Page 8 of Secrets in the Dark

"Mostly decent," I admitted, hastily pulling my robe closed.

"Honey, I've seen more skin at Sunday brunch." Riley bustled in, dropping a garment bag on my chair. "Val wants you in the royal blue feather ensemble for tonight’s run-through. Said something about testing the lighting against your skin tone."

While we'd chatted briefly during my fittings, this was my first real interaction with Riley, who preferred the pronouns “they/ them.” They adjusted the feathered headdress on my mannequin head form with expert precision, making minute alterations with a tiny pair of silver scissors.

"So, New Girl." Riley pinned me with a direct look. "What's your story? Val says you fell from the administrative heavens just in time to replace Sophia after she eloped with that oil magnate."

The cover story. Right. "Not much to tell. I needed a change of scenery, had some event coordination experience..." I shrugged, aiming for casual.

Riley's eyebrow ring glinted as they tilted their head skeptically. "Uh-huh. And I'm a Mormon missionary. Nobody comes to work for Val without a story. Usually one involving bad decisions, worse luck, or a combination thereof."

I concentrated on removing my stage makeup, hoping the cold cream would explain my sudden flush. "Maybe I'm just seizing an unexpected opportunity."

"In sequins that cut off circulation to vital organs? Sure." Riley's tone softened. "Look, everyone here has secrets. That's Vegas. But some secrets can get you hurt if you're not careful."

I froze, washcloth halfway to my face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this place has politics that would make Washington blush." They glanced toward the door, then lowered their voice. "Enzo's security team doesn't exactly play by Nevada gaming regulations. The high-roller rooms upstairs have cameras with blind spots big enough to hide a body. And management looks the other way as long as the money flows."

My heart skipped. Was this a warning? A threat? Riley's expression remained carefully neutral, but their eyes held something close to concern.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

Riley reached into their utility belt and extracted a small flip phone. "Because Val likes you, which means I like you. And people Val likes have a history of needing emergency exits." They pressed the burner phone into my palm. "My number's programmed in. So is the stage door security code that bypasses the main system. I'm not saying you'll need it, but..."

"But better prepared than dead?" I finished.

Riley's laugh startled me with its warmth. "I was going to say, 'better prepared than sorry,' but your version has more drama. You'll fit in perfectly."

After they left, I examined the phone—basic, untraceable, exactly like the one Detective Alvarez had given me before I disappeared into the Jade Petal. I slipped it into my bag beside its twin, wondering what threats Riley imagined I might face.

Whatever dangers lurked in the Jade Petal, they couldn't possibly know about the real one that had followed me here. The one that had somehow tracked me to my dressing room with that chilling note just days after my arrival.

Welcome to the show, Nova.

I shivered, remembering how the familiar pink rose had looked against my makeup mirror. The same handwriting. The same implied intimacy. The stalker had found me despite the police precautions, despite the fake identity, despite everything. And now they knew my stage name—my only protection.

My fingers trembled as I changed into street clothes. Every shadow in the corner suddenly seemed darker, every unusual sound a potential threat. The stalker had been in this very room while I rehearsed, had touched my belongings, had left their mark. Again.

A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

"Delivery for Nova Sinclair," called an unfamiliar male voice.

I hesitated, throat tight with sudden panic. "Who is it?"

"Dustin. From the deli across the street? You ordered the veggie wrap?"

I hadn't ordered anything, but curiosity overcame caution. Opening the door a crack revealed a gangly teenager with an explosion of cinnamon freckles and a paper bag radiating the unmistakable scent of fresh bread.

"I think there's been a mistake," I said. "I didn't order—"

"Compliments of the house." He thrust the bag forward, a flush creeping up his neck. "I just... I saw your rehearsal yesterday. Before the doors closed. You were amazing."

The earnest admiration in his voice caught me off guard. After days of feeling hunted, simple appreciation felt almost alien.

"That's very kind, but I'm still learning the ropes."

"Well, I thought you were great." His blush deepened. "The sandwich is on me. Thought you might need energy for your big debut."

---