Page 7 of Secrets in the Dark

Her reply came seconds later:Received. Processing. Maintain distance pending identification.

Professional, logical advice. Distance was the safest approach. Until we had a positive ID on the man and understood Nova's place in this puzzle, any interaction risked operational integrity.

Yet as I made my way to my temporary apartment in the Jade Petal's staff housing tower, I couldn't shake the image of Nova's eyes—intelligent, guarded, carrying secrets behind a stage-ready smile. The same expression I saw in the mirror daily.

Tomorrow I'd follow protocol. Maintain surveillance, avoid entanglement, prioritize the primary mission.

But tonight, as Vegas lights painted patterns across my ceiling, I wondered what the new magician assistant’s real name might be—and what drove her to step into the spotlight in a place where everyone was running from something or someone.

The irony wasn't lost on me. For all my training in reading others, I couldn't quite decode the strange protective instinct this woman triggered—an impulse that had no place in undercover work yet refused to be silenced by professional discipline.

Sleep eluded me as I mentally reviewed the case timeline. Two years of groundwork. Eleven months under deep cover. Dozens of lives dependent on successful prosecution. All potentially jeopardized by an inexplicable connection to a mysterious beautiful woman who clearly didn't belong in the world of feathers and illusions.

Distance. That was tomorrow's objective. Distance and focus.

But even as I formulated this resolution, I knew with strange certainty that Nova and I would collide again—and that our collision could explode everything.

Chapter Three

Celia

"Arms straight, chest lifted! You're fleeing danger, not slouching to a business meeting."

Valentina's commands cut through the theater's cavernous space as I balanced fifteen feet above the stage. The safety harness bit into my thighs, the rigging cables trembled with my weight, and my fingers clutched a silk scarf like it was the only thing between me and certain death.

Which, given my complete lack of stage experience, wasn't entirely wrong.

"Now!" Val called from below.

I tossed the crushed-velvet scarf—midnight blue, embedded with silver stars—into the air. The moment it left myfingertips, the trap door beneath me dropped away. My stomach lurched as I plummeted six feet before the harness caught, leaving me suspended in sudden darkness as the stage lights cut out. A hiss, a flash of brilliant white light, and the unmistakable smell of gunpowder filled the air.

When the lights returned, I hung motionless above an empty stage—invisibility achieved through the ancient art of misdirection and the modern miracle of well-timed pyrotechnics.

"Better," Val called, her voice echoing against the velvet-draped walls. "Though you still have the terrified facial expression of an accountant being audited. Try for mystery, not panic."

After three days of rehearsals for Valentina's Las Vegas magic spectacular, I'd gained a new appreciation for the brutal physicality behind the illusion of effortlessness. My muscles ached in places I hadn't known existed. Bruises bloomed across my shins and forearms. And today's flash-powder training had added singed eyebrows to my growing list of occupational hazards.

"That's enough aerial work," Val decided, gesturing for the technicians to lower me. "You've got the mechanical part down. Just remember: the timing between the flash and your exit is everything. Wait for my signal, then vanish. One second too early or late, and the audience sees the trick, not the magic."

As my feet touched solid ground again, Val approached, her crimson lips pursed in evaluation. "The flash powder is your friend,cariño. In my twenty years of performance, it's saved me from more than one difficult situation."

Something in her tone suggested she wasn't talking about missed stage cues.

"I'll practice," I promised, unclipping the harness with hands that had almost stopped trembling.

"Good. Tomorrow we add the quick-release corset to the routine." She winked. "Another essential skill for a woman in our position."

I wondered briefly what "our position" meant but didn't ask. Every time I spent more than five minutes with Valentina, I got the distinct impression she knew more than she let on. Then again, she was a magician. Who knew what untold secrets she might be hiding? I couldn’t decide whether I really wanted to know.

Between the stalker that had driven me into hiding and the enigmatic performers surrounding me, I'd never felt more aware of the layers of secrecy that seemed to permeate the Jade Petal's atmosphere. Everyone here wore masks—some literal, some figurative. The irony that I was now adding to those layers with my own deception wasn't lost on me.

After rehearsal, I retreated to my dressing cubicle—a glorified closet with a vanity mirror, makeup station, and costume rack. The cramped space had become my sanctuary over the past four days. I'd added small touches to make it mine: a framed photo of Lake Michigan, a coffee mug from the casino gift shop, a small potted succulent that wouldn't die when I inevitably forgot to water it.

I was peeling off my practice costume when a sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.

"Decent?" called a cheerful voice.

Before I could answer, the door swung open to reveal Riley Cho, the production's lead wardrobe technician. With a blue-black mohawk, elaborate sleeve tattoos, and a utility beltbristling with scissors and measuring tapes, Riley looked like the love child of a punk rocker and a Swiss Army knife.

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