We spent another hour reviewing emergency protocols, communication channels, evacuation routes. By the time we finished, the sun was angling lower through the office windows.
We grabbed dinner near the hotel, neither of us with much appetite. Friday evening at seven, we met Addison's family at the convention center. Her father drove the truck, her two older brothers riding in the cab—all three men built like the ranchers they were, broad-shouldered and weathered. They pulled a trailer carrying the three decorative steer head mannequins Addison would use for her performance. We watched them get stored in a locked area backstage, every piece of her routine secured and accounted for.
By the time we drove back to the hotel, my shoulders ached from tension I couldn't release.
BACK AT THE HOTEL,Presley sat on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.
"Talk to me," I said.
"I keep thinking about those two families who pulled out. What if bringing everyone else to Austin puts them in more danger? What if I'm making the wrong call?"
I crouched in front of her, hands on her knees. "You've done everything right. Security's solid, police are ready, Mae'stracking every angle. Unfortunately whoever hacked your accounts either knew enough to hide their IP—or paid someone to make the threat. But she’ll get it eventually."
"Why do I feel like the clock is ticking down for something terrible to happen?"
Because she was smart. Because threats didn't announce themselves. Because tomorrow, we'd be in a crowd of hundreds with one person out there who wanted to hurt her.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," I said, "I’ve got you."
She nodded. Didn't look convinced.
We ordered room service. Ate without tasting anything. By nine, we were both exhausted but too wired to sleep.
I drew her close on the bed, held her while her pulse gradually slowed. But I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, running scenarios until the numbers on the clock blurred together.
SATURDAY MORNING CAMEbefore I was ready.
The Austin Convention Center was already chaotic by eight—hundreds of families streaming through entrances, four age divisions competing simultaneously, staff and volunteers directing traffic through corridors. The main hall echoed with announcements over the PA system, little girls in sequined dresses darting past, mothers chasing after them with makeup bags and hairspray. The smell of hairspray and perfume hung thick in the air, mixing with the burnt-coffee scent from the concession stands. The constant buzz of excited chatter echoed off the high ceilings.
Teen Star Texas had forty-seven contestants. I counted exits, memorized faces, tracked movement patterns through the shifting crowd.
Interview portion ran from eight until noon. Multiple rooms, girls rotating through in small groups. I stayed mobile, checking sight lines, scanning faces in the audience seating. Parents filled every available chair, phones out recording their daughters, programs rustling as they checked schedules.
That's when I spotted him.
Baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses indoors, hanging back from the main crowd but focused on something. Someone. Average height, dark jacket, hands in pockets. Something about the way he moved—too careful, too aware of his positioning. Staying at the edges while his gaze tracked across the room.
I alerted Marshall and the plainclothes officers. We monitored him through the morning—one of us always keeping visual while he drifted between vantage points. He never approached. Never did anything actionable. Just observed from a distance, shifting position whenever someone got too close.
During lunch break, he disappeared.
I searched the venue, checked exterior exits, circled the parking lot. Thirty minutes of looking and he was gone. Vanished into the crowd or out to his vehicle—no way to know which.
"Could've just been a paranoid parent," Marshall said when I reported in.
"Maybe." But my instincts said otherwise. The way he'd moved was wrong—too deliberate, too focused.
Talent preliminaries started at one. Main stage, contestants performing one after another under bright stage lights while upbeat music pumped through the sound system. I positioned myself with clear sight lines to backstage and audience both. Presley stayed with Addison in the main staging area—well-lit, crew and parents everywhere, two plainclothes officers within twenty feet.
Vanessa Clarke sat three rows back in the auditorium, arms crossed, posture rigid. Addison's father sat beside her, arms crossed, and her brothers flanked them—the whole family there to watch.
At two-fifteen, Addison walked on stage.
Three decorative steer head mannequins positioned at ten, twenty, and thirty feet. Upbeat Western instrumental started. The kid moved with confidence—planted her stance, built her loop overhead, released.
Clean catch on the first mannequin. The audience laughed and applauded.
She moved to twenty feet. Another perfect throw. Appreciation rippled through the crowd.
