Landon swung again, wild and frantic. I sidestepped. He threw a punch that connected solidly with my ribs. The impact drove the air from my lungs. Pain bloomed across my side but I stayed on my feet, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, twisted hard. Bones ground together. He screamed, dropped the knife.
Scrambled for it again.
Then rope flew through the air.
Presley had grabbed it from the prop storage area—Addison's equipment waiting for family pickup after finals. The looptangled around Landon's legs. He stumbled, arms windmilling, balance gone.
I didn't waste the opening.
Tackled him again. Flipped him face-down. Wrenched his arm up behind his back until he cried out. Planted my knee in his spine, bearing down with my full weight. He thrashed, screaming threats about how Presley belonged to him, how I'd stolen what was his, how he'd finish this.
"Don't move," I said in his ear, voice flat and cold. "Or I'll make sure you never move again."
Security and plainclothes officers swarmed in. Cuffs went on—the metallic click loud in the sudden quiet. Two officers hauled Landon to his feet and dragged him away, still spitting curses and threats as they forced him down the corridor toward the exit.
EMT APPEARED WITHINseconds, kit already open. She worked on my arm—cleaning the wound with something that burned, applying pressure with gauze, wrapping it tight with practiced efficiency.
"Shallow laceration," she said, taping the bandage. "Might want to get it checked later, but you don't need stitches. Keep it clean, change the dressing tomorrow."
"Fine." I barely registered her words. My focus was on Presley—still pressed to the wall, hands shaking, eyes too wide.
The EMT moved to check her. "Any injuries? Did he cut you?"
"No." Presley's voice came out thin. "I'm not hurt."
"Shock," the EMT said, wrapping a blanket around Presley's shoulders. "Perfectly normal response. Just breathe. You're safe now."
Marshall appeared with his notebook, radio chatter crackling in the background. Other officers were cordoning off the area with crime scene tape, photographing the hallway, collecting evidence. The knife went into a clear evidence bag.
"I need preliminary statements from both of you," Marshall said, pen poised. "We'll do formal interviews tomorrow, but give me the basics now."
I walked him through it—the false alarm that drew me away, the text from Addison, Presley's scream, finding Landon with the knife at her throat. The fight. Presley using Addison's rope to tangle his legs.
Marshall turned to Presley. "You stepped out of the main staging area?"
"Just for a second." Her voice was steadier now. "Addison texted about a zipper emergency. Her dressing room was right there—fifteen feet away. I thought—" She stopped. "I thought it was safe."
"You couldn't have known," Marshall said, making notes. "He used stolen vendor credentials to access restricted areas. Got past front security with forged ID. This was planned, deliberate. Not your fault."
He finished documenting the basics, then looked at me. "Barrett's being processed downtown. We've got him on assault with a deadly weapon, stalking, criminal harassment, attempted kidnapping. He's not getting out."
"Good."
Marshall pocketed his notebook. "You two should get out of here. We'll handle the scene. I'll call tomorrow to set up formal statements."
I nodded, already heading toward Presley.
She stood slowly, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders despite the warm backstage air. Her gaze found mine—and everything else fell away. The officers processing thescene, the crime scene tape, Marshall's radio crackling with updates. None of it mattered.
"What about Addison?" Her voice cracked. "The competition—evening gown starts soon, and she doesn't know what happened, and I should be there for her—"
"Marshall," I said without looking away from Presley. "Can you have someone inform Addison Clarke that Presley's safe but needs to step away for a bit? Let her mother know too."
"Already being handled," Marshall said. "Go. Take care of each other."
I crossed to Presley, brought her into my arms. She buried herself in my chest, her whole body shaking now that the immediate danger had passed.
"He could've—" she whispered into my shirt. "If you'd been thirty seconds later—"
