Page 32 of Ghosted Cowboy
Tomorrow night, we'd find out who was doing this.
One way or another, this ended tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Rainey
The replacement dress didn't fit quite right. The maroon silk was a shade darker than my original costume, and the black lace overlay pulled tight across my ribs. But it would have to do. I adjusted the bustle one more time, watching myself in the dressing room mirror as I pinned another strand of hair into place.
"You ready for this?"
Ransom stood leaning against the doorframe, worry etched in every line of his face.
He crossed the small space, his hands settling on my corseted waist.
"We can still call this off," he said quietly. "Say you're sick. Food poisoning. Nobody would blame you."
"And let them win?" I turned in his arms, my palms flat against his chest. "After everything they've done? No. This ends tonight."
He studied my face for a long moment, then leaned down to kiss me—slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my jawline.
"I'll be right outside that door," he said. "The second something feels wrong—"
"I know." I caught his hand, squeezed it. "Go. Vivian's about to start."
He kissed me once more, quick and fierce, then slipped out of the dressing room. I heard his boots fade down the hallway toward his hiding spot near the prop storage.
Through the thin walls, Vivian's voice carried from the stage, reaching even the back rows with Broadway-honed clarity.
"Good evening, and welcome to this special preview of our Annual Midnight Haunts Festival production!" Applause rippled through the audience—a decent crowd for a last-minute event. "I'm Vivian Crawford, director of the Midnight Springs Community Theater, and we're thrilled you could join us tonight."
I turned back to the mirror, touching up my lipstick with careful fingers. The face looking back at me was Evangeline Vale's—tragic saloon girl, forever mourning her murdered love. But underneath the stage makeup and period costume, I was still Rainey Bell, and I was done being anyone's victim.
"As you may have heard," Vivian continued, "our production has faced some... challenges this week. But in true theater tradition, the show must go on! Tonight, our leading lady, Rainey Bell, will perform one of Evangeline's most powerful monologues for you."
More applause. I stood, smoothing my skirts, checking the tiny mic taped to my collarbone—Sheriff Turley's idea, so they could hear if something went wrong.
"She's backstage right now, preparing to give you all a glimpse into our production. But first, let me tell you about the fascinating history of'Murder at Midnight Saloon.' The playwright, Theodore Grayson, actually based it on true events that occurred right here in Midnight Springs back in 1889..."
Vivian's voice became background noise as I focused on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The plan was simple—make myself visible, walk through the circuitous hallways alone, wait for someone to make their move.
Just as I was rising from my chair, the lights went out.
Not dimmed. Not faded. Complete, instant blackness.
