Page 91 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Hurrying out, he paused in the middle of the hall to scan the area again. “Where are you, Marit?”

Desperation was threatening to consume him, but the only response to his muttered question was a faint thud from somewhere nearby. Clenching his fists, Lars attempted to push past his panic. Was it worth his time to go any farther down the hall? And if so, which way? The faint thud sounded again. The thick curtain muted all the backstage noises, but the thud hadn’t seemed to be coming from there. It had come from his left. He started in that direction. Another thud. It was coming from behind a door labeledJanitor’s Cupboard.

In three seconds, he’d reached the door. Grabbing the handle, he attempted to turn it. It was locked.

“Marit. Are you in there?”

Three more thuds vibrated through the wood. Lars’s heart began to pound. If she wasn’t responding verbally, she must be gagged. He had to get the door open. Fast. His mind raced. Who would have a key? Or who could get in without one?

“Hang on, Marit!” His voice was low, urgent. He couldn’t risk anyone else hearing him, but he hoped she could. “I’m going for help.”

Tearing across the hall, he slid through the gap in the partition. Directly in front of him was a break in the dark curtain. With a level of caution he wished he could ignore, he carefully eased the fabric back a few centimeters. A quick look into the backstage area told him that the show was still in full swing. Blending into the chaos would be easy enough. He stepped through the curtain and had only taken three steps when he heard Isabelle’s voice.

“Lars! Over here.”

He swung around. She was standing partially hidden behind another curtain.

“My assistant’s looking for me,” she said. “Standing in the changing area wasn’t an option.”

“Good thinking,” Lars said. “We’ve got more important things to deal with. I think I’ve found Marit, but I need Cole to get her out of a locked closet.”

“Cole’s not back yet.” She glanced at the cluster of assistants standing at the nearest clothing rack. “But if you can get me a metal nail file from one of the makeup stations, I can open it.”

Lars didn’t question her. He made directly for the closest table. Three makeup artists were talking together a couple of meters away. Offering up a silent prayer that none of them would look his way, he eyed the rows of brushes, bottles, tubes, powders, and swabs. There had to be a nail file among all this stuff. He glanced over his shoulder. No one had noticed him yet. Shifting a jar full of brushes, he reached for one filled with small utensils. Tweezers, nail scissors, clippers. Finally. A nail file. Pulling it out of the jar, he took off the way he’d come.

Isabelle must have been watching for him. She was already slipping through the curtain when he reached her hiding spot. Together they crept behind the partition and down the hall.

“Right there,” he said as they passed the bathrooms, handing her the nail file and pointing to the janitor’s cupboard.

She ran across the hall, and within seconds, she was on her knees, pressing the nail file into the gap between the door and the frame. There was another thud, and the door vibrated.

“Hang on, Marit.” Like Lars, Isabelle kept her voice low, her concentration fully on the lock. She shifted her wrist a fraction. “I’ve almost got it.”

Keeping the nail file in place with one hand, she lifted the other to the doorknob and pulled. She scrambled to her feet as Lars reached for the door and drew it open. Marit was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up, her ankles bound. Her arms were pulled back behind her, and a purple sash was tied around her mouth. She was squinting, blinking against the light. But she was alive.

Relief swept over Lars in a tidal wave only to be replaced moments later by a surge of fury at the man behind this despicable act. He reached around Marit’s head, tugging at the knot that bound her gag tight. She closed her eyes and moaned. He eased his frantic movements, drawing one end of the sash through the knot more gently.

“I’m so sorry, Marit.” His emotions swirled. He didn’t know what he wanted most: to wrap Marit in his arms or to take down Adams.

Vaguely aware that Isabelle was working to release Marit’s ankles, Lars loosened the gag enough to pull it free from Marit’s mouth. She gasped as though taking in air for the first time after having been underwater.

“I prayed you would come.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“She needs water,” Isabelle said.

Lars scoured the shelves behind them. Toilet paper, paper towels, plastic bags, cleaning supplies. No cups. With fumbling fingers, he separated the two ends of the sash and pulled it free from Marit’s neck. “Give me ten seconds,” he said.

He ran into the men’s toilets, turned on the closest sink, and dunked the sash under the tap. When the fabric was completely saturated, he turned off the tap and raced back to the janitor’s closet. Isabelle had freed Marit’s feet and was now working on her wrists. Lars knelt down beside his girlfriend and lifted the sodden fabric to her mouth. Drips of water ran down his arms and fell to the floor.

“It’s not a cup,” he said, “but it’s wet. Maybe it will help.”

Marit opened her mouth to accept the wet fabric. She sucked some of the moisture out before swallowing, her expression indicating that the simple action was painful.

“Who was it?” Isabelle asked.

Marit drew her hands out from behind her back. Her wrists were raw and bleeding. Softly, Lars placed the wet cloth on them.

“Kyle Adams,” Marit said.

---