug.
Addison beamed. "I couldn't have done this without you. Either of you."
FRIDAY MORNING, WE packed for Austin. One bag each, essentials only. The drive took forty-five minutes. Neither of us spoke much—too focused on what was coming.
We checked into the hotel by two. One room, king bed. The woman at the front desk smiled at us like we were just another couple in town for the weekend. Had no idea what we were walking into.
Detective Marshall met us at three in the convention center's security office. Good handshake, direct eye contact, the bearing of someone who'd served. Probably military before police work.
"Walk me through your threat assessment," he said.
I showed him everything—the note, the brick through Presley's window, the social media hack. Gave him updated photos of all three suspects, explained Landon's possessive ex-boyfriend pattern, Blythe's financial desperation, Tiffany's grudge.
"Any of them show up tomorrow, we'll know.
" Marshall pulled up the venue layout on his computer screen.
"Your girl stays in open, well-lit areas.
Backstage main staging room, not isolated corridors.
We'll have officers positioned here, here, and here.
" He pointed to access points. "She needs to move somewhere, you call it in first."
"Understood."
We spent another hour reviewing emergency protocols, communication channels, evacuation routes. By the time we finished, the sun was angling lower through the office windows.
We grabbed dinner near the hotel, neither of us with much appetite.
Friday evening at seven, we met Addison's family at the convention center.
Her father drove the truck, her two older brothers riding in the cab—all three men built like the ranchers they were, broad-shouldered and weathered.
They pulled a trailer carrying the three decorative steer head mannequins Addison would use for her performance.
We watched them get stored in a locked area backstage, every piece of her routine secured and accounted for.
By the time we drove back to the hotel, my shoulders ached from tension I couldn't release.
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Presley sat on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.
"Talk to me," I said.
"I keep thinking about those two families who pulled out. What if bringing everyone else to Austin puts them in more danger? What if I'm making the wrong call?"
I crouched in front of her, hands on her knees. "You've done everything right. Security's solid, police are ready, Mae's tracking every angle. Unfortunately whoever hacked your accounts either knew enough to hide their IP—or paid someone to make the threat. But she’ll get it eventually."
"Why do I feel like the clock is ticking down for something terrible to happen?"
Because she was smart. Because threats didn't announce themselves. Because tomorrow, we'd be in a crowd of hundreds with one person out there who wanted to hurt her.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," I said, "I’ve got you."
She nodded. Didn't look convinced.
We ordered room service. Ate without tasting anything. By nine, we were both exhausted but too wired to sleep.
I drew her close on the bed, held her while her pulse gradually slowed. But I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, running scenarios until the numbers on the clock blurred together.
SATURDAY MORNING CAME before I was ready.
The Austin Convention Center was already chaotic by eight—hundreds of families streaming through entrances, four age divisions competing simultaneously, staff and volunteers directing traffic through corridors.
The main hall echoed with announcements over the PA system, little girls in sequined dresses darting past, mothers chasing after them with makeup bags and hairspray.
The smell of hairspray and perfume hung thick in the air, mixing with the burnt-coffee scent from the concession stands.
The constant buzz of excited chatter echoed off the high ceilings.
Teen Star Texas had forty-seven contestants. I counted exits, memorized faces, tracked movement patterns through the shifting crowd.
Interview portion ran from eight until noon.
Multiple rooms, girls rotating through in small groups.
I stayed mobile, checking sight lines, scanning faces in the audience seating.
Parents filled every available chair, phones out recording their daughters, programs rustling as they checked schedules.
That's when I spotted him.
Baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses indoors, hanging back from the main crowd but focused on something. Someone. Average height, dark jacket, hands in pockets. Something about the way he moved—too careful, too aware of his positioning. Staying at the edges while his gaze tracked across the room.
I alerted Marshall and the plainclothes officers. We monitored him through the morning—one of us always keeping visual while he drifted between vantage points. He never approached. Never did anything actionable. Just observed from a distance, shifting position whenever someone got too close.
During lunch break, he disappeared.