“No one leaves my rehearsals except in a body bag,” he said. “Is that how you’d prefer it?”

“Is that really how you want this to go?” Michael asked quietly. “Because somebody could leave in a body bag, but it won’t be her.”

The director showed teeth in a grimace—it actually looked painful for him to smile. “Are you threatening me, boy?”

“Yes,” Michael said, completely still. “I know I’m new at this. I know I’m not a thousand years old with a pile of bodies behind me. But I’m telling you that she has to go, and you’re going to let her.”

“Or?”

Michael’s eyes took on a shine—not red, but almost white. It was eerie. “Let’s not find out. You can spare her for the day.”

The director hissed, very softly, and held the stare for so long, Claire thought things were about to go very, very wrong . . . and then a mild-looking man in a retro bowling shirt stepped up and said, “Is there a problem? Because I am responsible for these two in Amelie’s absence.”

And Claire blinked, and realized it was Oliver. Not really Oliver, because he looked . . . different—not just the clothes, but his whole body language. She’d seen him do that before, but not quite this dramatically. His accent was different, too—more of a flat Midwest kind of sound, nothing exotic about it at all.

The director threw him a look, then blinked and seemed to reconsider his position. “I suppose not,” he finally said. “I can’t have this kind of disruption, you know. This is serious business.”

“I know,” Oliver said. “But a day won’t matter. Let the girl go.”

“We’re going to find Kim,” Eve said. “So really, we’re still on company business, right?”

The director’s face tensed again, on the verge of an outburst, but he swallowed his words and finally said, “You may tell Miss Magness that she may have one rehearsal as a grace period. If she is late one second to any other time I call, she will be mine.” He didn’t mean fired. He meant lunch.

Claire swallowed. Heather didn’t seem surprised. She made a note on her clipboard, shook her head, and then cocked her head again as a burst of words came out of her headphone. “Dammit,” she sighed. “Are you kidding me? Great. No, I don’t care how you do it; just make it happen.” She clicked off and looked at Claire. “Wish me luck.”

“Um, luck?”

Heather mounted the stairs to the stage and approached the director to whisper something to him. He shouted in fury and stomped away, waving his arms.

Michael and Eve took the chance to escape down to where Claire waited.

Oliver followed them.

“Nice shirt,” Claire said, straight-faced.

He glanced down at it, dismissed it, and said, “Now tell me what’s going on. Immediately.”