Page 3 of Secrets in the Dark

Alvarez outlined a misdirection strategy: public story of a Hawaiian vacation, actual relocation somewhere with robust security and heavy foot traffic—a place where a single extra face wouldn't draw attention.

Miles had already arranged it. "The Jade Petal Hotel owes us a favor. They'll take care of you. They can slide you into temporary staff housing, provide credentials, create a paper trail. No one from your everyday life would think to look inside a casino."

"A casino?" The word squeaked. "I prepare deposition exhibits. I don't know the first thing about—"

"The entertainment division needs a stand-in," Miles insisted. "You'll blend in. It's temporary—just until we identify the threat."

The rest of the night blurred into practical arrangements. What to pack. Which devices to abandon. How to lieconvincingly to my family about a sudden Hawaiian vacation. Detective Alvarez supervised the creation of a new identity—Nova Sinclair, event-coordination background, no digital footprint. By dawn my life fit into a single carry-on and a manila folder of falsified credentials.

"How long?" I asked as Miles reviewed my cover documentation.

"Until we identify the threat," Alvarez answered from across the room. "Could be weeks."

Miles looked less certain. "Just focus on staying unrecognizable. Detective Alvarez will coordinate with hotel security. I'll handle any firm communications that might expose you."

"What if they find me anyway?" I voiced the fear that had grown with each passing hour.

"The Jade Petal has excellent security," Miles assured me.

Alvarez was more direct. "If anything feels wrong, use the panic button we've programmed into your new phone. Direct line to me."

As the sky lightened outside my apartment windows, I surrendered my normal life. No contact with friends or family beyond brief, location-obscured video calls. No social media. No routines that could be tracked.

"Remember," Alvarez said at the door, "you're not Celia Marshall anymore. You're Nova Sinclair. Live it. Breathe it."

"Nova," I repeated, the unfamiliar name foreign on my tongue. "Why Nova?"

"Because she's bright," Miles said with unexpected gentleness. "And no one looks directly at stars."

Three days later I stood in a cramped Jade Petal dressing room, staring at a stranger in the mirror. The laminated badge clipped to my corset readNova Sinclair—an HR file conjured overnight, complete with an employee number and a Reno address that didn't exist. Seeing the false name rattled me as much as the rhinestones stitched across my torso.

Miles's "administrative assistant position" had morphed into something far more visible. The entertainment director had taken one look at my height and build and declared me perfect as an emergency replacement for Valentina Reyes's stage assistant. No experience necessary—just the ability to follow directions and look graceful in sequins.

I examined my reflection, hardly recognizing myself beneath the theatrical makeup. My usually straight hair now fell in loose waves past my shoulders, burgundy highlights catching the dressing room lights. Smoky shadow rimmed my eyes, making them appear larger, more dramatic. The stage makeup techniques they'd taught me transformed my face into something exotic and unfamiliar.

"Stop fussing, Nova," commanded Valentina, swirling into the room with her crimson-lined cape. "You look spectacular."

Valentina was the Jade Petal's headlining magician—five-foot-eleven of commanding presence with a shock of scarlet hair and the kind of confidence that made everyone else fade to background. Her show filled the main theater five nights a week, a dazzling spectacle of illusion and theater that drew tourists from across the Strip.

"I can't breathe in this thing," I muttered, tugging at the corset. The costume department had cinched me into a crystal-studded bodice that reduced my waist to improbable proportions while pushing other assets into prominence.

"Beauty is pain, cariño," Valentina laughed, the sound rich and theatrical. "Tomorrow we rehearse the flash-powder exit—your best friend if you ever need to vanish in a blink." She winked. "Until then, shoulders back, chin high. You're a star, not a legal secretary."

"Assistant," I corrected automatically.

"Whatever. In my show, you're magic incarnate. Walk like it."

She guided me through black-painted corridors humming with bass. The backstage labyrinth of the Jade Petal's entertainment complex dwarfed my mental map of the place. Stagehands rolled elaborate set pieces into position. Costume attendants made last-minute repairs to sequined outfits. Dancers stretched in whatever corners they could find, their limbs impossibly flexible. Technicians checked pyrotechnic cues, filling the air with the smell of ozone and gunpowder. Backstage energy pulsed louder than any courtroom I'd known.

Val's stage was a marvel of engineering—trapdoors, rotating platforms, complex lighting rigs controlled by a small army of technicians. Watching from the wings, I felt like a counterfeit coin in a chest of gold. Three days of crash-course training in stage blocking couldn't possibly prepare me for this carnival of illusion.

"You're thinking too hard," Val whispered, reading the panic in my expression. "Your job is to carry props, smile, and let me absorb the spotlight. No one will be looking at you—they'll be watching my hands. That's the point of a good assistant."

We ran through the basic blocking twice. I handed off colorful silk scarves, revealed empty boxes, and smiled mysteriously during three illusions. To my surprise, I didn't trip, drop anything, or otherwise humiliate myself.

"Not terrible," Val pronounced, which seemed high praise given her standards. "Let's break. I need a drink, and you need to stop looking like you're calculating escape routes."

After rehearsal, she herded me to the employee bar tucked behind the casino floor—a dimly lit space where performers and staff unwound before and after shifts. The controlled chaos felt both foreign and oddly comforting. Cocktail waitresses kicked off painful heels, propping blistered feet on empty chairs. Security staff compared notes on problematic patrons. Dealers fresh off shift counted their tips and complained about high-maintenance whales.

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