Page 11 of One Last Encore

"I don’t know! Kick him behind the knees and I’ll citizen’s arrest him once he’s down!" Ingrid hissed.

"Do I look like I have the core strength for a full takedown?"

"Do I look like I have the patience to deal with another interaction with him alone?"

Eden groaned. "Fine, but if I get arrested, you’re bailing me out."

"Deal."

But as they skidded to a stop near the amplifier, Ingrid froze.

There was brand-new, perfectly intact one, neatly plugged in like nothing had ever happened. And the guy was gone. Like he had evaporated into thin air, or been abducted by aliens who specialize in inconveniencing her.

Ingrid’s head whipped around, wild-eyed. "No. No, no, no. He was just here! Thirty seconds ago!" She frantically scanned the room, her brain struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Please tell me I did not just hallucinate a six-foot petty criminal."

She thrust the severed cable toward Eden. "Do you see this? This was real, right?"

Eden squinted at it, then shrugged. "Yep. You’re not crazy."

"Then where the hell did he go?" Ingrid gestured wildly around the empty space where he had stood moments ago.

Eden crouched next to the amp, inspecting it. Then she picked up her guitar and strummed a few notes. A chord progression. A full damn riff. Everything played perfectly.

She frowned. "Okay, but why would someone sabotage the gear… only to come back and fix it?" she mused, like she was solving a riddle from a wizard instead of dealing with real-world nonsense.

"You think he had a change of heart mid-crime? Grew a conscience? Decided to dabble in electrical repair?" Ingrid asked, arms flailing.

Eden pursed her lips. "Or… maybe we’re in a haunted venue and the ghost of an incredibly inconsistent criminal is screwing with us."

Ingrid threw up her hands. "Great. Either we were gaslit by a living human or pranked by a dead one. Neither option is comforting!"

Eden plucked another note, nodding in approval as the amp hummed to life. "Well, whatever happened, at least the sound is working now."

Ingrid gawked at her. "That’s it? You’re just accepting this? Like mystery men who commit half-crimes and then disappear into the void are a normal Tuesday?"

Eden shrugged. "I mean… it is our Tuesday."

Ingrid opened her mouth to argue but then she really thought about it. And, unfortunately, Eden had a point. It was Tuesday.

Eden turned back to her guitar like nothing had happened, while Ingrid stood there, staring at the empty space where the guy had been, feeling deeply unsettled and maybe just a little bit impressed.

CHAPTER 4

INGRID. JULY, FIVE YEARS AGO

Just as Ingrid expected, Eden owned the stage like she had personally built it with her bare hands. She didn’t just perform, she attacked. If charisma were a weapon, she’d be leading a full-scale invasion. She was a whirlwind of raw energy, belting out lyrics with effortless power as she darted back and forth, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

At one point, she even crawled over her guitarist, who had thrown himself onto the stage floor in what looked like either deep artistic expression or a minor medical emergency, all while flawlessly hitting every note. The crowd ate it up like it was their last meal, arms raised, bodies bouncing, completely under her spell.

The other bands? Well. "Varied" was putting it kindly. Some were decent. Others made Ingrid reconsider the entire concept of music. One band somehow managed to be both off-key and off-rhythm, a true feat of anti-musicianship. Ingrid admired their confidence, if nothing else. There's something to be said about a person who singsthatbadly but does itthatloudly.

The reigning champions, The Defectors, took the stage last. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, and Ingrid’s entire body tensed with residual bitterness. Last year’s loss still stung.

She was seconds away from letting out an old-fashioned boo, maybe even launching a tomato if she could find one in time. Miraculously, she held back.

Instead, she turned to her phone as The Defectors launched into their set. She had more important things to focus on, like the masterpiece of a baby pink leotard she had found online. Tasteful cutouts. Just enough flair. It was practically whispering her name.

And then, the drums exploded.

---