Page 18 of Secrets in the Dark

I touched the burgundy highlights that were part of my Nova disguise. "Just trying something new."

"Well, it suits you. More vibrant than your usual style." She meant it as a compliment, but the observation stung. Had I really been so drab, so predictable before?

"When are you coming to Chicago?" she continued. "Your father's birthday next month—"

"Still figuring out my schedule," I interrupted, guilt twisting in my chest. Another lie piled atop the growing mountain of deception. I had no idea where I'd be next month, or if I'd even be able to travel safely. "The firm's been really supportive of this break, but there's a big case coming up."

I hated the falsehoods spilling from my lips, hated that my parents now inhabited the same twilight world of partial truths I'd been forced into. They believed their daughter was sipping mai tais in Hawaii, not hiding from a stalker in the bowels of a Las Vegas casino.

"Are you sure everything's okay, Celia? You seem..." My mother trailed off, those intuitive maternal sensors picking up distress signals despite my best efforts.

"Just tired from yesterday's hike." I mustered a smile. "I should get ready for my snorkeling excursion."

We exchanged goodbyes with promises to call again soon. The moment the connection ended, I slumped against the window frame, my carefully constructed vacation persona crumbling.

The phone buzzed in my hand—a text from Detective Alvarez:Daily check-in. Status?

I typed back:Still breathing.Then, remembering protocol:No further contact from subject. Current location secure.

Her response came seconds later:Maintain cover. Investigating potential connections to previous case.

Previous case. Miles had speculated the stalker might be tied to one of our more dangerous prosecutions—but which one? The Licata trial was the biggest, but there had been others. I’d helped prepare evidence in at least half a dozen cases involving organized crime, fraud, or violent defendants. Any of them might have taken issue with my work—or worse, seen me as the weak link to exploit.

A glance at my watch showed I had forty minutes until morning rehearsal. Just enough time to prepare for another day of pretending to be Nova Sinclair, magician's assistant and decidedly not the legal professional who helped dismantle a crime syndicate.

My thoughts drifted to Roman King as I dressed. The rooftop kiss replayed in my mind—the firmness of his lips, the subtle scent of his cologne, the electricity that had sparked between us. For a brief moment, I'd forgotten about stalkers and hiding and fear. I'd just been a woman kissing an attractive man beneath the Vegas stars.

But the moment had shattered with his cryptic warning:Be careful tomorrow night. The audience isn't always who they appear to be.

What did he know? And more importantly, who was Roman King, really? The question haunted me as I made my way to rehearsal.

"Inhale deeply, then hold your breath. The compression happens fast."

Val cinched the laces of the quick-release corset with expert hands. The midnight-blue brocade garment, embellished with silver stars and crystal beading, compressed my rib cage instantly.

"Jesus," I gasped as air evacuated my lungs.

"Beauty is pain,cariño." Val smirked, but her eyes held empathy. "Now, the quick-release works on tension principles. When you pull the hidden cord at your right hip, the entire structure loosens at once. It's both a costume piece and an escape mechanism."

I nodded, memorizing the location of the nearly invisible cord tucked along the corset's seam. "Seems like a lot of engineering for a costume change."

"It's not just for costume changes." Val's voice lowered, her usual theatrical flair giving way to seriousness. "Fifteen years ago, I was performing at the Mirage. A fan became... fixated. Sent gifts, then demands, then threats. Security dismissed it as typical celebrity obsession."

I stilled, recognizing parallels to my own situation.

"One night, he managed to get backstage, cornered me in a dressing room with a knife." She gestured to a thin scar along her collarbone, nearly invisible beneath her stage makeup. "I was wearing a standard corset. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe properly, couldn't fight. After that, I designed these. Never performed without a quick-release option since."

"Did they catch him?" I asked, a chill running through me despite the stuffy backstage heat.

"Eventually. But I learned an important lesson—in our line of work, we must maintain the illusion of vulnerability while never actually being vulnerable." She tugged the final lace into place. "Try the release."

I pulled the hidden cord. Instantly, the corset loosened, allowing full lung expansion and unrestricted movement.

"Perfect." Val nodded approvingly. "Five-second release time. The audience sees the beautiful assistant in distress; only you know freedom is a single movement away."

Our eyes met in the mirror, and something unspoken passed between us—woman to woman, survivor to potential victim. For a moment, I wondered if Val somehow knew my secret, if she'd recognized another woman in disguise.

"I know you're not really a performer," she said abruptly, confirming my suspicion.

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