“Julian knows my family history,” Tempest said as she and Nicodemus got into her jeep. “He’s probably trying to mess with my head, show that we’re unstable in the dirt he’s gathering to strengthen his lawsuit against Secret Staircase Construction. He knows the Whispering Creek Theater is where my mom vanished. I’m sure he also knows about its supposedly haunted history. I need to show him he can’t rattle me.” She started the engine and glared at the empty house across the street where Julian had sabotaged the stairs.
Her silver charm bracelet, the only piece of jewelry she wore, slipped down her wrist as she turned the steering wheel on the steep, dead-end street.
“You’re certain the voice was that of the man who’s suing your dad?” Nicodemus asked.
Tempest took her eyes off the dark road for half a second to see what his expression was. “You’re serious? You think it was someone else, like a deranged fan who’s luring me to a fate worse than death?”
“We both know better than to assume anything.”
The headlights shone on a steep hillside curve and she gripped the steering wheel tightly. “It was him.”
“Asking you to meet him at the haunted theater where Emma vanished, at midnight. Julian Rhodes was making a business decision to sue you. But this? This seems so … personal. Whyever that wretched man is luring you to the theater, it’s nae good. It’s not too late to turn ’round.”
“I’m afraid you’ve played the part of Nicodemus the Necromancer for so long that you talk like a spooky character even when you’re not on stage.” It didn’t help that it was midnight in a sleepy city that was deserted at this time of night.
He barked a laugh, but it sounded forced. “I’ve seen many things in my long and unusual—”
“In your long and unusual life? I’ve heard you give that speech before. On stage.”
“Tempest, I’m serious. I don’t like this. You don’t know what that man is up to. But you do know what he’s capable of. His murderous intentions—”
“Paloma Rhodes isn’t dead, so he’s not that clever.” Tempest felt for Paloma, who’d ended up in a coma, and hated that her own family had been pulled into Julian’s murderous plan.
It was easy to see what Julian had attempted to do. He had wanted to get rid of his wife and get a large cash settlement. He wouldn’t be able to prove that Secret Staircase Construction had produced a shoddy step, because it wasn’t true, but the small family business didn’t have enough money to defend such a huge case. They were insured, but that insurance didn’t pay for a lawyer nearly as skilled—or as ruthless—as the team Julian had hired. Tempest’s dad was already considering a settlement, which could be less costly than court fees. That was what they suspected was the real purpose behind Julian Rhodes’s lawsuits: by hiring an intimidating team of lawyers and assuring the defendants that they’d dig up embarrassing personal information, Julian could strong-arm a payout up front. He’d already begun poking into their private lives to give them a taste of what he was capable of.
“I’ve already acknowledged he’s a would-be murderer,” Nicodemus granted. “But it really is splitting hairs. He meant to kill her. That’s what counts.”
“And he had enough presence of mind while his wife lay unconscious at the bottom of the staircase to make it look as if the step had snapped from our improper work before calling an ambulance.”
“I assumed he thought she was already dead,” Nicodemus said.
“How can you be so calm?” It was all Tempest could do to stay focused on the road. Her pulse and breathing were both steady when she was on stage. Real life was far more challenging.
“Why do you suspect I’m calm?” Nicodemus ran a hand through his wild gray hair. “I’m sure my blood pressure is double what it should be right now.”
A stone cathedral-like structure came into view. The signage had been removed years ago after being destroyed by a rainstorm, so if you didn’t know this was the Whispering Creek Theater, you’d think it was an abandoned church. The stone structure was built in the Gothic tradition with spires, pinnacles, and an oversize vaulted wooden door as the main entrance. It wasn’t as impressive as having a miniature Notre Dame cathedral on the outskirts of town, as there were no stained-glass windows and no ornately carved stone saints or kings on the façade, but it did boast two gargoyle drain spouts.
The old theater had existed for more than a century of Hidden Creek history before closing several years ago. Because of an accidental death not long after its opening, there had always been rumors that it was haunted. Then after Emma Raj disappeared under suspicious circumstances, the theater was shuttered for a short time during the investigation. An ill-fated reopening followed, with theater casts reporting inexplicable ghostly sightings. A more modern theater in a bigger city nearby featured more comfortable seats, additional bathrooms, and a bigger lobby bar, so for the past few years, the theater had sat empty—until Tempest rented it.
Tempest pulled into the nearly empty lot. Tonight, there was something ominous about the familiar theater, as if it was hiding something.
“There’s his car.” Tempest parked near Julian’s car and hopped out of the jeep. When her feet touched the ground, Nicodemus was already at her side. “You’re freaking me out, Nicky.”
“Tempest.” His voice was a whisper. “Something is very wrong here.”
“I know. There should be two of those old-fashioned streetlamps for light. Only one of them is on.” That’s what had given her the impression that the Gothic building was hiding. She tried to remember if it had been broken the last time she’d been there in the evening. She hadn’t been there at all for a couple of days while she had been busy preparing for Nicodemus’s visit and helping finish the renovation.
“I wonder…” Nicodemus stroked his goatee, looking even more devilish in the dim light.
“It’s just me, Nicky. You’re not on stage. You don’t have to trail off with the hint of a creepy question to entice your audience.”
“You said the theater was in perfect working order when you rented it.”
“They did a safety check and fixed anything broken as a condition of the lease.”
“Why, then,” said Nicodemus in a stage whisper, “is that light broken?”
In polite company, Tempest was always the most dramatic one. In her circle of friends, though, she didn’t take that top honor. “Let’s just see what Julian is doing here.”
Halfway across the parking lot, she realized Nicodemus hadn’t been dramatic enough. She’d seen that tall, arched door in the Gothic tradition hundreds of times, but never as it was right now. Julian Rhodes stood at the door with his back to them, shrouded in shadows. His posture was all wrong. Unnatural. His body was slumped, yet he hadn’t fallen.
“Impossible,” Nicodemus whispered. “How on earth…?”
That’s when Tempest saw it. A gleam of metal shone in the dim light. A thick blade was sticking out of the door—and through Julian’s chest.
“Julian?” Tempest called out. “Mr. Rhodes?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. This was no longer a living, breathing, angry Julian Rhodes. It was his dead body, held upright by the sword’s blade.