Page 105 of Brutal Ice

Some family members are gonna be a pain in my ass. “Probably shouldn’t ask questions if you don’t truly want to hear the answers.”

“Hell.” Dawson swallowed. His Adam’s apple clicked. “Hell,” he repeated.

Violet stepped between Dawson and Royal. She stared straight up at Royal, and he could see the hope in her eyes. “The cops aren’t letting Micah go.”

Not unless some dumbass judge gave him a bail that Micah could meet. And in that case…I may have to hunt again. Instead of saying that, though, because her brother already looked close enough to fainting, Royal responded, “My gut tells me that the doctor of the dead is going to turn up more evidence.” He’d told Violet all about Tony’s arrival.

“You mean she’ll turn up more victims.”

He dipped his head toward her. “If the cops and Feds get enough proof, Micah will never see the light of a free day again.” His hand rose, and his fingers curled carefully under her chin. “You are safe.”

And I will keep you that way.

Chapter Twenty

Three days later…

* * *

The ballet had been canceled. How could it not be canceled? The artistic director was in jail, charged with murdering one of the dancers. And, according to the authorities, Micah Wright was a person of interest in the deaths of three other women.

Violet stood on the stage and stared out at all the empty seats. The theater felt huge. Cavernous. There was no music. No applause. No dancers gliding across the stage as they tried to create some magic for the attendees.

There wasn’t any magic in the theater. Standing on that stage just made her feel sad.

“Violet?”

She jerked at the call of her name. Her head turned to the right, and a man stepped from the shadows on the stage.

“Violet Murphy.” He advanced slowly. “I don’t think we’ve formally met.” He wore khakis, a crisp, white shirt, and a blue blazer. “I’m Leo Barnes.” His hand extended toward her. “Dr. Barnes. I’ve been, uh, hired to help the crew during this time of upheaval and grief.”

Dr. Barnes. The name clicked for her as she automatically extended her hand. “You’re the psychiatrist.”

The backers behind the show had given the cast and crew a compensation package—and they were also encouraging everyone to get counseling. Because when your boss turns out to be a killer who murders one of your castmates, that could leave a psychological mark or two on your psyche.

Violet didn’t want to think too much about her battered psyche. She wanted to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. If she thought too much about everything that had happened—about Simone—she was afraid that she might start crying and not stop.

His fingers lightly squeezed hers, and then he let her go. “Yes.” A nod of his head. The light hit on his brown hair. His warm, green eyes studied her with a hint of sympathy. “I’m the psychiatrist. I heard a lot of the crew were here, cleaning out dressing rooms and lockers, and I just wanted to see if I could be of any assistance to anyone.”

There were plenty of others in the theater—not out front, in the seats. But backstage. Picking up the remains of a show that would never be.

“You haven’t scheduled an appointment with me,” he noted carefully.

“No, I haven’t.” She looked back at the empty seats.

“I don’t bite.”

Her gaze cut to him.

He sent her a quick, friendly smile. “I’m sure the other dancers can attest to the fact that I’m a very good listener.” Again, sympathy flashed in his eyes. “Of everyone here, you’re the one who should be getting the most attention.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you? Or do you just tell people that so they won’t realize how close you are to the edge?”

Her sweaty palms pressed to the front of her jeans. Had he felt the sweat when they shook hands?

“It’s okay not to be fine, Violet. It’s okay to feel guilty that you’re alive.”

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