Chapter Six #2
I searched the venue, checked exterior exits, circled the parking lot. Thirty minutes of looking and he was gone. Vanished into the crowd or out to his vehicle—no way to know which.
"Could've just been a paranoid parent," Marshall said when I reported in.
"Maybe." But my instincts said otherwise. The way he'd moved was wrong—too deliberate, too focused.
Talent preliminaries started at one. Main stage, contestants performing one after another under bright stage lights while upbeat music pumped through the sound system.
I positioned myself with clear sight lines to backstage and audience both.
Presley stayed with Addison in the main staging area—well-lit, crew and parents everywhere, two plainclothes officers within twenty feet.
Vanessa Clarke sat three rows back in the auditorium, arms crossed, posture rigid. Addison's father sat beside her, arms crossed, and her brothers flanked them—the whole family there to watch.
At two-fifteen, Addison walked on stage.
Three decorative steer head mannequins positioned at ten, twenty, and thirty feet. Upbeat Western instrumental started. The kid moved with confidence—planted her stance, built her loop overhead, released.
Clean catch on the first mannequin. The audience laughed and applauded.
She moved to twenty feet. Another perfect throw. Appreciation rippled through the crowd.
Then thirty feet. She took her time, let the tension build, twirling the rope overhead while everyone held their breath. The lights caught the rope's arc, spinning silver against the dark backstage curtain.
Released.
The loop sailed through the air, settled perfectly over the third mannequin's horns.
The auditorium erupted. Standing ovation, applause thundering off the walls. Addison's face lit up—genuine, unguarded joy.
I spotted the suspicious figure leaving during the applause. Tracked him to the exit, followed far enough to watch him disappear into the parking lot. Scanned license plates, vehicle makes, found nothing that matched our suspect profiles.
Waited for him to come back.
He didn't.
THREE-THIRTY. THIRTY minutes before evening gown preliminaries.
I was backstage with Presley in the main staging area—open space, good lighting, parents and crew moving through, both plainclothes officers positioned at key access points.
The air smelled like hairspray and the floral perfume every mother seemed to be wearing.
Garment bags hung on every available rack, girls in various states of dress rehearsing their walks, mothers fussing with hair and makeup.
Safe as I could make it.
Venue security approached quickly. Young guy, out of breath, radio crackling on his hip. "Sir, we've got a possible match on your suspect. Loading dock area. Matches description—height, build, clothing. Need confirmation."
My pulse kicked. "Where exactly?"
"Northwest corner, near the service entrance."
I turned to Presley. "Stay here. Open area, plenty of people around, officers right there." I pointed to the two plainclothes cops twenty feet away, both with clear sight lines to where she stood. "Don't move unless one of them is with you. I'll be right back."
She nodded, already pulling out her phone to check on Addison.
I followed security through backstage corridors toward the loading dock. The route took us away from the main staging area, through narrower halls where the crowd thinned. The man they'd spotted was standing near a stack of equipment cases, back to us. Right height, right build, dark jacket.
I moved closer, hand near my weapon.
He turned.
Wrong face. Completely different person—older, gray at the temples, venue staff ID clipped to his belt.
My phone buzzed. Text from Addison: Zipper emergency! Need Miss Presley!
Then Presley screamed.
The sound punched through me like a blade. I was already running, weapon drawn, security behind me trying to keep up. Back through corridors, around corners, my boots hammering against linoleum.
The backstage hallway outside the dressing rooms. Landon had her pinned to the wall, knife pressed to her throat. Fake vendor credentials clipped to his shirt—stolen or forged, had gotten him past front security into restricted areas.
"If you won't be mine, you won't be anyone's."
I didn't think. Training took over.
Tackled him low. My shoulder drove into his midsection, momentum carrying us both down hard. His head cracked against the floor. The knife skittered away across the linoleum, metal scraping.
He scrambled for it—desperate, clawing across the floor. I grabbed his ankle, yanked him back. He kicked free with his other leg, the heel of his boot catching my jaw. My head snapped sideways but I didn't let go.
He lunged for the knife. Got it.
Came up slashing.
I blocked with my forearm. Felt the blade catch skin, hot and sharp. Blood welled through my sleeve but the cut was shallow—barely more than a scratch. Adrenaline numbed most of the sting.
Landon swung again, wild and frantic. I sidestepped. He threw a punch that connected solidly with my ribs. The impact drove the air from my lungs. Pain bloomed across my side but I stayed on my feet, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, twisted hard. Bones ground together. He screamed, dropped the knife.
Scrambled for it again.
Then rope flew through the air.
Presley had grabbed it from the prop storage area—Addison's equipment waiting for family pickup after finals. The loop tangled around Landon's legs. He stumbled, arms windmilling, balance gone.
I didn't waste the opening.
Tackled him again. Flipped him face-down. Wrenched his arm up behind his back until he cried out. Planted my knee in his spine, bearing down with my full weight. He thrashed, screaming threats about how Presley belonged to him, how I'd stolen what was his, how he'd finish this.
"Don't move," I said in his ear, voice flat and cold. "Or I'll make sure you never move again."
Security and plainclothes officers swarmed in. Cuffs went on—the metallic click loud in the sudden quiet. Two officers hauled Landon to his feet and dragged him away, still spitting curses and threats as they forced him down the corridor toward the exit.
