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“People get sick.” Ryan smoothed down his jacket. “She probably forgot to call. Young people are terrible about that.”

“Fiona’s responsible. She would have called.” Ethan pulled out his phone and showed the message thread. “I texted her twice and got no response. That’s unusual. She typically replies within fifteen minutes.”

“Ethan.” Ryan turned, his customer service smile firmly in place. “I appreciate your concern, but Fiona’s a grown woman. Maybe she had too much fun on her date last night and overslept. It happens.”

Date. The word triggered Ethan’s carefully organized mental files. Fiona’s date on Wednesday evening, arranged by Grant Voss, with the same person she’d dated on Monday night. Fiona had texted from the restaurant at eight forty-seven, said the food was good, mentioned Grant had “stopped at the table” to see how things were going…and that was eighteen hours ago.

“I’m calling her emergency contact,” Ethan said.

“You’re working the bar for a sold-out performance in thirty minutes.” Ryan checked his watch. “Whatever’s going on with Fiona, we’ll handle it tomorrow. Right now, I need you at your station getting it prepared because clearly Fiona’s not going to do it.”

Ethan’s first instinct was to say no. He wanted to list the statistical probability that something was wrong, the documented evidence that staff members who missed shifts without calling often didn’t return, the fact that Grant Voss’s name appeared in connection with four previous disappearances if a person cross-referenced properly.

But Ethan already knew if he did that he’d lose his job. So instead, he adjusted his bow tie and headed for the bar, making sure he wore his professional face. That’s what Ryan wanted and what his job description demanded. Ethan’s job was to smile, pour drinks, and ignore the fact that Fiona might be one more data point in a pattern everyone else refused to see.

He set up his station automatically - glasses arranged by type, garnishes prepped, ice bucket filled, and wine bottles aligned with their labels facing out. His hands knew the routine, which was fortunate, because his brain kept circling back to Grant Voss.

The man was in his mid-forties, and when Ethan thought about him, the only word that came to mind was polished. His shoes were too shiny, his suit was too shiny, and his teeth were definitely fake.

He’d approached Ethan twice over the past month - once after a Saturday matinee, once during a private donor event - and both times, Grant had mentioned “opportunities” for someone with Ethan’s skills.

He was definitely pitching something, mentioning how Ethan would be invaluable in event planning or corporate hospitality, and had even suggested that consulting work paid significantly better than theater wages.

Ethan had declined politely but firmly. Grant had flashed those fake teeth of his and said the offer remained open anytime Ethan was interested in a change.

Two bartenders who’d taken Grant’s “opportunities” no longer worked at the Garrison and seemed to have fallen off the face of the planet, no longer answering texts, or calls, or posting anything on social media. An usher had accepted consulting work last September and vanished from the staff roster by October. Three people gone that Ethan knew of, and now…possibly…Fiona.

The theater doors opened and patrons filtered in, already drunk from pre-show dinners and ready to demand complicated cocktails during intermission while complaining about wait times. Ethan cataloged the faces automatically, noting their behaviors. Season ticket holders went straight to their usual seats, while first-time visitors milled around, clutching programs. Brad Hutchins barely looked in Ethan’s direction as he took his seat in the orchestra section far from the bar. Maybe Rook’s intervention actually worked.

At seven twenty-eight, Ethan noted it was two minutes before Rook was supposed to arrive, and felt a strange flutter in his belly. He told himself it was simply a reaction to someone who’d already demonstrated protective instincts.

There was a good chance that someone who would threaten Brad for his pushy behavior might have similar concerns about a missing coworker. Someone who’d asked pointed questions about security protocols might have a useful perspective to offer on threat assessment. It had nothing to do with the fact that Rook’s texts were direct and honest in a way that made Ethan’s chest feel less tight, or that “most people are idiots” was possibly the most validating statement anyone had made to him in years.

At seven thirty exactly, Rook appeared at the bar entrance, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket that should have looked out of place in the Garrison’s gilded lobby but somehow didn’t. His eyes scanned the space, checking out the exits and sightlines, before landing on Ethan.

The expression that crossed his face made something in Ethan’s carefully organized brain short-circuit. Relief, maybe, recognition, and then…it was as if Ethan was the only person in the room worth finding.

“You made it.” Ethan’s greeting came out more level than his pulse. “Did you get a chance to read the play?”

“I read plot summaries and character analyses.” Rook approached the bar, his movements fluid despite his size. “Prospero’s a possessive bastard who manipulates everyone on the island, Ariel wants freedom, Caliban has legitimate grievances, and Miranda hasn’t met enough people to know Ferdinand might be a downgrade. How close am I?”

“Disturbingly accurate for someone who doesn’t know anything about Shakespeare.” Ethan gestured toward the seating chart behind him. “Your ticket’s for the mezzanine section. It’s on the right side, which gives you the best view of the staging without obstructed sightlines.”

“You checked.” Rook’s voice held something that might have been pleasure. “You actually looked at my seat assignment.”

“You asked for a recommendation. I provided one based on available data.” Ethan pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. “This is complimentary for early arrivals. You have fifteen minutes before curtain.”

Rook accepted the bottle, his fingers brushing Ethan’s. “Are you all right?”

The question was very direct, one based clearly on observation, and in the face of traits similar to his own, Ethan let his professional courtesy mask slip.

“My coworker Fiona didn’t show up for work. She’s never late. She hasn’t responded to texts.” The words came out clipped as Ethan focused on delivering facts without any emotion. “My manager thinks she overslept.”

“But you don’t.”

“She’s responsible, punctual, and the type of person who would always call.” Ethan’s hands moved automatically, wiping down the already-clean bar surface. “She had a date last night, arranged by Grant Voss, one of the board associates. He’s connected to three other staff members who left the Garrison without proper notice.”

Rook went very still. Not the stillness of someone trying to appear calm, but almost as though he was some kind of predator who’d just latched onto his next prey.