Page 17

As petty as it sounds, it rankles me.

But as I exit the stage, roses at my feet, I feel his eyes follow me into the darkness of the wings.

“Someone’s got an admirer,” Joey says, handing me a towel.

I dab at my forehead, careful not to smudge my makeup. “Which one?”

“That guy in the back. Black hair, strong jaw. Looks like Gregory Peck if he took on Robert Mitchum’s roles. Been watching you like you might disappear if he blinks.”

“One of Cohen’s new guys?” I ask, though for some reason I don’t want the stranger to be associated with him.

Joey shrugs. “Never seen him before. I can have him removed if you’d like, though I’m not sure where he went.”

“I can handle admirers,” I tell him with a smile.

I make my way to my dressing room, heels clicking against the worn floor. The halls are quiet tonight—a Tuesday, not our busiest. My thoughts drift back to the stranger as I turn the handle to my dressing room and step inside.

He’s sitting in my chair.

I freeze in the doorway, fight-or-flight instinct surging through me. It has me wanting to fight, to attack, but I push it back, maintaining my human façade.

He rises slowly, deliberately, like someone approaching a skittish animal.

“Ms. Reid.” His voice is a low baritone, rough at the edges, the kind of voice that makes one want to melt. “Victor Callahan. I apologize for the intrusion.”

I step inside, leaving the door open. A calculated move—any scream would bring Joey running, though I doubt I’d need the help. I’ve dispatched men twice his size when necessary, but that’s not the side of myself I care to reveal here.

“Most men buy me a drink before breaking into my dressing room,” I say, keeping my voice light as I assess him. Up close, I can see the stubble along his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Or perhaps he always looks like that. Still deadly handsome, though.

“I’m not most men,” he says without a smile.

No kidding.

“And I didn’t break in. Your door was unlocked.”

“So who are you then?” I ask, moving to my vanity and beginning to remove my earrings. Act casual, unaffected.

“I told you. Victor Callahan. I’m a private investigator.”

I can’t help but bristle. Of course.

“Well, I’ve already told the cops everything I know about Elizabeth,” I tell him.

“Have you?” Something in his tone makes me look up, catch his eyes in the mirror. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, I swear I see something flash in those dark depths. Something familiar.

I turn to face him, leaning against the vanity. “Mr. Callahan, I’m tired, I’m thirsty, and I’ve just learned my closest friend was murdered. So unless you have something useful to offer, I’d appreciate some privacy.”

“Please. Call me Callahan.”

“Callahan, then.”

He doesn’t move, just studies me with that unnerving intensity. “You were the last person to talk to her, aside from her killer.”

My heart stutters. “The police didn’t mention that.”

“Yeah. They’re good at that.” He steps closer, into my space. Most people can’t hold my gaze for long—there’s something about my eyes that makes them uneasy, a predatory quality I can’t entirely disguise. Yet Callahan doesn’t waver. “But I know Elizabeth came to your apartment the night before she disappeared. What did you talk about?”

I should lie. Should feed him the same story I gave the cops. But something makes me hesitate.