It’s fine. So what if he stared at my ass? It doesn’t mean anything, really. It’s probably just instinctive. He might not have even realized he was doing it.
Just as I slide into my car, my smartwatch lets off a littleting. I glance at it, expecting to see a text or reminder, but instead it’s an alert letting me know my phone is out of range.
“Shit,” I mutter. If my phone is out of range, that means I left it inside. Most likely, it’s still on the floor in the prop closet, left behind in my rush to leave.
With another sigh, I haul myself back out of my car and hurry back towards the theater. My feet tap a rapid rhythm on the asphalt, made louder by the relative quiet around. During the day, it’s a busy area, with plenty of professional offices and shops to keep the sidewalks crowded. But at this hour, everything’s closed, leaving me alone on the street.
Once I get inside the theater, I make a beeline for the prop closet, relieved to find my phone sitting just where I thought it would be. I shove it in my bag and head back to the exit, hoping Ken won’t even realize I’m here.
It seems like a stroke of luck as I approach his office—his door is only a few inches ajar, which should block his view of the hallway if he’s sitting at his desk, which I would assume he is.
Ducking my head, I get ready to speed past his door when a familiar voice catches my attention.
Not someone I know. Butme.
I freeze in place, listening.
At first, my brain doesn’t want to accept what it’s hearing.
It’s me, singing softly to myself.
A song I remember singing while I was in my office earlier.
But how? My door was closed at the time. And I was careful to keep my voice low, so no one else would hear.
Could he have recorded it somehow? Opened the door without me realizing?
Why, though? For what purpose? I’m a passable singer at best, certainly nothing to get excited about. And if he’d really been curious about how I sounded, he could have asked.
A small, cynical voice in my head whispers,Noelle. Are you being intentionally dense? He doesn’t care about your singing ability. There’s something far more sinister going on.
Maybe not,another voice argues.Maybe it’s nothing. Just leave. Come back tomorrow like nothing happened. And don’t sing in the office again.
Part of me desperately wants to choose the easier option.
But the other part, the part forged from all the hard things I’ve been through in my life, like losing my mom at seven and my dad at twenty-five, resists.
I need to know.
If he’s done something wrong, I can’t let it go.
Decision made, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then release it slowly.
I inch towards the door, trying to be as quiet as possible.
My voice continues, finally tapering off at the end of the song. From inside Ken’s office, I laugh lightly. A beat later, he makes a low, groaning sound.
My heart stutters.
Nausea rises.
Please, I beg silently, let this not be what I fear it is.
Then I put my hand on the worn wood and push open the door.
Just a few inches, but enough to get a glimpse of what he’s watching.
And oh.
