Slivers of moonlight slipped through the clouds, highlighting Thomas’s sandy hair. He tilted his head, motioning for Liam and Nathan to follow. Shooting a glance down the empty street, Liam moved over the damp ground, and the two followed Thomas down a dark alley.
In the past, Liam was the one who came up with the pranks. But between balancing Nathan, trying to figure out where his parents had run off to, and trying to secure a temporary deed to the theater in his name, he had left the escapade up to Thomas. Most likely, a fake gang would jump out and attack. Or they would shove fake drugs in Nathan’s hands and call the “police.” Dirty, but efficient.
Liam wished he knew what was going to happen. Not knowing made his stomach twist and the back of his neck prickle. He slipped his hands into his pockets and glanced sidelong at the narrow passageway.
The rain had tapered, but its scent still hung heavy in the air. Nathan lingered behind as Liam kept forward.
A movement caught Liam’s attention, and his head darted up. On the rooftop, a man crouched on the edge of a building, his hair frizzing outward, his frame a dark silhouette. Liam continued walking, his forehead creased. There was something off about the man—freakish, even. He glanced at Thomas, who had noticed the man, and the Scot drew his brows together.
“Do you know him?” Liam whispered.
Thomas only pursed his lips. A gust of wind swept down the alley, and alarms went off in Liam’s head.
“Thomas—” He reached to touch his friend’s shoulder. “Something’s not right.”
Liam looked back to the rooftop, but the man was gone. Heart beating fast, he spun back around.
Thomas skidded to an abrupt stop and Liam rammed into him. He tumbled to the pavement and ended up face-to-face with a man—a man whose lips and skin were tinged with blue.
The middle-aged man lay flat on his back, his eyes open in a blank stare. A translucent veil had been placed over his face, the delicate lace a stark contrast to the dead man below it.
Liam scrambled to his feet. “Thomas, call the police!”
Thomas stayed rooted to the ground, unmoving.
“Come on, Thomas!” Liam said again, but he wasn’t moving either.
They both stared down at the man, lifeless on the ground, the moonlight streaming down on the white lace over his face.
Liam finally edged forward, sweat lining his brow.
“He’s one of our actors,” Liam choked out. “I saw him the other night at the bar. He’s one of the cast members performing in Man of la Mancha…”
Liam bent down, his hands trembling. He touched the edge of the lace. “The veil,” he whispered. “The laid-out corpse. The last time this modus operandi was used was—” He peeked up at his friend. “Thomas, what are you doing standing there? Call the police!”
Steps pounded behind them and Liam froze. Nathan skidded to a halt.
“What… what the hell is this?” Nathan cried. The blood emptied from his face.
Liam slowly rose. “Nathan, don’t freak out…”
“No.” Nathan shook his head violently. “No way. This isn’t possible. They said whoever did this back in the day was dead. They said whoever killed my father was dead.” He stumbled backward, crashing into a pile of molding boxes. “He’s killing again? The Bridegroom Killer is alive?”
“Nathan, no. I’m sure there’s a reasonable—” Liam paused, then stiffened. “Wait.”
He whirled on Thomas. “Is this the prank? You think this is funny?”
Thomas just stood there, silent, his face unreadable.
Liam shoved Thomas back in the chest. “Too far, man! Too far!”
Thomas’s expression hardened. “This isn’t the prank.”
“That man isn’t really dead?” Nathan asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “This is a joke?” His expressions flicked from fear, to anger, to relief, to outrage. He wiped the tears from his freckled cheeks. “It’s one thing for the p-prissy ballet girls to call me trash and another for you snobs to look down on me, but to prank me with… with this. With the exact way my father’s body was found… with how he died… If my sister were here…”
Nathan took off running.
“Wait! Nathan—” Liam started after him, then stopped. He glowered at Thomas as another gust of wind slapped him in the face. “Thanks a lot, you Scottish idiot. Now I’ll never get him to trust me.”
Thomas opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Don’t,” Liam said. “Just don’t.”
He spun on his heel and marched away from the scene.
Chapter Five
Edge of Time
* * *
The girls lifted their legs higher, perfectly in unison. Shoulders down. Stomachs in. White tutus swished and pointe shoes clicked on the marley floor. Red’s head tilted as she watched the dancers bend to the side. Her breath hitched as they glided across the room. She zoned in on their thinly-muscled arms and legs, noticing the precision in which they held each fingertip. Slender necks. Tiny waists. Her heart thumped, and she shook her head.
Focus.
She wasn’t here to dance. Or to wish she were one of them—that was the past. Besides, she hated that life. She had no choice but to come back. She’d tried to stay in the States, but with no money, she had no other options. If she could sell the belongings she’d left here three years ago, hopefully she’d earn enough to return to the States and refinance her climbing career. Then she just needed to win the comp in Hueco in six months’ time, and she’d be on her way to nationals. Too bad she’d already sold her phone to get back to Halifax.
Still, her eyes remained fixed on the dancers.
She opened the wooden door to the studio a tad more. Not much had changed since Red was last here. The muted sunlight filtered in through the tall windows. The paint peeled on the ceiling. Cobwebs dusted the corners.
Charlotte’s long legs were perfect as she dipped into a penché.
Two sharp taps of Madam Benée’s stick jolted through her, startling her.
“Again,” Madam Benée said. Her lips pressed tight. Almost as tight as her midnight hair pulled back into a slick bun. “Feet. Feet. Feet. They look like dead fish flopping off the ends of your ankles. Point. Them. Our new director will be here soon, and he won’t be pleased.”
New director?
Red wondered what had happened to the Bournonvilles. She knew the theater’s financial status was dire. It had always been.
Madam Benée pounded her stick again.
Another sonata began.
The music drifted through the studio and out the doorway, where Red stood, gripping the frame. Although it was a pianist who played the intricate melody, all Red could hear was her father’s violin. She breathed in through her nose and out her mouth, her limbs trembling. The ebb and flow of each melodic phrase pulsed through her, the dark memories of her father’s death threatened to push forward. The music continued to weave through her being, consuming her.
Charlotte screamed.
Red’s eyes flew open.
“Enough! How am I supposed to dance to this?” A perfectly manicured nail pointed in the pianist’s direction. “She doesn’t know how to keep a tempo. I can’t hold my leg up here forever while she decides to stretch out whatever phrase pleases her!” The tiny dark-haired girl behind the piano slumped.