CHAPTER 6 #2
My phone vibrates as we cross behind the mill building.
CLARA: Parked. Coming through east.
I stop walking.
Alvarez notices. “Problem?”
“Clara’s here.”
Diana looks down the lane toward the east gate. “Fast.”
“She drives like she’s mad at infrastructure.”
“Is she?”
“She’s mad at everything.”
Diana’s face does not soften, but her voice lowers. “With reason.”
I do not answer.
We wait near the shadow of a grip truck because waiting in open light feels stupid tonight. Alvarez uses the pause to call one detective to the east gate and another to hold uniforms at Stage 14. Diana checks her phone, sees something, and swears under her breath.
“What?” I ask.
“Victor sent an email to studio brass saying I authorized the original coat.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Forward it to Alvarez.”
“Already did.”
The detective looks at her. “I’m beginning to enjoy being forwarded unpleasant things.”
Diana says, “Give it time.”
Then Clara appears at the end of the lane with Molly Keene beside her.
Molly is wearing a trench coat too large for her, sneakers with neon laces, and the expression of someone who has decided fear is best handled through irritation. She carries a laptop bag like a weapon and a paper coffee tray with two cups still in it.
Clara walks slightly ahead of her.
Of course she does.
Dark coat, hair pulled back, visitor badge gone. Her face is pale under the lot lights but settled. That bothers me. I’m learning her calm has layers. Some mean focus. Some mean damage has not found a safe exit.
Molly sees me and points with the coffee tray. “Security Batman.”
Alvarez looks at me.
I say, “Molly Keene.”
“Chaos goblin?”
Molly brightens. “My reputation is traveling.”
Clara shoots her a look. “Not the moment.”
“There is never a moment, Clara. That’s the burden of brand.”
Diana looks between them. “I hate that I like her.”
“You won’t for long,” Clara says.
Molly holds out one coffee. “I brought one for whoever looks closest to institutional collapse. That was going to be me, but then I saw him.”
She offers it to Alvarez.
He takes it without shame. “Detective Alvarez.”
“Molly. If you die after drinking that, it’s unrelated to the coffee.”
“Comforting.”
Clara’s eyes move to me.
Not warm. Not forgiving.
Assessing.
“You found the route?” she asks.
“Power draw through an old annex line.”
“The shoebox.”
“Likely.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
“Because we were waiting for you.”
Her mouth tightens. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“No.”
A beat.
Molly glances between us and whispers loudly to Diana, “Are they always like this?”
Diana says, “Apparently they were worse with youth.”
Clara starts walking. “I can hear you.”
Molly follows. “That has never stopped me.”
Alvarez takes point with me as we move down the service lane.
Diana walks behind him, Clara beside her, Molly behind Clara, muttering about regretting cardio.
The lane is narrow, bordered by the blank backs of stages and old utility walls stained by years of rain machines and real weather.
Rubber cable mats cross the asphalt like black ribs.
Overhead, a broken security light clicks, clicks, clicks without fully turning on.
The path Clara marked is not a path until you know it is one.
Between a dumpster enclosure and an old fire hose cabinet, there is a gap wide enough for a person to slip through sideways.
Past it, a strip of concrete runs behind wardrobe storage, hidden from the main lane by stacked flats and a row of fake brick walls waiting for a set that doesn’t need them yet.
Diana says softly, “I forgot this was here.”
Clara answers, “People forget places where nobody important gets photographed.”
The line is sharp.
It also sounds tired.
I glance back and find her looking at the concrete, not me. Her hand brushes the wall once, not for balance. For memory, maybe. Or proof.
Molly whispers, “This is where I get murdered by a wall.”
Alvarez says, “Walls rarely lead.”
“I know. That’s what makes it hurt.”
Despite the pressure in my chest, a corner of my mouth moves. Clara sees it.
Her eyes narrow.
I fix my face.
Too late.
The path opens behind the wardrobe annex.
Casey was right: no camera here. The closest lens points toward the main loading door, missing the old utility corridor by twelve feet.
A person could move through with a coat, a bag, a struggling actress, and only risk being seen if someone stepped out to smoke.
I hate it.
Not because it exists.
Because it existed yesterday, last night, eleven years ago.
My radio gives a low click.
No voice.
Only open channel.
I stop and raise a fist.
Everyone stops with varying degrees of grace. Molly bumps into Clara and whispers an apology to her shoulder.
Alvarez draws his weapon low. I reach for the compact flashlight at my belt, not the baton. Diana moves behind a stack of flats without being told. Clara does not move behind me. She steps to the side, giving herself a line of sight.
Good.
Dangerous.
Good.
There is a difference between protecting someone and blocking them from information.
I am learning too late.
The click comes again.
Then a voice, distorted and close enough to feel inside the earpiece though the radio is at my chest.
“Take two.”
Molly’s face loses color.
Alvarez points toward the old utility door at the end of the corridor.
The door is metal, painted beige, marked WARDROBE AUX STORAGE. The paint around the handle is scratched. A red strip of tape is stuck near the bottom hinge.
Not fresh.
Not old.
Placed.
Clara sees it at the same time I do.
Her breath changes, but she stays quiet.
I move first.
Slowly. No hero nonsense. No charging a door because fear has picked a direction. I check the frame, the top edge, the handle, the floor. No wire. No obvious rig. No smell of gas. No heat. I look at Alvarez. He nods.
Diana whispers, “That door sticks.”
Everyone looks at her.
She lifts one shoulder. “Old building. It sticks.”
The words land badly.
The lock stuck.
Clara’s face goes flat.
I test the handle with two fingers.
Locked.
Alvarez steps in with a small tool kit he took from the uniform at the gate. “Move.”
I do.
