Gently, I put Thomas’s arm around me and rest my head on his chest, listen to the metronome thud of his heart. Still asleep, his arm reflexively tightens and long fingers glide down my side. When he unconsciously kisses my hair, a tear slides over the bridge of my nose. It’s the little things, unintentional acts of intimacy, that get to me. My love life has been a handful of failed relationships and brief encounters that left me empty. Star-shine glances off Thomas’s skin. He has faint seams that radiate from the corners of his eyes. I’ve never heard him laugh. When I met him in my dressing room, I couldn’t stand his face; now I’m drawn to it. A siren wails in the distance, reminds me that this man is my adversary.

I didn’t tell Lucas everything about “The Cask of Amontillado.” Montresor’s family crest was a snake with its fangs embedded in the foot crushing it. The motto was: “Nemo me impune lacessit.” It meant: “No one attacks me with impunity.” Thomas’s article will ruin my career. I have the right to fight back, don’t I? Maybe I could be Montresor instead of Fortunato?

My mind spins through the last twenty-four hours, possible scenarios for the next few days. Regardless of what happens with Dad, am I really considering a show without any prep? Before Lucas, back when Danny and I sat side by side behind a rickety card table, I always did cold reads. People lined up. But it’s been six years. I hardly remember that girl. She performed with zero expectations. Now I have both a reputation and a career to protect. Now there’s a show to perform.

What if I work up the nerve to skip prepping and then, without any bridges, the door doesn’t open? Lucas is building my career, and I do think he cares about me, but he won’t stick around long if the numbers go south. He’s a survivor, too. Where does that leave me? My fear that failure meant having to come home seems almost quaint now. They won’t take me back. I’m a tree without roots.

Exhausted, I slide toward sleep . . .

The sun is warm on my skin, sand coarse beneath bare feet. There’s a light breeze that smells of salt and sea. I wear a white dress dotted with pink flowers. A blue-green wave rises in the distance, gathers momentum. I turn to the castle and frantically dig beneath its walls. There isn’t much time. Sand crystals stick to my sweaty skin. The hole is four feet, then five then six . . . The wave now touches the sky, blocks all but a sliver of sun. It rumbles like a hungry beast, calls my name . . .

I rip clear of the dark dream, sit up. Thomas has moved to the window seat, crunched sideways to fit on the short bench, Chris curled beside him. Both are sound asleep. Did Thomas wake to find his arm around me? Do I repulse him now?