Page 45 of Carnival’s Playground

I key my radio. "Clear."

Dutch's voice crackles back, tight and clipped. "Copy that. Keep circling."

I move through the backstage corridor next, checking every prop table, every coiled extension cord, every trapdoor latch along the way. Marcy's warming up near the wardrobe rack, sequins flashing under the work lights, and she catches my eye as I pass. "You look like a man hunting ghosts," she says, tugging her sleeve straight.

I shrug my shoulders and say, "Feels about right."

She arches one painted brow. "Find any?"

"Not yet," I answer. "But the night's young." She laughs, but it's thin, fragile at the edges, and I don't blame her one bit. I find Avery near the west exit post exactly where she's supposed to be, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of focus that could cut glass. "Anything?" I ask, stepping in close enough that our shoulders brush.

"Nothing but teenagers. One of them tried to convince me the fog machine's haunted."

"Is it?" I ask, deadpan.

"Only by Petey's incompetence," she fires back, and something in my chest loosens just from the sound of her voice.

I dip my head so only she can hear. "You holding up okay?"

"Ask me that again after midnight," she answers. "I'll have a better answer."

"Deal." For half a second neither of us says anything else, just standing there with the crowd flowing past like a river around two stubborn rocks, and I reach over without thinking, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

She glances up at me. "What was that for?"

Smirking, I tell her, "Felt like it."

"Careful," she warns, though there's no bite in it. "Sentimental bikers are a hard image to shake once people see it."

"Guess you'll just have to keep the secret."

"Guess I will," she agrees, a small smile tugging at her mouth before her radio crackles and the moment breaks clean in half.

Dutch's voice barks through the static. "North gate, report."

Avery keys her radio. "North gate's clear. Line's moving steadily."

"Copy," Dutch grunts back.

I squeeze her hand once before moving on, working my way toward the generator shed at the edge of the lot, the hum of machinery vibrating low under my boots the closer I get. Everything reads green on the panel, voltage steady, nothing overloaded, and for a second I actually let myself believe the night might stay quiet.

That's when I see him.

A man in a dark hooded jacket stands near the fence line just past the generator shed, not moving toward the midway, not moving toward the exit, just standing there in the shadow of the tree line watching the crowd like he's counting heads. I key my radio. "Renn, you seeing this?"

Static crackles sharp, her voice coming out distorted, "Seeing what?"

"Man by the west fence. Dark hoodie. Not moving. Just watching," I inform her.

"On my way," she replies. "Don't approach alone."

"Copy," I answer, though my boots are already moving before I've finished the word.

I keep my eyes locked on him as I close the distance, careful to stay in the light, careful not to spook him into running before backup arrives. He shifts his weight, head turning slightly, and for one heartbeat I swear he looks directly at me.

"Hey," I shout, sharp enough to carry over the music. "You need something?" He doesn't answer. He turns instead, fast, disappearing into the tree line like smoke. I break into a sprint, boots pounding gravel and dead leaves. "Renn, he's running. West fence, moving north."

"Copy, I'm two minutes out," she answers, breathless already.