Joyful relief courses through me as the stagehand sets me on my feet and the musicians end their song. I toss away the blindfold, pride stretching my smile. Cheers from the audience, the ladies noticeably louder, almost cause me to forget there’s more. I take two heavy steps forward, subtle stomps amid the noise, cueing the stagehand below to open the trapdoor.

My internal clock is ticking, timing Charles’s movements. I take a pair of curtsies before inviting the burly stagehand to unnail the lid. The audience goes quiet and music builds as my helper opens the box. Riveted gazes watch me climb the stepladder and lean over the top for a good, private look. What I find, of course, is even better than an empty space.

I reach inside to produce the unfastened straitjacket for all to view. After pausing for gasps, I resume my original script: “Ever so kindly, please welcome back”—I gesture with a flourish to the rear of the room—“Monsieur Charles Bouchard!”

Heads swoop his way with the unified movement of a flock. The crowd locates Charles at the far-left corner, behind the last row of seats. Arms raised in triumph, he’s materialized out of nowhere!

Folks rise, pointing and chattering in awe. Applause reaches a crescendo. Charles grins and bows. He hides his panting fairly well, having just dashed up the spiral staircase from below, then out a staff door camouflaged between the auditorium and lobby.

Enthusiasm appears shared by all—save for one. Amid khakis and olive drab, a balding man in a suit stands in the second row, not clapping. Through spectacles, he stares with such scrutiny I feel pinned by crosshairs.

Just then, Charles directs the crowd’s focus back to the stage for me to share in the glory, causing a boomerang of whistles and hoots.

The gracious move jars me.

He hasn’t fully fathomed the situation. Perhaps he blames the stagehand and presumes I improvised to fill the time, that I even rescued the act.

The thought washes me in a startling wave of shame.

Then his gaze meets mine. With the audience’s attention briefly diverted, his eyes burn with an icy fury. Sharp as a dart, it shoots clear across the room. A shiver prickles my skin as he reapplies his smile, accepting praise from the masses, pretending all went exactly as he planned.

Only he and I know a fallout awaits.

Chapter 4

At the drop of the curtain, I steel myself for the unknown. Charles has never been the tantrum-throwing sort, though these days I wouldn’t stake a wager on his behavior.