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O’Shea answered quickly. I gave him our location, told him Grant was contained, and asked him to bring deputies and medical personnel through the outside service lane. He started to ask about Sybil, but I looked toward her before answering.

“She’s upright and talking. She’ll need to be checked.”

“I heard that,” Sybil called from the fence.

O’Shea heard it too. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Grant had gone quiet beneath me. I ended the call and kept him where he was.

For a moment the backstage strip felt unnaturally empty. The show lights were still dead. The emergency fixtures inside the sets cast narrow patches of green and white over unfinished edges that guests were never supposed to notice. A section of painted wall ended six inches above the ground. Extension lines ran beneath protective ramps. Wind found the loose edge of a black curtain and pushed it outward through a service opening before letting it fall again.

Sybil moved closer only after I nodded to her. She stayed well outside Grant’s reach and stopped beside the corner of the building.

“Is the mallet far enough away?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She looked down at Grant, and something sharpened in her face. “Because I have several things to tell the sheriff.”

I wanted to ask what he had said to her. I could see that whatever happened during the minutes we were separated had left her angry beneath the adrenaline.

O’Shea needed to hear it too.

“We’ll do it once he gets here.”

She nodded and pressed her scraped palm against the front of her jacket.

Flashlights appeared along the service lane a few minutes later. A deputy came around the final bend first, with O’Shea close behind him and another deputy following. They took in the scene quickly: Sybil standing clear, me on the ground with Grant, and the mallet lying beyond the edge of the path.

O’Shea sent one deputy toward the weapon and brought the other to me.

“Leave the mallet where it is until it’s photographed,” he said before crouching beside Grant. “Damien, can you transfer him?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

The deputy took Grant’s free arm while O’Shea drew his cuffs. Between us, we brought Grant’s hands behind him and rolled him far enough for the deputy to secure both wrists. I stayed close until they had searched him and brought him upright.

Grant’s face was streaked with dirt along one cheek. He looked past the deputies toward Sybil.

She didn’t move.

O’Shea stepped into the space between them. “You’re going with Deputy Mercer. You can talk after I’ve advised you properly and you’ve decided whether you intend to.”

Grant’s mouth tightened, but he let the deputy take him toward the service lane.

The second deputy remained near the mallet, photographing where it had landed before anyone touched it.

I crossed to Sybil.

Up close, I could see where the mud on her jeans had soaked through at the knee and where another streak crossed the outside of her jacket. A shallow cut ran across the base of her palm. She had probably caught rough wood somewhere on the way out.

I reached for her carefully, giving her time to tell me no.

She came straight into me.

My arms closed around her, one hand settling against the back of her head while she pressed her face into my chest. Her breathing was still too fast. I could feel each breath through both our layers.

“You got there,” she said against me.