I blink back sudden tears. They sneak up on me every now and then. I got to lay the final few tiles in the lake: four tiny red pieces, cut and assembled into the shape of a cat—or rather, as Darcy pointed out, a kitten—nestled in the sea of turquoise. That got me. And Jane won’t lay off me for what happened when he performed the inaugural sound check. Seeing my favorite person performing on the stage that had only been a dream a few weeks before had me on the verge of tears anyway, but then the brat sang “Rainbow Connection.” I lost it. Charles is still texting me pictures of Kermit.

I put away my phone and stroll to the far side of the room, letting my attention drift over the flyers and announcements that extend from floor to ceiling. I did my best to ignore them while we met with Diva and Momma, but now I scan for advertisements regarding a talent search for Meryton.

Ming’s made sure that news of what she’s dubbed “the Meryton Massacre” has spread across the scene. Performers and producers have been warned off the SoCal snake in chinos, and anyone worth their eyelash glue is so disgusted by Ginn’s betrayal that she’s having a hard time booking gigs. Rumor has it they’ve still managed to pull in a few acts, mostly new, hungry performers who don’t mind the taint of Wickham’s underhanded dealings and Ginn’s treachery, but I haven’t encountered a single established burlesquer supportive of their venture.

As I study the thumbtacked and taped pages, the most recent addition seems to be the bold-lettered announcement for the debut of Red, White, and Boobs, which is out of date by three months. I tug it free, revealing a sign for Johnny Ryall’s XXXMas Sextacular—from four years ago?

Jeez. I reach to snag that page, too, but something shiny catches my eye. A . . . doorknob? As the thought registers, the door swings toward me in a flurry of rustling paper. I stagger back with a yelp, narrowly missing death by a thousand paper cuts. As the door starts to close, two men file inside.

The door shuts with a violent clang that has the pair swiveling toward me. One is the show’s errant deejay.

The other is Wickham. Every muscle in my body goes tight.

The deejay approaches me, wide-eyed. “Shit! Were you right there? I’m sorry!” His head bobs side to side as he surveys me for damage. “It didn’t clock you, did it?”