ISOBEL BEAMED AT SUNIL as he sang to her. He seemed to have set aside his preoccupation with the ghost of Robert Livingston and was once again fully committed to his portrayal of John Philip Sousa. Isobel’s head, however, was spinning, trying to find a place for Fried’s text in her working theory. It didn’t not fit; it only suggested a link she had missed somewhere. There was time to work that out later. In the meantime, she tapped her toe impatiently along with the music, waiting until she was sprung for her hiatus and she could resume her aborted intermission investigation.
She marveled anew at Sunil’s glorious tenor. He really was exceptionally gifted. He was also a wonderful actor and so attractive. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why Delphi wasn’t interested in him, especially when his feelings for her were so obvious. Isobel hoped her friend would wise up and see what a catch she had in Sunil.
He must have felt her gaze on him, because he turned toward her in a spot where Chris usually interacted with one of the ensemble men. Of course, this was Sunil’s first time on for Sousa, and minutiae like shifting one’s focus was not the kind of thing a director specified. A movement like that was solely at the actor’s discretion, but as Sunil caught her eye, she saw something she didn’t expect.
Fear.
And in a flash, she understood everything. She willed the song to end, but it seemed to her that Hugh was slowing down the tempo deliberately, when it was more important than ever that she get back upstairs.
Finally the audience was applauding. She gave her exit line and left the stage, trying to keep her walking pace normal. But as soon as she reached the wings, her boots skittered across the floor.
“Where are you going?” Heather’s urgent hiss followed her out the stage door. “You can’t go out there in the middle of the show.”
“I’ll be back in time for my entrance, I promise.”
“Isobel, wait!”
Ignoring her, Isobel ran into the hall, now empty of full-bladdered patrons, knowing Heather wouldn’t dare leave her post during the show to come after her. Isobel paused for a moment and pulled out her phone again. Closing the text from Roman Fried, she opened her browser, navigating quickly to Amazon. She found what she was looking for and knew for certain she was on the right track. She had to act quickly.
Taking the stairs as nimbly as she could in a bustled evening gown and high-heeled boots, Isobel emerged finally onto the third floor. She hurried down the hall past the rehearsal studio and flung open the door to the costume shop.
“Where are you?” she asked, her voice above a whisper but not quite conversation level.
There was no answer. She glanced nervously over her shoulder and tried again louder.
“I heard you before. I know you’re in here.”
And there it was. The same scuffling noise she’d heard when she’d taken refuge in the costume shop before the show.
“Keep doing that. I’ll find you.”
She pulled on her kid gloves as she followed the sound to a closet in the far corner of the room by the window. She opened it and gasped.
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
Chris blinked groggily at her. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles bound together with duct tape, and he was propped up against several bolts of material.
“Drugged?” Isobel asked.
Chris nodded in slow motion.
She knelt beside him and spoke quickly. “I need you to stay here for another forty-five minutes or so, okay? I promise you’ll be safe, but we can’t let him know I found you. I have a plan, but I have to leave you here. Please don’t hate me.”
“He killed them,” Chris croaked. “Arden and Thomas…”
“I know.”
“But not me.”
“No, not you. I promise we’ll get you out of here. Just not yet. This is the best way.” She searched his face earnestly. “Do you trust me?”
Chris worked his lips together slowly and closed his eyes.
“Stay quiet and sleep it off if you can.” Cringing, she closed the closet door again.
She glanced at her phone. Thirteen minutes before she was due back onstage. There was no time to waste. She closed her eyes and ran through the rest of the show in her head, trying to anticipate his next move, but her mind was spinning in circles.
Then she remembered. The banquet scene, which was also the next time she was onstage. The running crew would have preset the props offstage right on the banquet table during intermission, because it was a complicated set change. That meant the wings stage right would be clear—now.
Isobel had never run so fast in her life. By the time she came flying through the stage door again, she was panting and gasping. But if Heather expressed surprise, Isobel didn’t stick around to hear. There was one more set of stairs, the ones leading down to the vom. She stumbled on the last step but caught herself before she fell. The figure was lurking at the foot of the stairs on the right side of the passage, the gold and black cape grazing the floor behind him. She righted herself and took two steps forward.
“Mr. Livingston, I presume?”