He works the lock with professional irritation. It takes twenty seconds. Too long in silence. Too short for anyone to breathe normally.
The door opens inward with a soft metal complaint.
Darkness inside.
Cool air. Dust. Fabric. The faint chemical sweetness of fake blood.
I angle the flashlight.
The room beyond is narrow and cluttered with old racks, folded flats, bins labeled by productions no one remembers, and a plywood wall painted red on one side.
A partial red door build.
Not Stage 14.
Not the main hallway.
The shoebox.
Clara steps forward.
I put a hand out, not touching her, only blocking empty air.
She looks at it.
I lower it.
“Floor first,” I say.
She pauses.
Then, to my surprise, she lets me sweep the light along the ground.
Small mercy.
Or survival.
The floor is dusty except for tracks: wheels, maybe from a wardrobe cart. Two sets of shoe prints. One larger, one smaller. Drag mark near the plywood wall. No Avery.
No body.
Thank God.
Avery alive. Keep that first.
Molly says behind us, barely above a whisper, “I hate every object in this room.”
Diana answers, “That’s fair.”
Alvarez enters first, gun low. I follow, then Clara, then Diana. Molly stays in the doorway by choice or paralysis. Hard to tell.
The flashlight beam catches something on the plywood wall.
A card taped to the red-painted panel.
White.
Black marker.
ASK HER WHY SHE LEFT FIRST.
Clara makes a sound.
Not a gasp.
Not a cry.
A small failure of air.
I turn toward her before I can stop myself.
She is staring at the card, but not like someone confused by the words. Like someone who has been waiting for them and hates that they arrived.
“I didn’t,” she says.
Not to us.
Not quite.
I know.
The words press behind my teeth.
I do not say them.
Because I moved her.
Because I lied.
Because knowing is not the same as repairing.
Alvarez photographs the card. “Nobody touches that.”
Diana’s gaze moves around the room. “This wasn’t dressed by production.”
“No,” I say.
Clara steps closer to the red panel, careful around the tracks. Her eyes move up, down, then left.
“What is it?” I ask.
She points to the corner of the plywood. “That screw pattern. This panel used to be part of the backup door build.”
“You can tell from screws?”
“I spent three weeks staring at it while people argued whether terror looked better from the left or right.”
Her voice is steady.
Too steady.
Molly calls from the doorway, “For what it’s worth, terror’s best angle is health insurance.”
No one laughs.
Then one of the overhead pipes groans.
Not loud.
Enough.
My eyes go up.
The old storage ceiling is a mess of beams, pipes, unused rigging points, and one suspended sandbag hooked to a line above the red panel. Sandbags are everywhere on sets. They are supposed to be boring. Weight. Counterbalance. Safety.
This one is moving.
The line above it has been cut halfway through.
“Clara,” I say.
She looks at me instead of up.
Wrong direction.
My body moves before language can catch up.
I grab her by the waist and pull.
She curses. Alvarez shouts. The sandbag drops where Clara stood half a second earlier and hits the concrete with a flat, brutal thud that I feel through my shoes.
Dust jumps from every surface.
Molly screams my name or Clara’s or a word that belongs to neither.
Clara’s back hits my chest. My arm is still around her. Her hand clamps over my wrist, hard enough to hurt.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Her body is warm through the coat. Tense. Alive.
Alive.
Then she shoves away.
Hard.
“Do not grab me.”
Her voice shakes at the edge.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to—”
“I know.”
She points at the sandbag. “That was not permission.”
“No.”
“You say that like agreement fixes things.”
“It doesn’t.”
Alvarez bends over the fallen bag, jaw tight. “Line was cut.”
Diana swears.
Molly appears in the doorway with her pepper spray out, pointed at the sandbag.
Clara looks at her. “Molly.”
“I panicked with a theme.”
“Lower it.”
“I don’t trust the bag.”
“Nobody trusts the bag.”
“Good. Group consensus.”
The absurdity arrives at the worst possible time.
Clara’s mouth twitches. Once. Against her will.
I see it and look away because taking pleasure in her almost-laughter after pulling her out from under a falling weight would be a new, specific kind of pathetic.
My left shoulder burns from the movement. I roll it once and regret it.
Clara notices.
Of course.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.”
“Malcolm.”
“No worse.”
“That’s not the same answer.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re very committed to being irritating.”
“I have a consistent brand.”
Molly, still holding pepper spray, whispers to Diana, “Did he just make a joke?”
Diana says, “Barely.”
Alvarez photographs the cut line, the fallen bag, the rig point above. “This room is now an attempted assault scene.”
Clara looks at the red panel.
Then at the card.
Then up at the cut line.
Her fear does not leave. It rearranges into anger with clean edges.
“Not attempted assault,” she says.
Alvarez glances at her.
She points to the sandbag. “It wasn’t rigged over the entrance. It wasn’t set to hit whoever opened the door. It was over the card. Over that exact viewing position.”
I follow the angle.
She’s right.
The bag was not for the first person inside.
It was for the person who would step in close enough to read.
For Clara.
My stomach goes cold.
“They knew I would go to the card,” she says.
Nobody answers.
No one needs to.
My radio crackles again.
This time, the voice is clear enough that every person in the room hears it.
“Good catch.”
A click.
Then silence.
My hand goes to the radio.
Clara’s eyes meet mine.
Not accusation this time.
Something worse.
Shared understanding.
The person watching us is close.
I turn toward the doorway, toward the hidden corridor, toward every shadow the studio forgot to put on a map.
On the floor beside the fallen sandbag, half stuck to the cut line, is a strip of red tape.
Not the tape from the door.
Fresh.
Folded once at the end.
Clara crouches before I can tell her not to.
She doesn’t touch it.
She reads what is written across the tape in thin black marker.
17B.