“Oh, I want it…but I don’t want to be rolling into the auditorium after all the lights go out, or I’ll break my neck.”

He pushed open the door for her and she navigated inside.

He heard the knob turn and tensed, hose strung between his hands. The door opened, hiding him behind it. He pressed himself against the wall, waited until the door was swinging shut, then lunged.

He checked outside the door, then stepped out, letting it close—locked—behind him. As he strolled past the other handicapped washroom, the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way out.

As Grace waited outside the bathroom, the usher came by, announcing five minutes to performance time. She glanced at the door. Yes, some things weren’t as speedy at seventy-eight as they’d been at eighteen, and she hated to rush him, but she really didn’t want to be navigating the aisles in the dark. She rapped on the door. When Cliff didn’t answer, she rattled the handle.

“Cliff?” she said, as loud as she dared. “It’s me.”

Sill nothing. His hearing was fine, but she knocked louder, just in case. Her gut went cold. Why wasn’t he answering? She tried to calm herself. Her mind offered up a dozen logical explanations, but her gut shut them down. Something had happened. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack—just like David.

“Can I help?” A middle-aged man paused in his sprint from the washroom to the front hall.

“My—someone’s—I need a—an usher. Someone who can open the door. Quickly!”

He glided into the front foyer. People were still streaming in, and a few were heading out for that last-minute cigarette. He thought of joining them, but knew he couldn’t. Ushers were right there, watching each exit with disapproval, warning people the opera would begin soon. He might get all the way to the car before the Feds found the body—or he might not get down the steps. Safer to do what everyone else was doing and head into the auditorium.

As he walked, his gaze passed over the crowd and snagged on a face with a split-second of “Hey, don’t I know…?” But when he zeroed in, that spark of recognition faded. The man was in his late forties, an investment banker type, with that lean, slightly hungry look. On his arm was a younger woman, maybe thirty. Typical, especially here, amid a sea of trophy wives, but this didn’t look like your average “secretary turned spouse.” He let his gaze linger and didn’t worry about being obvious—he wasn’t the only one looking. She wasn’t a knockout. Just…pretty. A pretty redhead with a smile that turned heads, and sparked more than a smile or two in return.