But Dario is right there, less than ten feet away, beaming as his actors start to run the scene. In front of the stage, where the audience would normally be, there’s a single line of empty chairs. Just behind them, a large TV displays the lines for the actors. And above that, a professional video camera records everything.
Now it makes sense why Ken and Dario were friends. And it makes even more sense why Dario would kill to keep his secret.
It goes against everything inside me not to do something as the scene progresses. As I listen to the lines I memorized in college—we had to recite scenes from memory for our weeklyquizzes—dread coils in my belly. A few times, I almost take an involuntary step back onto the stage before Hannah grabs my arm and wrenches me back.
I can’t bear the thought of just standing by and letting this happen. But I’m not sure what else to do.
When the scene reaches the part where Jesse’s supposed to stab Paul, I can’t take it anymore. Before I lose my nerve, I blurt, “Stop! Don’t?—”
Dario spins in my direction, anger twisting his features as he levels his gun at me. “Noelle,” he hisses. “I’mthe director. Not you. Now shut. Up. Or I’ll be forced to getyourunderstudy, too.”
The woman who cleaned up Hector’s blood yelps in fear. Then she turns a stricken gaze to me, her eyes silently begging me not to do it.
Oh, crap.
Crap.
She’s my understudy. And if something happens to me,she’sthe one who’ll die at the end of the play.
With the consequences of my actions taking on new weight, I duck my head as I scuttle back offstage. Tears drip off my chin and make tiny dark splotches on my dress. My vision blurs. My head spins, reminding me to take a breath.
Center stage, the actors’ voices grow louder. Their fear is a palpable thing.
Beside me, Hannah sniffles softly. “I just want to go home,” she whispers. “I’ll join the family business like my parents wanted. Go to church more often. Marry Jeff and have his kids. I just want to gohome.”
I want to go home, too.
Not to my old apartment in Portland or my studio in Williston, but wherever Webb is.
Back when I was talking about moving out of the client apartment, there was a moment when I thought Webb mightask me to move in with him. At the time, I told myself it was too soon. That I needed to have my own space. That I needed to learn how to be alone again.
Why didn’t I let him ask?
Why was I so stubbornly set on moving back to Williston?
Why—
“No!”
My attention jerks back to the stage just as Jesse staggers away from Paul, a look of abject horror on his face.
Paul stares at the knife sticking out of his stomach, his eyes widening in disbelief. Blood soaks through his white shirt, turning it crimson. His features contort with pain.
Jesse lets out a broken sob. “I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry.”
Hannah moans quietly.
Franklin and the other actor—I still don’t know his name—stand frozen onstage, their faces shocked and pale.
Dario snaps, “Keep going! The scene isn’t over yet!”
“I need a doctor,” Paul moans. “Please. I don’t want to die.”
Dario flicks a dismissive glance in his direction. “It’s too late for that.” Then he gestures at Franklin. “It’s your line.Go.”
Franklin takes a stumbling step away from him. “I… I…”
“Go!” Dario roars. “Read the fucking line!”
