Page 126 of One Last Encore

And then he dropped a bomb.

"Does the idea of me being in the crowd make you feel better or worse?"

His voice was casual, but carefully measured like he was hiding something behind the question.

Ingrid slowed as they approached their brownstone. The idea of him in the audience, watching her, should have rattled her. But it didn’t. It didn’t make her feel small or exposed. If anything, it alleviated her. Soothed something raw inside her.

"Better," she admitted softly.

Beck’s mouth twitched into a small smile. "Good. Because I got my ticket for opening night."

Her heart skidded to a halt. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the ticket, holding it between his fingers. As it fluttered slightly in the crisp air, her gaze caught the issue date. August. Her breath hitched.August.

That was long before he’d moved into the apartment across from hers. Before she had any idea they’d cross paths again. He had bought the ticket months ago.

Her eyes snapped to his face, wide with realization. "You… you bought this in August?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Beck’s expression gentled. "Yeah." His voice was quiet. "I didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. But I couldn’t miss this. Not you. Not Swan Lake."

Her mind spun, trying to make sense of it all but it felt like she’d been working on a puzzle, only to realize half the pieces belonged to a completely different picture.

He’d been planning to see her all along. He hadn’t just wandered back into her life by coincidence, he’d come looking. That truth slammed into her with the weight of something too big to process all at once. It made her chest ache, a slow, aching stretch where hope and fear tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. The words scattered before they could form, leaving only silence and the sound of her heartbeat thudding loud in her ears.

"Hey!"

The sharp call made her freeze.

Ingrid turned toward the voice, and her breath caught.

A thin, disheveled man stood a few feet away, pacing erratically, movements twitchy and unsteady. His clothes hung off him like they belonged to someone else. His hair stuck out in wild clumps.

It was Rodney. She barely recognized him. Five years had stripped Rodney down to something skeletal. His face was gaunt, skin smudged with dirt, his hands twitching at his sides.

Beck dropped his coffee cup into the trash and walked toward him.

"Rodney, I've been looking for you for months," Beck said, his voice tight. He grasped his brother’s frail shoulders, pulling him into a firm hug. Rodney stiffened but, after a beat, returned it.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," Beck murmured, emotion thick in his voice.

Rodney pulled back first, his eyes jittery and unfocused. "Listen," he said quickly, "I really need your help. Just a few hundred bucks, to make it by. That’s all."

"Rodney, you know I can’t just give you money." His voice stayed even, but there was tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers tightened slightly on his brother’s arms. "But I can get you help. Real help."

"There’s a facility," Beck continued. "The same one I went to. The people there are incredible. They know what they’re doing. They can help you, Rod."

Ingrid blinked.Facility?

Her mind snagged on the word, and for a moment, everything tilted slightly out of place. Beck went to rehab?

She knew he was sober, but she hadn’t known about rehab. He had never mentioned it. But it made so much sense. The calm, the quiet strength, the way he carried himself like someone who had fought for every inch of his balance and won it the hard way.

Rodney’s entire body language shifted. The pleading slipped from his face, replaced with something darker, meaner.

"You don’t fucking get it," he snapped, his voice sharp and hoarse. "You’ve got money, and you won’t share it. You stand there acting like you're better than the rest of us. It’s bullshit. You’re a fucking disappointment, and you don’t even see it. You’re just a selfish bastard."

Then came the knife.

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