Comprehension flashes. Frightful cries erupt. I push at the cabinet again, fruitlessly, as a blur of uniforms and suits scurry for the aisles. I search for a military nurse or medic’s insignia, anticipating Charles’s next need, but the strangers freeze. All of them. Turned to statues.

Are they still deliberating, doubting if this is real? A fierce command gathers in my throat, ready to burst, when a noise sweeps through the room. A pattering, like drizzle growing to a downpour.

Clapping. People are applauding.

No—stop! I think as their grimaces morph into smiles, gasps reversing into sighs.

And then I see it. A metallic glint swings me around. Two sets of handcuffs hang from the crook of a finger. Charles—he made it out, alive and safe! Panting with a look of exhaustion, he stands sopping wet at the opened cabinet. The milk can looms in the background, sealed with all six locks.

Zealous hollers and whistles bloom. Many in the crowd pat their chests, calming their hearts, laughing from the thrill. Charles absorbs it all with grandeur, bidding “Merci.” His grin widens with his every bow.

Still overcome, I command myself to breathe, to repel the memories stacked on my chest.

Nudged by Charles, I stiffly join his side and catch sight of the child in front. Her face bears the light-headed shock of a near plummet from a cliff. Though equally dizzy, I seek to uphold the facade that nothing actually went astray. My sense of relief gains purchase until a pointed wink from Charles. Appreciative, it seems.

But not for me. Not even for some bombshell in the audience as I’ve come to expect.

This wink is for the right wing of the stage. More aptly, for the pair of stagehands who have conveniently reappeared. From their boastful smirks of those in the know, every obstacle of the act floats back through my mind. They join like patches of clouds, snips of a riddle, conjuring a whole: the ax and keys, the newly added latch, Charles’s urgent pounding that halted at my calls…

My attention cuts back to his face.

There’s arrogance in his eyes, underscored by his stance. No authentic trace of fear, nor true relief from a tragedy averted.

Why would there be? All had gone according to plan, his plan, including my role as an unwitting pawn.

Chapter 2

Two knocks on my dressing room door precede the turn of the knob. The caller doesn’t wait for an invite.

This is how I suspect it isn’t some fellow from the audience bearing a bouquet and sheepish smile, touting my resemblance to sensuous starlet Hedy Lamarr—which incidentally is a right stretch in my view. Not to say the remark is why, after my gracious bidding of thanks, I always send them on their way.