EMT APPEARED WITHIN seconds, kit already open. She worked on my arm—cleaning the wound with something that burned, applying pressure with gauze, wrapping it tight with practiced efficiency.
"Shallow laceration," she said, taping the bandage. "Might want to get it checked later, but you don't need stitches. Keep it clean, change the dressing tomorrow."
"Fine." I barely registered her words. My focus was on Presley—still pressed to the wall, hands shaking, eyes too wide.
The EMT moved to check her. "Any injuries? Did he cut you?"
"No." Presley's voice came out thin. "I'm not hurt."
"Shock," the EMT said, wrapping a blanket around Presley's shoulders. "Perfectly normal response. Just breathe. You're safe now."
Marshall appeared with his notebook, radio chatter crackling in the background. Other officers were cordoning off the area with crime scene tape, photographing the hallway, collecting evidence. The knife went into a clear evidence bag.
"I need preliminary statements from both of you," Marshall said, pen poised. "We'll do formal interviews tomorrow, but give me the basics now."
I walked him through it—the false alarm that drew me away, the text from Addison, Presley's scream, finding Landon with the knife at her throat. The fight. Presley using Addison's rope to tangle his legs.
Marshall turned to Presley. "You stepped out of the main staging area?"
"Just for a second." Her voice was steadier now. "Addison texted about a zipper emergency. Her dressing room was right there—fifteen feet away. I thought—" She stopped. "I thought it was safe."
"You couldn't have known," Marshall said, making notes. "He used stolen vendor credentials to access restricted areas. Got past front security with forged ID. This was planned, deliberate. Not your fault."
He finished documenting the basics, then looked at me. "Barrett's being processed downtown. We've got him on assault with a deadly weapon, stalking, criminal harassment, attempted kidnapping. He's not getting out."
"Good."
Marshall pocketed his notebook. "You two should get out of here. We'll handle the scene. I'll call tomorrow to set up formal statements."
I nodded, already heading toward Presley.
She stood slowly, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders despite the warm backstage air. Her gaze found mine—and everything else fell away. The officers processing the scene, the crime scene tape, Marshall's radio crackling with updates. None of it mattered.
"What about Addison?" Her voice cracked. "The competition—evening gown starts soon, and she doesn't know what happened, and I should be there for her—"
"Marshall," I said without looking away from Presley. "Can you have someone inform Addison Clarke that Presley's safe but needs to step away for a bit? Let her mother know too."
"Already being handled," Marshall said. "Go. Take care of each other."
I crossed to Presley, brought her into my arms. She buried herself in my chest, her whole body shaking now that the immediate danger had passed.
"He could've—" she whispered into my shirt. "If you'd been thirty seconds later—"
"But I wasn't." I held her tighter, careful of my bandaged arm and bruised ribs. "I got there. You're safe."
She pulled back just enough to look at my arm, the white gauze already showing a small bloom of red where blood had seeped through. "You're hurt."
"Shallow cut. Nothing serious." I touched her face, made her meet my eyes. "You saved yourself. That rope throw—you bought me the opening I needed."
"I was so scared." Tears tracked down her cheeks. "When he grabbed me, when I felt that knife—"
"I know." I pressed my forehead to hers. "But it's over. He's in custody. He can't hurt you anymore."
She nodded, but I could feel the tremors still running through her.
"Come on." I kept my arm around her as we headed for the exit. "Let's get you out of here."
The walk to the parking lot felt endless. Every step, I scanned for additional threats—old habits from deployments, from years of watching for danger in every shadow. But the lot was secure, officers stationed at key points, vehicles coming and going under watchful eyes.
I got Presley into my truck, climbed in beside her. Neither of us spoke during the short drive back to the hotel. What was there to say? We'd almost lost everything in that backstage corridor. Words felt inadequate.
Back in our room, I sat her on the edge of the bed. "You okay?"
"I don't know." She looked up at me, eyes red from crying. "Are you?"
My ribs ached where Landon's punch had landed. The bandage on my arm pulled tight every time I moved. But none of that mattered.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm good."
Because she was here. Alive. Whole. Safe.
For years, Jake's death had haunted me—the guilt of making the right tactical call that still got him killed. The fear of failing someone else on my watch. The certainty that I couldn't protect the people who mattered.
But today, when it counted most, I'd gotten there in time.
Presley was alive because I'd sprinted through those corridors. Because I'd fought Landon with everything I had. Because I'd refused to fail again.
Maybe I couldn't control every outcome. Maybe some losses were inevitable no matter how hard I fought. But today wasn't one of them.
Today, I'd saved her.
I sat beside her on the bed, drew her along my uninjured side. She curled into me, one hand fisting in my shirt.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For saving me. For being there. For everything."
"Always," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
We sat like that as the adrenaline finally drained away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Outside, Austin went about its evening—traffic sounds, distant sirens, the ordinary chaos of a city that had no idea what had just happened in that backstage corridor.
"What happens now?" she asked quietly.
"Now?" I tilted her chin up so I could see her face. "Now we figure out what this looks like when I'm not actively protecting you from a stalker."
A small smile tugged at her mouth despite everything. "So... normal dating?"
"Something like that." I brushed my thumb across her cheekbone. "Except I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."
"Good." She pressed closer. "Because I'm keeping you."
The fake relationship had become real somewhere between roping lessons and shared beds and learning to trust each other with everything that mattered.
I'd come to Valor Springs to do a job.
Ended up finding something I hadn't known I was looking for.
Her.