CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vivian Bennett adjusted her grip on the trapeze bar and swung forward, feeling the familiar rush of air against her face as her body arced through space.
The training facility was empty except for her, which was exactly how she liked it for late-night practice sessions.
No crowds, no other performers waiting for equipment, just the quiet creak of rigging and the satisfying burn in her shoulders as she worked through her routine.
She had been with Cirque du Soleil for six years now, performing in three different shows across two continents.
The trapeze had become an extension of her body, something she understood instinctively after thousands of hours in the air.
Tonight she was working on a new release move, something that required perfect timing and absolute trust in her own muscle memory.
Vivian released the bar at the apex of her swing and rotated through the air. Her hands found the second bar exactly where it should be and she caught it smoothly, absorbing the momentum with her core. She swung twice more before dismounting onto the safety platform.
That was when she noticed someone in the observation area.
The facility had a small section of bleachers where coaches and choreographers could watch rehearsals.
During normal hours, it was usually occupied, but at ten-thirty at night, it should have been empty.
Vivian grabbed her water bottle and took a drink, studying the figure sitting about halfway up the bleachers.
The figure was male…she could tell that much from the silhouette. He was watching her with what seemed like focused attention, not the casual curiosity of someone who had wandered in by accident.
Vivian climbed down from the platform and walked across the padded floor toward the observation area.
She had worked in performance long enough to know that people sometimes showed up in strange places claiming to be scouts or producers.
Most of them were harmless, just fans who wanted to meet performers—not that she was famous or anything.
Sometimes, people just appreciated the art of what she did.
Admittedly, though, a few were creepy. She had learned to trust her instincts about which category someone fell into.
The man stood up as she approached. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with sandy brown hair and an athletic build. He wore dark jeans and a button-down shirt, casual but neat. Nothing about his appearance immediately set off alarm bells.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your practice," he said as Vivian reached the edge of the bleachers. "I've been watching you work for about twenty minutes, and it’s…I mean, wow. Your technique is really impressive."
"Thanks." Vivian kept her tone neutral. "But, you know…the facility is supposed to be closed to visitors after ten."
"I know. I apologize for that. I'm actually here on business.
" He pulled out a business card and handed it down to her.
"My name is David Marquez. I'm a talent scout for an independent production company that's developing a new aerial performance show.
We're looking for lead performers and your name came up in our research. "
Vivian took the card and glanced at it. The design was professional, with a company logo and contact information. It looked legitimate, though she knew business cards could be printed by anyone with a computer and ten dollars.
"How did you know I'd be here tonight?"
"I didn't, actually. I've been stopping by the facility the past few evenings hoping to catch you during practice hours.
Tonight was lucky timing." He gestured to the trapeze rigging behind her.
"I saw your performance in the show last year in Vegas.
You were incredible. The triple release sequence you did in the finale was one of the best I've ever seen. "
Vivian felt herself relax slightly. He was talking about specific details from her performance, things that a random fan would not necessarily remember. The triple release was one of her signature moves, something she had spent months perfecting.
"What kind of show are you developing?"
"It's a fusion concept. Traditional circus arts combined with contemporary theater and narrative storytelling.
We're planning a limited run in New York next fall, possibly expanding if it does well.
" He moved down a few rows of bleachers so he was closer to her level.
"The creative team is really interested in performers who can bring both technical skill and dramatic presence. Your background fits perfectly."
He asked her about her training, about how she had gotten into aerial performance, about her comfort level with different types of rigging and equipment.
The questions were detailed and knowledgeable, the kind that someone with real industry experience would ask.
He knew the terminology and seemed to understand the technical aspects of what she did.
But something felt wrong. Vivian could not put her finger on it exactly.
His questions were appropriate, his manner was professional, and he genuinely seemed to understand aerial performance.
Yet there was something in the way he watched her as she answered, an intensity that went beyond normal professional interest.
"How do you feel about extreme heights?" he asked. "I'm talking about rigging that's significantly higher than what you're used to in standard performances."
"I'm comfortable with heights. That's part of the job."
"Right, of course. But I mean really extreme. Outdoor performances, for example, where you might be working fifty or sixty feet up instead of the usual twenty to thirty."
Vivian felt a prickle of unease run down her spine. The question itself was not inappropriate, but the way he asked it felt off somehow. There was an eagerness in his voice that did not match the casual tone he was trying to maintain.
"I'd need to see the specific setup before I could commit to something like that," she said carefully. "Outdoor rigging has different safety requirements, as I’m sure you know."
"Absolutely. Safety is obviously the top priority." He pulled out his phone and swiped through a few screens. "Let me show you some of the concept sketches our designer put together. I think you'll be really excited about the visual possibilities."
Vivian's instincts were screaming at her now. She could not explain why, but every part of her body was telling her to get away from this man. She glanced toward the facility entrance, mentally calculating how far she would need to walk to reach the exit.
"Actually, I just remembered I have an early call tomorrow," Vivian said, taking a step back. "Can you email me that information? The address should be on my company profile."
"Of course, no problem." He pocketed his phone but did not move away. "Before you go, I was hoping we could talk a bit more about your experience with different harness systems. The show concept involves some unique rigging that we're still finalizing. I’d love to get your input and suggestions."
Now he was starting to feel pushy, and that sense of something being wrong started to intensify.
"I really need to get going," she said politely, trying not to let her fear show. Vivian turned and walked quickly toward the locker area where she had left her bag and street clothes. She could feel him watching her, could sense that he wanted to follow but was holding himself back.
She changed out of her practice clothes as fast as she could, throwing on jeans and a sweater and shoving her gear into her duffel bag.
Her hands shook slightly as she zipped the bag closed.
She was being paranoid, probably. The guy was most likely exactly what he claimed to be, just a scout who was a little too enthusiastic about his project.
But Vivian had learned to trust her instincts. Something about David Marquez, if that was even his real name, had triggered every warning bell she possessed.
She left the locker area and headed for the main exit, walking fast but trying not to look like she was running. The facility's parking lot was well-lit but mostly empty at this hour. Her car was parked near the back, away from the building entrance.
Vivian was halfway across the parking lot when she heard the door open behind her. She glanced back and saw Marquez emerge from the building. He was walking in the same direction she was, his pace matching hers.
Her heart started beating harder. She quickened her steps, keys already in her hand. Her car was still thirty yards away. Marquez was about forty yards behind her, closing the distance steadily.
Vivian considered calling out, making a scene, anything to draw attention. But the parking lot was deserted and the surrounding buildings were dark. Who would hear her?
She broke into a jog, no longer caring if she looked paranoid.
Her car was twenty yards away now. She could hear Marquez's footsteps behind her, faster now that she was running.
Vivian hit the unlock button on her key fob and the car lights flashed when she was about ten yards away. She reached for the door handle.
And with true panic rising up within her, a hand grabbed her shoulder from behind.