Page 35 of Lethal Lover

And though things at the theater have gotten easier in some areas—like becoming actual friends with Trixie—some things have gotten worse. Like the fact that Warren is always on edge around me now because he doesn’t like the thought that I might actually try to find common ground with Liam. If he really wants me to see him for who he is, maybe he’s willing to walk away from his family to be with me.

“I love you too, hon.” I hear the disappointment in her voice, but this time, it’s tinged with pride. “I know you’re stubborn just like me. I just want you to know I’m here if you need me. You can come home any time.”

“I know, Mom. I love you. I should go. I need to eat breakfast and get to the station soon. We have rehearsal.”

“Alright, well, call me. I’ll be here worrying my head off.” She chuckles nervously, and I say goodbye and hang up.

As I shower, I think of the week’s worth of fan mail and gifts that have been sent. I haven’t touched a thing since I talked to Liam. They scare me too much now. When I thought it was Liam, there was an eerie curiosity to it, as if maybe he had no clue how to romance a woman and his strange letters were somehow codefor something. But now that I’ve decided definitively that it’s not him, I can’t bring myself to look at them. I’m too scared.

I dry off and dress for the weather. It’s balmy outside as fall deepens and we near the holiday season. I dress in layers for the short walk to the subway and then from the train to the theater. This time of morning, the street will be packed with people moving about, so I have no fear or reservations about the commute. It’s just a routine morning, albeit a little late without my workout before starting my day.

At times, I feel like someone is watching me, but when I walk into the theater, I’m home. These are my people and this is my kingdom, where I feel safe and surrounded by only good things. I head directly to my dressing room to get ready for warmups, but as I approach one of the stagehands intercepts me. He hands me a stack of fan mail, tells me he left some gifts in my room, and against my better judgment, I begin opening the letters as I walk away.

A few of them are harmless, from cute guys who sent pictures of themselves. It’s weird but not alarming. Trixie said she met a guy like that one time who she ended up dating for over a year before they decided it wasn’t working. Her schedule was too busy and he wanted to do things on Friday and Saturday nights, but that is the height of Broadway! She dumped him.

When I get to a familiar pink envelope, I stop. I don’t really want to open it, but a sick curiosity urges me to do it. I glance up the empty hall and decide to tear it open. When I do, a picture falls out followed by the card. I bend and pick them up only to see the image is of me climbing into Liam’s car. He stands next to me with his hand on my back, but his face is blacked out and in bright red ink, it reads,Cheaters die.

The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end and I feel goosebumps over all my skin. Does the stalker mean me or Liam? And why would they target a crime boss? Which means they have to mean me. I turn on my heel, looking for Mr. Monroe, but he’s not around. In fact, there’s almost no one here yet. I don’t even hear the same chatter that’s normal for before rehearsal time. I wonder where everyone is, or maybe I’m just early.

Yes, that’s it. I convince myself that I’m just early and nothing is wrong, and this is just my fear playing at my conscious thoughts. I’m safe. No one is harming me. No one can get to me here.

My feet slowly carry me toward my dressing room, but my heart races there. I want to feel safe. I want to hide and make the dizziness stop and the head spinning go away. But as I approach my door and see it standing open, I know something is off even before I walk in. I lock my room, and only Mr. Monroe and one stagehand whom I trust have a key to it—only to deliver my mail, costumes, and makeup. Someone is in my dressing room. Someone who’s not allowed.

I tiptoe to the door and listen, glancing up the hallway for any sign of anyone. Even Warren will do. Still, I’m alone, except for my could-be stalker who may be waiting on me. But the closer I get, the louder the sounds from inside my dressing room become. Except it doesn’t sound like a stalker practicing his bad-guy monologue. It sounds like choking.

I push the door open with a hard thrust and see Trixie lying on the ground, shaking. Her lips are purple, her skin light blue. Her head lolls to the side, and foamy drool drips from the corner of her mouth. I scream and rush over to her, dropping everything, and fall to my knees next to her.

“Help!” I scream, pressing my fingers to her neck. She has a pulse, but she’s choking on something. “Somebody help me!” I glance around the room and see the open box of chocolates on the table where my gifts and cards usually go, and then I see the chocolate on Trixie’s mouth. She’s eating my chocolate.

My God.

It’s poisoned.

Someone tried to poison me, and Trixie ate it instead.

“Holy fuck! Someone help!” I’m sobbing, helplessly waiting as the director and half a dozen other cast members rush in and surround us.

The rest is a blur.

What the actual fuck is happening now?

I need Liam.

23

LIAM

Asmoke ring hangs above my father’s head, and I watch it swirling higher. My “stunt” at the nightclub hasn’t gone unnoticed, though he hasn’t said much other than that my acts were “unjustifiable” and he had to “mop the floor” after me yet again. I think he knows I’m not in the mood to fuck with his lecturing. He sees me becoming the badass criminal he’s trained me to be, and I’m getting better at it. Just takes more focus and less chasing tail—his famous words.

“And Detective Kraus is watching for information?” He sucks on the fat stogie and reclines on his chaise, his hip acting up again. He does this every time he goes golfing, so that’s how it had to have happened. He’s not a spring chicken anymore, and it reminds me that my time is coming. Probably sooner than I’d like it to.

“Yeah, he’s looking into it.” I have the good ol’ detective chasing every lead possible to find out who is stalking Elena. He’s vetting every member of the cast and crew, and since Dad and I are owners now, that information is accessible to us completely. I’vegiven Krause autonomy over this and granted him freedom to search the theater’s records.

“He’ll find them then. You should just relax. You’ve done enough already.”

His words aren’t permission to be myself and live carefree. They are laced with sardonic intentions. He has little interest in helping me with my mission to find the person responsible for stalking Elena. There’s nothing in it for him. Or at least that’s what he thinks. I know myself, and I’m stronger with her. He just doesn’t see that yet.

I sip the glass of Brandy offered to me by his maid when I first arrived and think of how this might all play out. My gut tells me this is an inside job. I have a niggling suspicion the stalker is close to Elena—that bimbo of a co-star or the arrogant brute who hovers around her like a fly on shit. Maybe the director himself, but more likely the brute.

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