Kristi did not like giving up the phone, but she didn’t have much of a choice if she wanted to get inside. She filled out the information, kept one half of the claim ticket and, surprised that her canister of mace wasn’t confiscated, grabbed her purse and hurried inside, where the temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees. People were jam-packed into the rows of auditorium chairs, but she managed to find a folding chair angled into a side aisle and next to O, who was already positioning her purse near her feet, her eyes fixed on the stage. Faded velvet curtains, once a deep maroon color, were drawn shut, and overhead there were minimal lights trained on the stage. The auditorium held about fifty people at capacity—tonight closer to sixty-five. The heater was working overtime and the damned Renaissance music permeated everything, loud over the whisper and crush of the crowd.

A thirty-something man sitting in front of Kristi had splashed on too much aftershave, possibly to cover the scent of marijuana that clung to him. The Old Spice trick hadn’t worked; it had only made the cloying odor more noticeable.

Feedback screamed through the auditorium for a second, then suddenly all was quiet. Kristi looked around and saw familiar faces, people who were also in her English block. Near the back of the room Hiram Calloway was studiously reading his program. He was alone, it appeared, and she wondered if he’d sold her out, given someone a key to her place, or if he was the one who had been videotaping her unit. She flushed at the thought and shot daggers at him with her eyes. As if he felt her gaze, he glanced up, caught sight of her, then buried his nose quickly in his playbill again.

She remembered chasing the guy she’d seen at her apartment and Hiram just didn’t seem right. He was a little doughy, like an ex-football player gone to seed, and she was an athlete, had always been fast. If she hadn’t been a swimmer, she’d probably have been a track star, so surely she could have caught him as she chased him into the night.

Adrenaline could have spurred him on. Fear of getting caught. If so, it was a wonder he didn’t have a heart attack. Or, maybe it hadn’t been him at all. But the only other person with the key was Irene Calloway, and she was close to using a cane. Surely Kristi could have run her to ground.

Then who?