“We have to go,” I said, searching for a trash can. “Get out of here before the show starts. He’s done his job. Now he’ll run—”

“No, he won’t.”

“But—”

“Too risky. He’ll be in there.”

“Wha—?”

Jack waved at the line of patrons filing into the opera. I looked around, realizing that nothing had changed, no one was panicking, screaming about a murdered man in the washroom.

“They aren’t telling anyone what happened, are they? Everyone who was there thinks it was an accident. And if there’s no mass exodus—” I swallowed, then swung my gaze to the auditorium doors. “He’ll have to go inside. Watch the show like everyone else.”

Jack nodded, took my glass with one hand, my elbow with the other, and led me over to join the line.

I don’t know how I made it to my seat. My heart started racing the moment I stepped through those doors—walked into the same auditorium where my target now sat. The thought of sitting down and doing nothing about it was…indescribable.

Jack moved closer, his knee pressing against mine, hand going to my thigh as he leaned over to say something. I could feel the heat of him, smell the cigarettes on his breath. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, the noise around us too loud, the blood pounding in my ears not helping. I watched his lips move, stared at them, mesmerized by the sensual curve.

I sat there, watching him, smelling him, feeling his hand on my leg, until that was all I could sense. Something built inside me, an ache, sharp, urgent. A primal voice whispered that this would do, that he’d do—a suitable substitute, a way to slake my frustration, reach out and touch him—

I realized what I was thinking. Felt it like a slap that jolted me out of my thoughts, face reddening, cheeks heating. I looked away. Jack’s fingers only pressed into my thigh, getting my attention.

I didn’t look, but heard him now, telling me to watch for the killer, study the audience before the lights went down. It took a moment for my thoughts to unsnarl and to realize what his words meant. I glanced around, searching for men in the right age group…which described 90 percent of the male patrons. I tried narrowing it down to those sitting alone, but there was no way of knowing because hardly anyone “sat alone”—with no one on either side of him. The killer would be smarter than that anyway. If he’d somehow ended up with an empty seat on either side, he’d just move over, joining another party. As Quinn had said, this wasn’t a sold-out show. There was at least one empty seat in every row.