Back then, I still didn’t understand.
I thought Dario was just some crazy guy with a theater obsession.
I thought he was one of those sleazy predators we were warned about in college, the ones who prey on young, aspiring actors only to scam them, or worse, pressure them into having sex in hopes of landing a role.
When I first saw the small cast gathered on stage, I thought they’d been tricked into coming there. Or that they thought they were part of some experimental performance, and this was all part of it. But stupid me, I was actuallyrelievedto see them. I thought,Oh, they’ll see how scared I am. They’ll realize I’m in trouble and step in to help me.
When Dario introduced me to them, his large hand clamped around my arm and that awful gun pressed against my back, I was a breath away from begging for help. But Dario anticipated it, laughing as he dug the gun even harder into my skin. “Oh, Noelle,” he chuckled. “They’re not going to help you. They know what happens to people who defy me.”
Then he pointed his gun at one of the actors, who looked like he was about to burst into tears, pee himself, or both, and asked, “What happened to the last person who tried to escape?”
The actor grimaced. His gaze dipped to the stage as he replied quietly, “He was killed. Painfully. Just like what will happen to us if we try anything stupid.”
Even then, I didn’t realize the extent of Dario’s madness.
Kidnappings, secret theaters set up in a basement, guns, talk of killings… I didn’t see how it could get worse.
But now.
There’s a man bleeding to death on stage less than fifteen feet away from me.
My captor has a loaded gun, and he clearly won’t hesitate to use it.
The door to upstairs is locked—Dario made sure to show me first thing when he brought me into the theater—so there’s no escape, even if I wanted to risk being shot.
And if I refuse to play along with his screwed-up production, like the man Dario just shot did?
A shudder runs through me.
If I refuse, I’ll end up just like him.
As the stagehand slash cleaning woman rushes over to clean up the blood, Dario shoves the bleeding actor off the stage. A moment later, there’s a heavy thud, followed by a pained moan.
“Okay,” Dario announces. “SinceHector”—he glares at the man on the ground—“refused to play his part, I need the understudy out here. Now!”
Hector. Not just a nameless actor.Hector.
Hector, who was shot because he refused to play his role in Dario’s homicidal production.
Hector, who was probably kidnapped, like I was.
Hector, who’s probably dying.
A lump lodges in my throat. My already stuffy nose prickles with threatening tears. Panic expands inside me, compressing my heart and lungs. Tremors wrack my body, and I wrap my arms around myself to keep from completely falling apart.
Part of me wants to just give in to the madness. Give myself over to the fear and disconnect from it. Retreat into memories and fantasies that will never become reality.
But Webb.
I know he’s coming. I’m sure of it. Out of the three times I triggered my necklace, one of them had to work. And if he can track me here… He has to be on his way. I just need to hang on until?—
What if he doesn’t come in time,the terrified part of me asks. This isn’t an ordinary play, where the actors pretend to die tragically, but then they’re back up to take their final bows.
No. There’s no pretend in this play. When the character dies, it’s real.
That’s why Hector was shot. Because in this play, which I know terrifyingly well, Hector’s character is supposed to stab his friend, causing a long and painful death. But right before the scene was about to start, Hector refused to do it. “I can’t,” he declared, tossing the knife to the ground. “I won’t kill him. I won’t.”
So Dario shot him.
