Choice teetering, my hands ball into fists, reigniting the pain in my palm. Each pulsing throb carries a memory from the night before: of my standing on this very stage, bleeding and panicked, clambering to save Charles—who, all the while, was manipulating my emotions, pulling my strings like a puppeteer.

For a published rave that only made him scoff.

“Two…one!”

My resolve hardens to bedrock.

The instant Charles folds into the crate, the stagehands proceed in haste. They nail down the lid and wrap the box in chains, which the volunteers padlock toward the crowd. “Take the A Train” blasts from the pit as I usher the officer and committee down toward their seats. The box creaks and shakes from Charles’s unseen efforts.

His contortionist skills—once deemed “freakish” by onlookers—were among the initial reasons for our partnership. Thanks to years of more practice, he can shed a straitjacket with relative ease, even in dark and limited quarters, like now. Next, he’ll pry free a portion of the crate’s base, via camouflaged hinges and spring bolts, to reach the tabletop’s removable center.

It’s not by accident that the rectangular table leg is positioned with the narrow width facing the crowd. This gives little hint that a lean contorting body could pass through and descend a ladder under the stage. That is, if the floor’s trapdoor has been unlocked…

Slow and deliberate, I tug each padlock to illustrate they’re secure and, subtly, to set their placements. The quaking of the box is growing. Charles does this for effect, even when already out of his restraints.

The audience is amply baited. Blinks are turning sparse. Civilians and uniformed patrons alike are peering at the nails and locks, as if the bindings will somehow release themselves. How else could Charles reappear in plain sight? Vanishing from steamer trunks isn’t uncommon, but this is a sealed crate with no draping to shield his escape.

Through the blare of a trumpet, I hear it: a discreet thud from center stage, followed by another, sending vibrations through my heels. Charles’s controlled knocks are meant for a stagehand, a demand to open the trapdoor.

My heart is thumping.

At his third alert, I circle the crate with practiced grace until another knock reaches my ears. This one from inside the box. Charles has reversed route to signal to me that something is wrong.

I give no tap in return.

I have other plans.

Channeling distress into my expression, I tip off the crowd that there’s a problem. The showman is taking too long.

Ignoring a heckle or two, I wring my hands and wait for a harder knock from Charles, which comes soon enough. Then a shake. His confusion is rising, frustration brewing. I lean closer and whisper-yell, “Everything all right in there?”