Then thirty feet. She took her time, let the tension build, twirling the rope overhead while everyone held their breath. The lights caught the rope's arc, spinning silver against the dark backstage curtain.
Released.
The loop sailed through the air, settled perfectly over the third mannequin's horns.
The auditorium erupted. Standing ovation, applause thundering off the walls. Addison's face lit up—genuine, unguarded joy.
I spotted the suspicious figure leaving during the applause. Tracked him to the exit, followed far enough to watch him disappear into the parking lot. Scanned license plates, vehicle makes, found nothing that matched our suspect profiles.
Waited for him to come back.
He didn't.
THREE-THIRTY. THIRTYminutes before evening gown preliminaries.
I was backstage with Presley in the main staging area—open space, good lighting, parents and crew moving through, both plainclothes officers positioned at key access points. The air smelled like hairspray and the floral perfume every mother seemed to be wearing. Garment bags hung on every available rack, girls in various states of dress rehearsing their walks, mothers fussing with hair and makeup.
Safe as I could make it.
Venue security approached quickly. Young guy, out of breath, radio crackling on his hip. "Sir, we've got a possible match on your suspect. Loading dock area. Matches description—height, build, clothing. Need confirmation."
My pulse kicked. "Where exactly?"
"Northwest corner, near the service entrance."
I turned to Presley. "Stay here. Open area, plenty of people around, officers right there." I pointed to the two plainclothes cops twenty feet away, both with clear sight lines to where she stood. "Don't move unless one of them is with you. I'll be right back."
She nodded, already pulling out her phone to check on Addison.
I followed security through backstage corridors toward the loading dock. The route took us away from the main staging area, through narrower halls where the crowd thinned. The man they'd spotted was standing near a stack of equipment cases, back to us. Right height, right build, dark jacket.
I moved closer, hand near my weapon.
He turned.
Wrong face. Completely different person—older, gray at the temples, venue staff ID clipped to his belt.
My phone buzzed. Text from Addison:Zipper emergency! Need Miss Presley!
Then Presley screamed.
The sound punched through me like a blade. I was already running, weapon drawn, security behind me trying to keep up. Back through corridors, around corners, my boots hammering against linoleum.
The backstage hallway outside the dressing rooms. Landon had her pinned to the wall, knife pressed to her throat. Fake vendor credentials clipped to his shirt—stolen or forged, had gotten him past front security into restricted areas.
"If you won't be mine, you won't be anyone's."
I didn't think. Training took over.
Tackled him low. My shoulder drove into his midsection, momentum carrying us both down hard. His head cracked against the floor. The knife skittered away across the linoleum, metal scraping.
He scrambled for it—desperate, clawing across the floor. I grabbed his ankle, yanked him back. He kicked free with his other leg, the heel of his boot catching my jaw. My head snapped sideways but I didn't let go.
He lunged for the knife. Got it.
Came up slashing.
I blocked with my forearm. Felt the blade catch skin, hot and sharp. Blood welled through my sleeve but the cut was shallow—barely more than a scratch. Adrenaline numbed most of the sting.
