"No, I don’t blame them." She set the phone down, pressed her palms against her eyes. "But the other families—Harper, Addison, all of them—they're counting on me to get them to that stage safely. What if I can't?"
"You can." I drew her hands away from her face, made her look at me. "We've got Austin PD coordinating security. Plainclothes officers will be everywhere Saturday. Backstage access locked down. Anyone who doesn't belong gets flagged immediately."
"You really think that's enough?"
"I think we do everything possible to make it enough. Then we trust the plan."
She leaned into me. I wrapped my arms around her, felt her heartbeat against my ribs.
"My girls and their parent sare counting on me," she said finally. "We proceed."
No hesitation. Just that steel core I'd seen from the beginning.
By eight o'clock, I was on the phone with Austin PD. Detective Marshall had worked protection details for visiting politicians, knew how to lock down a venue. We spent forty minutes walking through the Austin Convention Center layout—entry points, backstage corridors, dressing room access, emergency exits.
"We'll have four plainclothes officers positioned throughout the venue," Marshall said. "Two more outside monitoring vehicles and perimeter. Anyone acts suspicious, we'll know."
"Backstage access?"
"Essential personnel only. Photo ID required, checked against our approved list. No exceptions."
"Good." I pulled up the photos Mae had sent—Landon Barrett, Blythe Tanner, Tiffany Hammond. "I'm sending you images of three persons of interest. If any of them show up—"
"We'll have eyes on them immediately."
After I hung up, I found Presley at her kitchen table with her laptop open. Competition registration forms. Two names now marked as withdrawn.
"Security's set," I told her. "Austin PD knows what they're doing."
She nodded but didn't look up.
TUESDAY AFTERNOON,Presley worked with Harper on interview prep. The twelve-year-old's confidence had grown over the past weeks—shoulders back, eye contact steady, answers flowing naturally. I stayed near the windows, scanning Main Street through Crown & Grace's glass front, tracking every passerby.
Wednesday brought Brynlee for vocal coaching. Her voice filled the studio, rich and controlled, hitting notes that would've made half the competition cry. Presley beamed with pride. Between sessions, we grabbed sandwiches from the bakery, ate in the break room while Presley talked through last-minute logistics.
Thursday morning, Gabriela practiced her walk—tiny eight-year-old in her practice dress, taking the runway with the poiseof someone twice her age. Her mother Maria thanked us three times before they left.
The days blurred together. Each session another chance for threat assessment. Each parent drop-off another opportunity to scan for vehicles that didn't belong, faces that watched too long. My shoulders stayed tight, jaw clenched. Four days until Austin. Four days to prepare for every possible scenario.
Thursday afternoon brought Addison's final roping lesson. The kid was ready—planted her stance in the dusty arena like she'd been born doing it, built her loop overhead with smooth confidence, released three perfect throws in a row. When she nailed the thirty-foot mannequin on her first try, Presley actually teared up.
"You're going to be amazing Saturday," Presley told her, gathering the girl into a hug.
Addison beamed. "I couldn't have done this without you. Either of you."
FRIDAY MORNING, WEpacked for Austin. One bag each, essentials only. The drive took forty-five minutes. Neither of us spoke much—too focused on what was coming.
We checked into the hotel by two. One room, king bed. The woman at the front desk smiled at us like we were just another couple in town for the weekend. Had no idea what we were walking into.
Detective Marshall met us at three in the convention center's security office. Good handshake, direct eye contact, the bearing of someone who'd served. Probably military before police work.
"Walk me through your threat assessment," he said.
I showed him everything—the note, the brick through Presley's window, the social media hack. Gave him updated photos of all three suspects, explained Landon's possessiveex-boyfriend pattern, Blythe's financial desperation, Tiffany's grudge.
"Any of them show up tomorrow, we'll know." Marshall pulled up the venue layout on his computer screen. "Your girl stays in open, well-lit areas. Backstage main staging room, not isolated corridors. We'll have officers positioned here, here, and here." He pointed to access points. "She needs to move somewhere, you call it in first."
"Understood."
