I twist for one last look.
She's almost gone, swallowed by the shadows at the side of the stage, still kicking, still clawing at the hands on her.
"I'll find you!" I shout.
My eyes burn.
I blink the tears back. I can cry later. I can break later.
Right now, I take the one thing I can steal from this room:
I walk down those steps like I chose it.
Head up. Spine straight.
I look at every man who bought a ticket to my nightmare and make sure they see my face.
Not because I want them to remember me.
Because someday, I want to remember them.
CHAPTER 3
THEA
"Call me Gabriel."
"I don't care what your name is."
The sleek black sedan pulls through tall wrought-iron gates before gliding up a circular driveway and coming to a stop outside a mansion on the Upper East Side. The mansion is all pale stone and tall windows, lit from within by soft orange lights that glow like a museum after hours.
I press myself against the door, as far from Gabriel Moretti as the back seat will allow.
He hasn't said a word to me since we left, other than telling me his name. He's just been sitting there, one arm draped over the seat back, occasionally glancing at me like I'm some puzzle he needs to solve.
The driver kills the engine and gets out, then comes over to open my door. I don't move.
"Out," Gabriel says, his tone sharp and commanding.
I swallow hard and climb out, my legs shaky. I immediately feel his gaze tracking the movement.
It is an unseasonably warm evening in late spring. As I exit the vehicle, I realize how quiet it is. I look around at the tall plants bordering the fence. You can't see or hear the city, aside from the thin glittering rectangles of Midtown in the far distance.
Gabriel gets out of the car and moves to my side, placing his hand on the small of my back. His touch grounds me, though it shouldn't.
"Come."
He nudges me gently toward the stone steps that lead to the massive arched wooden doors. My eyes move along the facade, taking in the detail of the stonework, the small gargoyles perched on the corners of the windows, the year 1851 etched into the stone next to the door.
We're about to walk into a piece of New York history.
The front doors open before we reach them, and a man steps out. He's older, sixty-something if I had to guess, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit. He has kind eyes. When he sees me, his eyebrows lift.
"Sir," he says carefully, a trace of an Italian accent in his speech. "I wasn't aware that we were expecting a guest."
"She's not a guest." Moretti walks past him into the house, leaving me standing on the steps like an Amazon package. "She's staff. Get her settled."
The older man cocks his head to the side and blinks. Then he looks at me, really looks, taking in my smudged makeup, mywrinkled dress, and the way I've got my arms wrapped around my body like I might fall to pieces if I let go.
